Magoie family, Wonthaggi, spring 2019. Dad is in the black (obscured), with the three siblings in grey, Photo: Pauline Wilkinson
By Liz Low
MARGARET the Magpie’s baby is dead. I found the baby bird on the curve of the road when I had wandered out after breakfast to see how the garden was getting on. I had been pleased to see the first agapanthus splitting open its flower pod then, out of the corner of my eye, noticed a small mound on the road. Something had been squashed. I stepped closer. It was a bird.
MARGARET the Magpie’s baby is dead. I found the baby bird on the curve of the road when I had wandered out after breakfast to see how the garden was getting on. I had been pleased to see the first agapanthus splitting open its flower pod then, out of the corner of my eye, noticed a small mound on the road. Something had been squashed. I stepped closer. It was a bird.
Up closer, I recognised it as a magpie chick. It must be Margaret’s. It was absolutely flattened, wings spread wide, head sideways and beak parted, legs and claws splayed. The grey brown down on its breast gently fluttered in the wind. There was a string of guts on the gravel, so recently burst from its body that they were still red and moist. A blow fly appeared.
Weeping quietly, I picked it up by its two wings. The blob of guts dangled. My tears burst as I carried it up the gravel steps to show my husband who was working at his table in the downstairs room. I banged on the window and held up the baby. He ‘saved’ and rushed outside.
Poor Margaret. Poor us.
We had been feeding a lone, nervy, female magpie at Cape Paterson for a couple of months. She would appear on the back of the chair on the deck and stare into the room, compelling me to drop everything and feed her. She never sang.
We decided she needed a name as she seemed such a regular and recognisable visitor. ‘Margaret’ seemed to fit.
During the last few weeks we realised that she was appearing more often and taking large quantities of food. Aha. She must have some chicks in a nest. On a walk, we heard the unmistakable calling of hungry magpie chicks from a tree on the other side of the park. There was a large nest up in a tall gum and later we saw Margaret swooping up to it.
Recently, after she’d swallowed a large amount of food to regurgitate, she’d take a few intact pellets in her beak. The record was three at once. I joked that she was putting her babies onto solids.
Last Saturday, Margaret appeared almost as soon as I’d opened the curtains, staring hard at me through the rain. She looked terrible: wet plumage blown in all directions, thin and jumpy. I was very pleased to feed her and have a quiet chat about the babies.
On Sunday morning, a calmer day, she swooped off with her full crop to the gum tree just over the road. “Feed me!” squawking started up amidst a flutter of wings. Through the leaves we saw a large chick with a fluffy brown-grey breast and back. Margaret ferried food back and forth. It flew closer and perched on the heavy black cable between the lamp posts where it sat there comfortably, still being fed. A bit late, it flew off with his mother to land on the grass of the park. It was interesting to watch the chick walking around with its mum, pecking at the ground but still very happy to be fed.
Over the next couple of days, it flew up to the trees in our garden, getting closer and closer. We looked forward to the day when it would land on the deck railing to be fed with its mother. Margaret started to sing small songs which seemed to have coincided with the emergence of her fledgling.
On its fourth day out of the nest, it was run over and killed.
Later that morning, Margaret flew up to the deck and looked at me. I offered her some food. She took a bit of time to approach but took a small quantity. She hopped back, cleaned her beak and flew off in a slow rising swoop across the park. A small song floated back across the grass.
She was eating for one again.
Weeping quietly, I picked it up by its two wings. The blob of guts dangled. My tears burst as I carried it up the gravel steps to show my husband who was working at his table in the downstairs room. I banged on the window and held up the baby. He ‘saved’ and rushed outside.
Poor Margaret. Poor us.
We had been feeding a lone, nervy, female magpie at Cape Paterson for a couple of months. She would appear on the back of the chair on the deck and stare into the room, compelling me to drop everything and feed her. She never sang.
We decided she needed a name as she seemed such a regular and recognisable visitor. ‘Margaret’ seemed to fit.
During the last few weeks we realised that she was appearing more often and taking large quantities of food. Aha. She must have some chicks in a nest. On a walk, we heard the unmistakable calling of hungry magpie chicks from a tree on the other side of the park. There was a large nest up in a tall gum and later we saw Margaret swooping up to it.
Recently, after she’d swallowed a large amount of food to regurgitate, she’d take a few intact pellets in her beak. The record was three at once. I joked that she was putting her babies onto solids.
Last Saturday, Margaret appeared almost as soon as I’d opened the curtains, staring hard at me through the rain. She looked terrible: wet plumage blown in all directions, thin and jumpy. I was very pleased to feed her and have a quiet chat about the babies.
On Sunday morning, a calmer day, she swooped off with her full crop to the gum tree just over the road. “Feed me!” squawking started up amidst a flutter of wings. Through the leaves we saw a large chick with a fluffy brown-grey breast and back. Margaret ferried food back and forth. It flew closer and perched on the heavy black cable between the lamp posts where it sat there comfortably, still being fed. A bit late, it flew off with his mother to land on the grass of the park. It was interesting to watch the chick walking around with its mum, pecking at the ground but still very happy to be fed.
Over the next couple of days, it flew up to the trees in our garden, getting closer and closer. We looked forward to the day when it would land on the deck railing to be fed with its mother. Margaret started to sing small songs which seemed to have coincided with the emergence of her fledgling.
On its fourth day out of the nest, it was run over and killed.
Later that morning, Margaret flew up to the deck and looked at me. I offered her some food. She took a bit of time to approach but took a small quantity. She hopped back, cleaned her beak and flew off in a slow rising swoop across the park. A small song floated back across the grass.
She was eating for one again.