“OLD HARRIER”

Forest and Bird, Issue 58, 1 November 1940, Page 2

“OLD HARRIER”

By Hugh Ross

THE mists which all that morning had clung in billowing folds above the valley floor were now drifting asunder, enabling the sun’s rays to creep through, bringing comfort and cheer to the cold, clammy earth and its inhabitants. Forth from the thinning fog loomed the form of “Old Harrier,” who with leisurely, even beat of big wings was making for his favourite perch. I saw him pass —watched him alight upon what was literally a “scrub-bush” diminutive growth about fourteen inches high, hideously deformed and growing in advance of its well-proportioned kindred on the face of a steep little hillock fronting the house. With not so much as a preliminary circle the hawk “pan-caked” on to his resting place. An awkward step or two, a flapping of his great wings ere assuring perfect equilibrium and settling down comfortablyprobably the most contented hawk for miles around. Watching the reposing bird I felt a genuine sympathy for the old fellow. Whence he had just come was no mystery, either. In a certain gully were the remains of a sheep upon which he had feasted to repletion, and now, well and truly gorged, .he sought a little relaxation. While I watched he preened a feather or two, and then—he began to sing. His notes were those peculiar, glassy rolling warbles that one

associates with friend starling. Indeed, so well did they match the starling’s song that only a keen ear would have distinguished the difference. It may be, though, that “Old Harrier’s” notes were a trifle louder. For the better part of two hours he remained upon his scrub-bush singing happily to himself or performing his daily toilet, while the sun’s rays thawed the dank chill of the gully from his grateful body. I doubt if I have ever known a more agreeably satisfied bird than that shrewd old hawk. To the best of my knowledge he has hung about the farmstead for several years now, and he does himself well. Very well indeed ! There are odd sheep that die as well as waste parts from those killed for mutton to be shared with the dogs, also any number of rabbits both shot and trapped, not to mention those killed by his own skilful hunting. And he had those glorious days, too, after the chaff-cutter had departed when scores of bewildered mice scurried aimlessly amid the deserted stack bottoms. I know also, and without animosity, that hens’ nests at times were filched. The harrier hawk is more or less a scavenger, and “Old Harrier” is no exception. True he is no mean hunter, but at the same time he partakes cheerfully of that which the gods provide. For instance, there is a little scene I saw enacted not long ago. One still afternoon my attention was arrested by the loud squealing of a rabbit. A stoat must have been trailing its prey for some time, because when I became aware of the tragedy the hapless victim was firmly grasped by the back of the neck and the stoat was delivering the final coup-de-grace, A moment later the stoat himself narrowly missed - “ getting it in the neck!” “Old Harrier” had drifted on. the scene. Not a second did he waste in unnecessary hovering, but, swooping down, struck viciously with his steel-like talons. The stoat’s sharp hissing bark of fear as he hurled his lithe body to one side in order to avoid the clutch of death was audible at nearly a hundred yards. Like a yellow streak he “snaked” for the shelter of a gully. Later he returned to bark in helpless

fury at the unheeding hawk so complacently enjoying his poached meal. A few days later one of a dozen pullets was missing. Promptly everyone blamed “Old Harrier,” and soon was heard that time-worn cry “Chicken Thief.” A positively damning statement! I knew full well that unless I could prove the hawk’s innocence, and, what was more, do so quickly, the old fellow would haunt that farmstead no more. “Why! ” exclaimed the boss suddenly “there is the old varmint now —out there on the hillside, and he is eating something . . . bet it is my pullet.” Together we went to investigate. As we drew near the hawk flew off. With considerable relief I saw no sign of feathers. (The boss’s threats en route had been singularly bloodthirsty). Something white lay on the ground, and for a horrible moment I feared that it might be an egg. But my fears were groundless. “Old Harrier” had not let me down. The “something white” was nothing more or less than the white front of a stoat ! I shall never forget the boss’s words as we examined the gory remains. “Well I’m blessed ! The old cannibal. Fancy him eating THAT ! ” I think “Old Harrier’s” life-long safety from the hands of the boss at least—was assured from the moment of my discovering the pullet, minus half its head, dragged under a rotting log. Another observation concerning “Old Harrier” is worth relating. The world over hawks are known by sportsmen as notorious gamebird killers, and the big New Zealand harrier hawk comes in for more than his fair share of

this unjust accusation. Now, it so chanced that I had been keeping a close watch on “Old Harrier’s” home life. I noted the time the three eggs took in hatching, and, later, assisted with odd chunks of meat in the raising of the yellow-eyed husky youngsters. One morning while wading through the big tussocks surrounding the nest, a grey duck flapped wildly forth from beneath my feet. There was a nest there containing a dozen or more eggs. I didn’t look too closely for fear the mother duck would not return to her brooding. But, this is the point: if the harrier hawks carry out the ruthless destruction alleged against game-birds in general, why did that duck make her nest scarcely a chain distant from that of “Old Harrier ? ” Proof that the hawk had nested prior to the grey duck was shown in his almost fully fledged family against the other’s unhatched eggs. That the big clumsy harrier hawks do obtain odd game-birds is beyond dispute. Nine times out of ten, however, the captured victims are those which have escaped the dogs after being wounded by sportsmen’s guns. So . . . “Old Harrier” lives on. His “scrubbush” is squashed flat with constant use. Almost every morning his chuckling music can be heard. Whether this singing is unique in “Old Harrier” I do not know, for he is the only one of his kind I have ever had the opportunity of studying closely. But sing he does. And why shouldn’t he ? For no one molests him.