FOREST AND STREAM. 



[Feb. 6, 18ft). 



WINGLESS BIRDS OF NEW ZEALAND. 



W E have been told as long as we can remember any- 

 thing that 



The heart is a free and a fetterless thing, 

 A wave of the ocean, a bird on the wing; 



and all our ordinary notions about birds are connected 

 with them as flying creatures, possessing the air as their 

 special domain and enjoying a liberty of motion which is 

 denied to all other branches of animated nature, for even 

 insects never venture very far above the surface of the 

 eartb. Yet there are birds, and very fine birds, too, 

 which cannot fly, for the excellent reason that they have 

 no wings to fly with; and in former times there were a 

 great many more than there are now. The biggest bird 

 that ever existed in the world, as far as is known, was. a 

 wingless bird, namely, the dinornis (deinos-orvm, terrific 

 or monstrous bird), so callled from its preternatural size; 

 and the two largest birds now existing — unless we give 

 the condor a place on account of its supreme breadth of 

 wing — have no wings worth speaking of, namely, the 

 ostrich and the emu. Both the ostrich and the emu, 

 however, have rudimentary wings, and, though they 

 cannot make the smallest attempt to fly, in the sense of 

 rising from the ground, they undoubtedly seem to use 

 their plumage to some extent to assist them when run- 

 ning. The ostrich's wings are quite visible, and it 

 always gives one the impression that it would like to fly 

 if it could. The wingless birds of New Zealand, both ex- 

 tinct and extant, on the contrary, do not suggest the idea 

 of winged creatures at all, but are perfectly independent 

 of the use of plumage for any purpose but to keep them- 

 selves warm. 



The dinornis, more commonly known by its Maori 

 name of moa, is now believed to be totally extinct, 

 although there is no positive reason in the nature of 

 things why it should be. There are parts of New Zea- 

 land which are totally unexplored, and are not likely to 

 be explored for many a long day. The southern part of 

 the west coast of the Middle Island is still almost a terra 

 incognita, except so far as the mere shore of the stupen- 

 dous sounds or fiords is concerned. These marvelous 

 inlets of the sea, wnere mountains 5,000ft. high rise sheer 

 from fathomless depths of still water, are a favorite re- 

 sort of multitudes of tourists and sportsmen. But what 

 lies between the forest-clad shore and the Alpine peaks 

 that seem to hang in mid-air away to the eastward, no 

 one knows. The tangled forest and the mountain tor- 

 rents are enough to make travel almost impossible; but a 

 still greater obstacle is found in the appalling chasms or 

 ravines, left by ice rivers in past ages, which no one yet 

 has ever found a means of crossing. It is in one of these 

 ravines that the second highest waterfall in. the world 

 was discovered last year by a solitary explorer. It con- 

 sists of a large river flowing out of some unknown 

 glacier, and tumbling 2,000ft. over a precipice in three 

 grand leaps into a cavernous mystery below. It may 

 well be contended that in a country where the very ex- 

 istence of such a wonder remained unsuspected for half 

 a century after it became civilized, all kinds of animal 

 life would at least be totally undislfcrbed. and might, 

 therefore, survive after similar forms elsewhere had 

 totally disappeared. One bird, at all events, which was 

 supposed to be extinct, has been discovered alive and 

 been killed in those remote parts. This is Notornis man- 

 telli, a gigantic and superbly plumaged coot, of which no 

 other instance occurs in the known world. It is quite 

 open to belief, therefore, that flocks of moas still roam 

 the plains which lie between those mighty precipices or 

 haunt the gloomy swamps where the ice river s lose 

 themselves in the rank vegetation of the lower levels. 



However that may be, the remains of dead moas are 

 found in abundance all over New Zealand, and in such a 

 state of preservation that it is easy to gain from them a 

 perfectly accurate idea of the bird. There were many 

 kinds of dinornis, varying considerably in size and shape, 

 some of them being tall and stately with all the "points" 

 for extraordinary speed, while others were squat, clumsy 

 creatures with such enormously thick, straddling legs 

 that it is puzzling to know how they dragged so much 

 lumber about. The tallest stood 14 or 15ft. high and were 

 of a shape unlike that of any other bird that I know of. 

 If a giraffe had its forelegs cut off at the shoulders and 

 balanced itself so as to walk on its hindlegs, it would 

 have something of the build of the great dinornis. In 

 order to carry this vast weight of neck and back, how- 

 ever, the pelvic bones have to be of enormous width. 

 The legs of the moa, in fact, stood up like two great 

 columns with the body resting between them. 



The plumage, though it conveys but little idea of 

 feathers, is singularly beautiful. I have seen a moa's 

 feather ilin. long and nowhere more than a quarter of 

 an inch broad, so soft and light that it could be waved 

 in the air like a piece of floss silk, or twisted round 

 the finger. The whole covering of plumage like this 

 must have resembled long fur or hair, not unlike that 

 of some Of the llamas. It was a delicate gray in 

 color, with stripes or speckles of a darker tint. The legs 

 of the bird were entirely bare of plumage and were 

 covered with a peculiar creased skin of a bluish color, a 

 tough hide, in short, well adapted for protecting it from 

 the stiff and thorny plants it waded among in the 

 swamps. It only had three toes, but they were toes not 

 to be trodden upon with impunity, regular kickers, and 

 no mistake. I once reconstructed a moa to the best of 

 my ability, and a correct representation of it is to be 

 found on the cover of my book, "New Zealand After 

 Fifty Years." It is an ungainly fowl, but I have no 

 doubt it was well suited to its surrounding circumstances. 

 It was considered prime eating by the folks who inhabited- 

 New Zealand in those days, whoever they may have been ; 

 for huge stone ovens are found, still in a good state of 

 repair, filled with moa bones, cooking utensils and rude 

 table implements. Whether these were restaurants, or 

 are the remains of Thanksgiving dinners, history re- 

 cordeth not. Probably they indicate where the moa 

 hunters held high revelry after a big battue; just as the 

 Maoris do to this day after a great catch of sharks. 



I never tasted moa meat myself, because it had gone 

 out of fashion eight or nine hundred years, so they say, 

 before my time. But there are still wingless birds in 

 New Zealand, uncommonly lively ones, too, which have 

 provided me with many an excellent meal. They are 



three in number— the black or North Island kiwi (pro- 

 nounced keeivee), the brown or South Island kiwi, and 

 the weka. The two kiwis are perfectly distinct, not only 

 in color, but in shape and general appearance. The black 

 kiwi is a plump-looking creature, about 18in. high, cov- 

 ered with dark gray or blackish fur. It has rather a long 

 neck, and a very long, slender bill, sensitive to the point, 

 with which it probes about in the mud for the worms and 

 animalcules that form its food. It stands on very stout 

 black legs, feathered or furred a good way down, giving 

 it the appearance of wearing an old-fashioned Dutch- 

 man's breeches. The brown kiwi is taller and slimmer, 

 and, if possible, even odder and more outlandish. They 

 both frequent swamps and secluded shallows, and are 

 very shy in their habits. They are also wonderfully 

 smart in their movements, considering their heavy build, 

 and their colors harmonize so well with their surround- 

 ings that they are not easily seen. It requires a snap 

 shot to kill a kiwi with a gun, but they are often caught 

 by dogs. The skin of the kiwi is highly valued bv the 

 Maoris for making mats or robes. The highest chiefs are 

 proud of wearing on grand occasions mats made entirely 

 of one kind of kiwi, black or brown, extending from the 

 neck to the feet, and requiring perhaps the skins of a 

 hundred birds for each mat. If such a costume were at 

 all common the poor, kiwis would soon be as extinct as 

 the moas; but these beautiful mats are merely heirlooms 

 in the great native families, and the present and future 

 generations of kiwis are protected, as far as possible, by 

 stringent laws. The kiwi is a very oily bird . and the skin 

 is not only perfectly waterproof, but seemingly everlast- 

 ing. The furlike plumage, too, is delightfully soft and 

 warm, and there can be no nicer traveling rug or bed 

 cover than a full-sized and well-made kiwi mat. Its value 

 is about $500. 



Though very far from being extinct, the kiwi must 

 certainly be considered a rare bird, except in parts of 

 the country where very few travelers go. The weka. on 

 the other hand, is exceedingly common and so very 

 sociable as to be almost embarrassing. It is about as 

 large as a hen pheasant, and not unlike it in appearance 

 at the first glance, though much browner in color, its 

 plumage being a true brown, a bright sienna tint. Then, 

 though it has a tail, which the kiwis have not, it is a 

 much shorter tail than a pheasant's. Its eyes, too, are 

 bright red, most peculiar, but very beautiful. It has 

 no wings at all, but its feathers being longer and stiffer 

 than the kiwi's, the absence of wings is not so apparent. 

 In looking at a kiwi you never think of its flying, but in 

 looking at a weka you wonder why it does not fly. 



The weka is ubiquitous. It is found in the depths of 

 the thickest bush. It pops out from behind grass-tussocks 

 on the dry, stony plains. It glides mysteriously among 

 the raupo stems in the wet swamp?.' It even turns up 

 occasionally on salt shallows, disputing with web-footed 

 birds for the sea-food left there by the tide. It is om- 

 nivorous, and when it gets the chance is even a bird of 

 prey. It boldly enters the fowl yard and kills young 

 chickens, and it is the friend of the fheep farmer on ac- 

 count of its penchant for little rabbits. So voracious is 

 it, indeed, and so thoroughly does it search out the re- 

 cesses of the burrows, that in many parts where rabbits 

 would otherwise be a serious nuisance, the weka effectu- 

 ally keeps them down and preserves the pastures for the 

 sheep. It ruthlessly invades the nabbit home, and seiz- 

 ing a baby bunny with its strong beak, shakes the life 

 out of it and tears«it to pieces, leaving nothing but scraps 

 of draggled skin and bone. It has no talons like those of 

 a true bird of prey, but its strong toes, with horny claws, 

 answer the purpose very well. The weka is aiso a for- 

 midable egg poacher. It does not break the eggs, but 

 pecks a hole in them and extracts the contents in some 

 way so skilllully that the fraud is not readily detected 

 even by the birds that laid them. 



The weka is the most inquisitive of all fowls: and it h 

 easily killed or captured by taking advantage of this 

 weak side of its character. 'When shooting m the stub- 

 ble fields in the Middle Island, I have often amu-ed my- 

 self, while taking a rest under a gorse hedge, by playing 

 on the curiosity of these quaint birds. The thing is to 

 remain as still as possible, but to keep up a regular tap- 

 ping, or any monotonous sound. A low, musical whis- 

 tle, repeating a bar or two over and over again, will do 

 as well as anything else. Soon there are seen emerging 

 from holes in the bank, or from tussocks of grass on the 

 edge of the stubble, two, three, four, perhap3 half a 

 dozen queer, brown birds. They cock up their heads, 

 look all round with their red eyes, stand on one foot in a 

 listening attitude, run along 'the ground a little way, 

 then stop and listen again, exactly as if to say, "Why, 

 the ideal What in the world is that noise? Well, I am 

 surprised." So entirely absorbed are they by their curio- 

 sity that sometimes they will come close up to you be- 

 fore they notice you. Then they vanish in an instant 

 as if by magic. They move so quickly, it is impossible 

 for the eyes to follow them. They seem to melt into 

 the ground. I have often seen half a dozen shots fired at 

 one weka at not more than 30yds., and two minutes 

 afterward, the same bird perked up again and came run- 

 ning along, looking really annoyed, as if inquiring in- 

 dignantly what on earth all that noise was about. The 

 moment a gun was raised again it was no more seen. 

 But if you keep quite still and don't shoot, the wekas 

 will soon gain confidence and become so entirely lost to 

 every other consideration save that of gratifying their 

 curiosity, that they will come right up to your feet to in- 

 vestigate the causes of that strange tapping or whistling. 

 They must and will find out where it comes from, how 

 you do it and what it means. Yet they are so smart that 

 when they seem actually under your hand, the chances 

 are ten to one against your touching them if you try to. 



A hungry man in the bush, nevertheless, seldom fails 

 to get a weka in the last extremity. An empty stomach 

 sharpens the wits and quickens the movements. When 

 you find yourself in that predicament, you hide yourself 

 completely in a dense thicket of wood ferns, supplejacks 

 and wild vines, just leaving your right arm free and a 

 hole to peep through. In your right hand you hold a* 

 stout stick with a bundle of paper or leaves, or the wing 

 of a robin, dangling from the end by a thread of flax. 

 With your left you knock regularly on the trunk of a 

 tree. Before long a weka slips out into the open and 

 commences an inquiry concerning that stick and the 

 depraved-looking object dangling from it. You gently 

 swing the thing backward and forward. By this time 

 there are probably two wekas standing on tiptoe, cran- 

 ing their necks and staring hard at it with all the staring 



powers of their round, red eyes. One suddenly turns to 

 to the other and says, as plainly as looks can say: " Well, 

 I never 1 Don't yOu think it's a duty We owe to society 

 to probe this matter to the bottom? '" " Why, certainly," 

 the other replies. " I should feel mean for the rest of my 

 days if I remained in ignorance upon the subject another 

 minute." 



Upon that they both advance three little step3 forward, 

 three little steps to one side, three little steps forward 

 again. Then they crouch down and cock their heads to 

 one side and listen attentively for a few seeonds. You 

 hold your breath, for your dinner depends on your silence; 

 but by a deft movement of the wrist you waggle the 

 dangling object more quickly than before. The two 

 wekas rear themselves to their full height and look at one 

 another indignantly. "The cause of science demands 

 that we should instantly solve this problem," says one, 

 "and I am going to do it or bust." " And I'm no't going 

 to get left," says the other. So they both march slowly 

 and deliberately, with long and cautious strides, up to 

 the spot over which the stick is hanging like the sword of 

 Damocles. They reach up in the air and peck at the 

 swinging bundle. Whack ! Down comes the stick and 

 one of the wekas lies fluttering among the lacelike mosses 

 and ferns that cover the ground. Possibly both come to 

 grief at once, but if one escapes it vanishes like a shadow, 

 and pops up a moment afterward, 20yds. off, strutting 

 about with a self-righteous swagger, remarking for the 

 benefit of whom it may concern: " There, I told you so. 

 I always knew that absurd bird's childish curiosity would 

 bring it trouble. So young and yet so rash ! Why can- 

 not people mind their own business ? " 



The experienced bushman divests the weka of its oily 

 skin the moment he gets hold of it, for if it is allowed to 

 get cold with the skin on, not only is it very hai-d to skin 

 or to pluck, but its flesh becomes so rank that it is almost 

 uneatable. The skin makes an excellent cap, for it is 

 very light, but yet very warm and strong and quite 

 waterproof; or it serves for a pouch for tobacco or 

 matches or any other little treasures that need to be kept 

 dry. The flesh is brown and glutinous, the best of meat, 

 very digestible and nutritious, and there is a good deal 

 of it, for the weka is a well conditioned bird. A stew 

 which I can recommend is made of the joints and gib- 

 lets of a weka, with doughboys— little flour and water 

 dumplings— onions, wild cabbage, pepper and salt, slowly 

 simmered for three quarters of an hour. By the time 

 the stew is done there will be half an inch of yellow oil 

 on the top. This should be poured off clear into a cup 

 or pannikin, where it cools solid, and kept as a sovereign 

 salve for wounds or bruises and an unequalled dubbing 

 for boots. The weka stew, helped out by a flapjack or a 

 scone or a "floating devil," which every bushman knows 

 how to make in his frymg pan, furnishes an abundant 

 dinner for one or a fair meal for two. It is distinctly 

 gamy, and every little bone can be picked and cracked 

 and sucked with a relish. 



I think it is only when you come to eat a weka or a 

 kiwi with a bushman's appetite over a camp-Bre in the 

 ranges that you ftttly realize how defective it is in being 

 a wingless bird. Edward Wajeefeed. 



EVENING GROSBEAK IN NEW ENGLAND. 



Editor Forest and Stream: 



The evening grosbeak (Ooccothraustes vespertina) has 

 at length won a place in the fauna of New England by 

 appearing during January, 1890, at several different 

 localities in eastern Massachusetts and southern New 

 Hampshire. As far as I am able to learn it was seen farst 

 at Miiford, New Hampshire, where Mr. James P. Melzer 

 shot a female on January 6. This specimen, Mr. Melzer 

 writes me, was apparently a solitary bird. It alighted on 

 a tree in the village and attracted his attention by its 

 peculiar notes. It seemed alert and and restless, but he 

 succeeded in shooting it before it could again take wing. 

 Three days later a young man brought in another which 

 he said was one of a flock of eight or ten that he had seen 

 near the town. Mr. Melzer was too busy at the time to 

 go in pursuit of them, but the young man went back and 

 secured three more. Of the four taken this day one was 

 an adult male and one a female. The sex of the other 

 two could not be determined by dissection, but they are 

 apparently females. These birds were feeding in maples 

 and the "cropo" of those killed were "filled with the soft 

 inner portions of the maple buds." Miiford is in Hills- 

 borough county, eleven miles northwest of Nashua. 



On Jan. 9— the very day, it will be observed, when these 

 grosbeaks were last seen at Miiford— a male was shot at 

 Seabrook, Eockingham county, N. H. I heard of this 

 specimen through Dr. A. K. Fisher, who wrote me that 

 it was in the possession of Mr. Alvah A. Eaton, of Sea- 

 brook. The latter, in reply to a letter from me asking 

 about his bird, at once sent me the skin, very generously 

 insisting that I accept it as a gift for my collection. In 

 addition, he was kind enough to furnish the following- 

 account of its capture: It was shot by a Mr. Brooks, who 

 found it alone in an apple orchard about half a mile from 

 a large salt marsh, but only a few hundred yards from an 

 arm or cove of this marsh. The locality is within a mile 

 of the Massachusetts fine, and hence in the extreme south- 

 eastern corner of Seabrook. Mr. Eaton skinned and dis- 

 sected the bird. Its stomach contained nothing but 

 cherry stones, all of which were broken into fragments. 

 As there were no wild cherries in the region about Sea- 

 brook last summer, Mr. Eaton thinks that these stones 

 may have been those of cherries from trees cultivated in 

 a garden near the apple orchard where the grosbeak was 

 killed. The bird was badly torn by the shot, "which 

 must have been of large size," and as the skin was very 

 tender also, the specimen is not so good as could be 

 wished; but it is in remarkably fine, richly-colored plum- 

 age. I cannot see that it differs in any important respect 

 from several of the western males in my collection. 

 Mr. Eaton tells me that it measured "a trifle over 8in. in 

 length." 



The next point at which our interesting bird has been 

 reported to me is Wellesley, Norfolk county, Massachu- 

 setts, where, on the well-known Hunnewell place, near 

 the outskirts of the village, a specimen was shot Jan. 15 

 by Mr. Thomas Smith, a gardener in Mr. Hunnewell's 

 service. Having a bent for natural history, Mr. Smith 

 has made a small but interesting collection of such mam- 

 mals, birds and insects as he has found time to capture 

 and preserve. He shot the grosbeak in a maple, where it 

 was sitting, apparently alone, uttering at intervals a call 

 which resembles that of the pine grosbeak. By the aid 



