November, i943 
The Queensland Naturalist 
63 
and besides this open forest land my domain includes a 
swamp and several cleared paddocks. The swamp can 
be seen from the railway line, just as you cross that black 
bridge parallel with Moggill Road. Yes, I know it's only 
a small one, but you've no idea what interesting things 
go on there. Thus not only do we get our forest biras, 
but also swamp birds. One of our star turns is the stone 
curlew, which I am told is getting rather rare round Bris- 
bane. It is just the finishing touch to one of our clear, 
moonlit, winter nights to hear the weird, wild calling of 
the curlews. One spring morning about 8 o'clock, I 
came upon a mother curlew, father, and three half- 
grown offspring. They all shot up straight and looked 
absurdly stripey. Father spread out his wings to their 
fullest extent, and just stood there and said "Gurrrrr." 
I smiled politely and went. Curlews are quite large! 
Down by our miniature swamp the herons stand, ever on 
the lookout for a meal. There are a few rather inade- 
quate tufts of grass, and among these I sat me down and 
watched. The white-faced and the white-necked were 
there, and although the latter is the larger bird, their 
methods of feeding are identical. The intense concen- 
tration of their gaze amazed me — one almost felt 
that the object of such a regard would shrivel up. As 
far as I can gather they leave it to the last moment to 
snatch their prey — there is no hurry, no bustle — just 
that steady gaze and then, presto, down it goes ! I think 
that of the two the white-necked is the shyer 
when he sees me, the white-faced looks, looks again, 
stretches his neck and stands so straight and still that I 
know he imagines he looks like a fence post. At the last 
moment, rather peeved that his little deception has not 
gone over, he gives an outraged croak, and sails away, 
not without a certain dignity. This particular day quite 
a steady breeze was blowing from the south-east. Now 
it may have been my imagination, but I could have 
sworn that each time the wind blew a little stronger, the 
white-faced heron's neck wobbled. A peculiar move- 
ment not unlike a snake. There were other things to 
watch besides the herons. Further down the paddock a 
young plover and its parents were also engaged in the 
important business of lunching. Baby plover is an 
attractive little soul, and though small, was quite clearly 
marked, and seemed very independent. 
