BIRD NOTES FROM MOLO 2.

The Garden
By MRS. D. M. SHEPPARD, O.B.E.
(Article received in 1954)

In the golden glow of first light when all the world is hushed, waiting for the
dawn, the silence is broken by 'chup, chup, chup, seee chup chup, seee chup-'
followed by bursts of harsh metallic chattering. The Tacazze Sunbird, always early
to rise and late to bed, has started on his rounds slitting the throats of my snapdragons
and fuschias, and soon the sun will be turning his coat, near-black in the half light,
into a shimmering mantle of purple, violet, rose, bronze and green. Of all the
local sunbirds he is, perhaps, the most beautiful. Certainly he's the most aggressive,
though chiefly towards his own species. Many a time, when grubbing in the garden,
I have been nearly scalped by a pair of these 'jets' pursuing each other at incredible
speed in a frenzy of love or hate.
When the 'Lions' Ears' are full of honey we are visited by the shining emerald
Malachites, but they're shy birds and seldom seen in the garden. Double-collared
Sunbirds are common throughout the year and the Variable Sunbird (what an un-
imaginative misnomer for a bird of such vivid hues!) are irregular visitors. Their
specialities seem to be sweet-peas and the bush salvia with small carmine flowers.
One October the garden was invaded for the first time by Golden-winged Sunbirds.
There have always been large numbers of these handsome and very noisy sunbirds
around the forest edges, especially when the Crotellaria agitaflora are in bloom,
but never before have they become so domesticated, completely annexing the fuschias
in front of the veranda to the exclusion even of the pugnacious Tacazzes. I found
one of their nests this year (Jan. 25) quite near the house, in a clump of Leonotis
Elliotii right beside a path and at head level-obvious for all to see. It was most
beautifully woven of the finest grasses lined with plant-down and as I approached
to peer in, a young bird, fully fledged, flew out.
Our veranda is a never-ending treasure trove for the sunbirds; a well-stocked
larder and building store. Almost any day they can be seen insect-hunting among the
cobwebs or under the bark of the off-cuts, insects, I'm convinced, forming as big a
part of their diet as honey. Last March a pair of Tacazzes decided to build on a
low branch of a big fir tree about 20 yards from the house and almost all the material
came from the veranda. I have an Ethiopian fly-whisk hanging up, a horse's tail
in an ivory handle, and this was a great find, as were a bunch of chickens' feathers
which I misguidedly thought, when stuck into potatoes on the end of a string, would
keep the birds away from my peas. The remains of these had got shoved away under
a bit of loose bark and served a better purpose lining the sunbird's nest. Strips
of bark were used and dead leaves and cobwebs and even the fluff out of the doormat,
which was most carefully 'teased' on the spot before being carried off to the nest.
And all the while the hen-bird so patiently collected the material to weave her intricate
nest, her mate chivvied her around in a frenzy of impatience, hurling what sounded
like vitriolic abuse at her.
Voices! strident, muted, musical, discordant! a multitude of voices. The
screeching of the Red-headed Parrots as they fly over in the early mornings to the
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olive trees; the wild shriek of the Crowned Hornbills flopping, ungainly, into the
treetops and the rattling chatter of the White-headed Wood-Hoopoes scrambling
up and down the tree-trunks in search of insects. The beautiful but melancholy
cadence of the Coucal and the monotonous two-toned whistle of his diminutive
cousin, Klaas' Cuckoo; the lovely liquid notes of the Black-headed Oriole, the clear
bell-like duet of the Boubou Shrikes and the mournful wailing of the Fiscal Shrikes.
The voice of the Olive Thrush, blackbird-like in range and quality and the conversa-
tion of the Robin-Chat, so aptly named; the thin whistle of the Cinnamon-chested
Bee-eater as he flashes his gorgeous green mantle in the sunlight, the croaking of
the Hartlaub's Louries up in the tree-tops and the derisive laughter of my enemies
the Mousebirds. The cheerful songs of the Canaries and Seed-eaters, the grating
feeding note of the White-breasted Tits and the melodious warbling of the Yellow
Mountain Flycatcher. All these and many more are as much part of my garden as
the trees and flowers; without them it would indeed be a poor empty thing. One of
our most brilliant birds, the emerald green and white Klaas' Cuckoo, is heard far
more often than seen; in fact we feel he should qualify for the nickname of 'brain
fever bird,' so maddeningly monotonous is his song and so difficult is he to locate.
I think he must be something of a ventriloquist.
On the 1st November last I had an S.O.S. from a near neighbour to come and
indentify a large and ugly baby being fed by sunbirds. I found not one, but two,
young Klass' Cuckoos being fed by Tacazzes within 20 yards of each other. They
were almost fully-fledged, their mantles already showing a good deal of green, their
white breasts strongly barred with grey. It is not often one has the good fortune
to watch even one young cuckoo being fed within a few yards of one's house: it is
surely unusual to see two.
There have been many red-letter days. The day I watched the mighty Eagle-
Owl being mobbed by small birds in a tree by our garage and a few minutes later
saw a Mountain Buzzard perched on a gum branch behind the stables, one foot on
a large rat, also being mobbed by Tacazze Sunbirds. The day I first identified our
Wryneck, often suspected but never before seen close enough to be certain, and the
day last March when I first saw the beautiful little Black-crowned Waxbills-fairly
frequent visitors since. And there was the unforgettable morning which the
Paradise Flycatcher spent with us, his pure white tail streaming behind him like a
chitron scarf, yet never getting entangled, as he hawked so nimbly among the olive
branches.
The visits of migrants, too, are always occasions to remember. Of local ones
the most surprising were a pair of Namaqua Doves that spent a day with us last
April. They, like the Fork-tailed Drongos, that we see occasionally, belong, I feel,
to lower altitudes and warmer climes. In May we were visited by a large party of
Rufous-backed Mannikins, never seen here before or since, and last February a
number of chocolate-faced White-eyes stopped about a fortnight in the garden
feeding among a flock of the common Green variety, which I have been unable to
identify. (Note: these 'chocolate-faced' White-eyes were probably birds whose facial
plumage was stained with pollen).
We had Harlequin Quail for supper once after a number of them had committed
suicide on the veranda while we were out-dazzled no doubt by the lights.
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 Of European migrants I have only recorded two species in the garden apart
from birds of prey-the Blackcap and the Willow Warbler, both singing on arrival
in October. A cock and hen Blackcap were feeding together in December and I
heard of a pair that wintered together in a garden at Kipkabus. Is it common,
I wonder, for these birds to winter in pairs?
But the most exciting of all red-letter days was the day we had a hatch of flying
ants in our wood and a great concourse assembled to gorge on the spoils. We stood
on the lawn with the ants swarming round our heads and watched fascinated
the following incredible varieties of birds, all hawking from one small olive tree.
Boubou Shrike, Fiscal Shrike, Olive Thrush, Robin-Chat, Toppie, Pied Wagtail,
Reichenow's Weaver, Klaas' Cuckoo, Slaty and Wattle-eyed Flycatchers, Golden
winged and Tacazze Sunbird, White-breasted Tit, White-eye, Brown-headed Weaver
and Chestnut-throated Apalis Warbler, Golden-rumped Tinker-Bird Yellow-
crowned Canary, Streaky Seed-Eater, Glossy Starling, and Cardinal Woodpecker.
The latter, in spite of his usual ungainly flight, proving the most agile of the lot,
hardly ever scoring a miss. In the midst of this frenzied activity, just to add to the
excitement, a pair of Augur Buzzards, one white and one melanistic, came swooping
close over our heads scattering, temporarily, both hunters and hunted.
It is not often one has the good fortune to witness a sight such as this, but it
is equally true to say that not often a day passes without some incident of interest:
a new habit observed in an old acquaintance, a choice of food or tone of voice not
previously noted. There is someting fresh to learn daily for those that have eyes to
see and ears to hear.
And even when darkness falls and we light the fire and draw the curtains and
can no longer see, we can still listen to the special good-night notes of the late-to-
bedders, the Sunbirds, Thrushes, Robins and Slaty Flycatchers, then later to the
cry of the Nightjars, starting their day's work as others finish. Later too, if we're
lucky, we'll be thrilled by the deep-throated 'hooo-cuk' followed by demoniacal
barking of the king of the night-the Eagle-Owl.

'Drumming' by Swifts
Over a dam at Langata, ten miles from the centre of Nairobi, I have frequently
seen parties of Mottled Swifts (Apus aequatorialis (Muller)); their visits appear to be
primarily for the purpose of drinking from the surface of the dam.
On the 27th April 1958 I heard a loud 'prrrpt-prrrpt-prrrpt' repeated at frequent
intervals while the swifts were present. My wife and I had them under observation
with binoculars for about half-an-hour and discovered that this noise was being
made by the birds spreading and depressing their tails and twisting them sideways
(usually to the right) so that the outer feathers on that side projected into the slip-
stream. The 'leading' feathers were quite clearly seen to vibrate at the same time
that the noise was heard. This phenomenon was not confined to a single bird,
as many were seen to make it.
I can find no reference to such 'drumming' by a member of the swift family:
it has been recorded for certain species of honey-guide and is, of course, a well-
known habit of certain species of snipe.
D. K. Bednall.
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