64 
The Queensland Naturalist 
November, 1943 
Fences play a large part in a suburban bird's life. 
Willie Wagtail loves them and so does Jacky Winter. 
The white-taced heron and spur-winged plover share the 
same paddocks, but I have yet to see a plover on a post. 
I wonder why t One would feel so much more import- 
ant on a post — perhaps plovers are less worldly-minded. 
As a matter of fact. I've rather given them up. From 
June to August, when courting and domestic 
duties are in full swing, I'm scared of them. That sharp 
excited call and fierce swoop (it seems fierce to me; 
are as yet too alarming to be faced. After the war I'll 
fish up a tin hat and go forth to conquer. I hear them 
at night, and try to picture them as loving fathers and 
good husbands — but I can't — I'm scared of them. The 
tact that they lay their eggs on the ground in a very 
makeshift nest doesn't really \matter. No one would 
dare to touch them, anyway. This year, too, we had 
quite an invasion of straw-necked ibis — I counted as 
many as 30 in the paddock, which is a lot for us — there 
were also considerable numbers of them out Long Pocket 
way. Going up to Warwick by service car in June, I 
noticed lots of these birds disporting themselves in the 
spray from the pipes irrigating the paddocks. For ibis, 
they were quite frisky. And if we are down in the pad- 
dock, there will be two songs sure to be heard from the 
mangroves that line the small and dirty creek. These 
are the voices of the Mangrove Warbler and the Brown 
Floneyeater. May or June is the best month to hear the 
brown honeyeaters. They are slim and brown, and not 
very large, but the air is full of their joyous bubbling 
notes. They love singing and will perch hidden among 
the leaves for about 10 minutes sometimes, singing 
lustily; of course, they are in love, and that makes a 
difference. By the end of June the dainty nest is 
finished and the next important step begun. I remem- 
ber what fun it was finding it, and how father bird 
perched himself some distance away, on the topmost 
twig of a mangrove, and sang furiously to distract me, 
while mother bird tried to feed the children and yet not 
disclose the nest. They had concealed it well, too, and 
it was some time before I spied the little cradle under- 
neath an umbrella of leaves. You will notice how very 
soft the lining is — nothing but the best for the brown 
honeyeaters. 
