Some are even threatening to rise up and strangle the apple trees. I like pumpkins in the winter, and I like apples in the autumn - some hard choices and selective pruning will soon be in order. But that's not what I came here to talk about today. It's not the sights in and around my garden that have me wondering, but the sounds.
From dawn till dusk, there are two juvenile channel-billed cuckoos out there - sometimes in the trees beyond the creek, sometimes in a tree outside my bedroom window - begging, whinging, and generally harassing the poor unfortunate currawong who found herself saddled with them this year. At times it can sound so like the cry of a human baby that I have to go looking through the garden to be sure it is only the bird.
Normally this currawong raises one chick of her own and keeps it close and hidden in the trees along the creek, but something went wrong this year. The koels had been circling the tree that the magpies had nested in, and, after much conflict and many alarms, the magpies seem to have abandoned the idea of child-raising this year. Perhaps she was busy watching the fuss on the other side of the railway line and didn't notice the cuckoo intruder on her side.
But the noise, what a cacaphony! It brings me to something I have wondered about before, but never had so many instances of it to compare as I have now. There is a tone to the pleadings of the juvenile cuckoos, as well as that of juvenile currawongs, magpies, puppies, kittens, lambs, and humans, that is so similar, though it issues from such dissimilar creatures. Few of us can resist responding to the desperate, disturbing cries of a baby, and not just human babies, but so many other babies of the animal world, who use a similar sound to express their distress, and to call for help. There are many instance recorded in various ways of cross species mothering, as canines care for baby felines, cats for puppies, and so on.
Our mother currawong, for example, brings food to the begging cuckoo, but hesitates each time, until the cries from the young bird become absolutely frantic. With her own chicks, the food is offered instantly - she knows there is something wrong about this one, but has raised this creature from a little ball of downy fluff, and cannot resist the impassioned and desperate pleading. Our Magpie landlords are not impressed, and if she brings them near the house, they are quick to sound the alarm, and swoop in to drive them away.
Earlier, as I walked through the village, having bought milk and bread for the grandchildren I knew would be visiting a bit later in the day, I found myself instinctively turning around everytime some child yelled "grandma" or "grandpa" - it happened several times, as Wentworth Falls and its cafes attracts many families during the school holidays. Most of us seem to be affected by it, as I saw other heads turning, too.
There have been papers and articles aplenty over the years looking at the topic, for example, this one here As the wonderful Professor Sumner-Miller used to so often say, all those year ago "Why is it so?" There was an excellent story teller - eccentric, and at times erratic, but we knew that he would take us to interesting conclusions, so we were happy to sit through those moments in return for the drama in the middle, and the interesting conclusions.
Having trouble telling your own story? So was I, this morning - the temperature outside, and in, is soaring beyond any reasonable level for the Mountains, and I am weary from too much furniture moving and driving (an adult child on the move) but, as usual, once the words begin to flow, I remember the joy that comes at the finish of each creative effort. The effort of working is never as bad as the pain of anticipating the work - though I have to admit that if the weather were cooler, I would have found it much harder to abandon the garden for the keyboard.
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