Part 2

Then there are owls--three or four sorts of them--which drift in absolute silence from place to place. On moonlit nights a sudden shadow floats on the ground before you, and if you look up quickly enough you will see a white form settling silently on a branch or post. If you keep very still and watch patiently you may see him dart down to catch some flying insect, or make a sudden swoop at a mouse in the grass below. How they see their prey is always one of the wonders of nature to me, but apparently they never miss. I like the names of my owls--the delicate owl, the masked owl and the Boobook owl--the last so named from his familiar double note “Boo-book.”

The old mopoke, who for many years got the credit for the boo-book owl’s note, lives in the wilderness, too. Like most of the nocturnal creatures, he likes the tall redgum which stands beside my gate, and he sits there for an hour at a time constantly uttering his soft mysterious note, “Oom, oom, oom.” Sometimes he comes closer, on to the fence, or even on to the verandah post itself. In the daytime he sits silently for ages in what must be a most uncomfortable position, pretending to be a branch of the tree, but at night he gives himself away by his “Oom, oom, oom,” for even the dullest human knows that trees don’t say “Oom, oom, oom.” Still, he is clever at catching his food, and the nocturnal insects find him as formidable as the owls.

Whenever we have a few days rain the little creek in the wilderness fills up, and then the frogs make high holiday. Most people will tell you that a frog croaks, and leave it at that. But, as a matter of fact, in proportion to their numbers, there is as great a variety in frog songs as in birds’. Once you have realized the differences you will wonder however you were so stupid as to think them all the same. There is the deep “Craw-craw, craw-craw” of the big green tree-frog, _Hyla coerulea_; the familiar chant, “Craw-awk, crawk, crok, crok,” of the golden tree-frog, _Hyla aurea_--I give you their scientific names because they are so charming--the slow “Kuk-kuk-kuk,” and the high, piping, hurried “Cree-cree-cree-cree” of two other _Hylas_. Then there is the insect-like “Crikik, crikik” of the little brown _Crinia_, and the harsher “creek” of the tiny brown toadlet. The two frogs which rejoice in the name of _Limnodynastes_, “King of the pool,” have quite different notes. One has an explosive “Toc, toc, toc,” like a machine gun, and the other calls “Kuk-kuk-kuk-kuk.” Then the funny old burrowing frog calls softly “Oo-oo-oo-oo,” and sounds more like a bird than a frog.

On fine mornings after rain, when the croakings overnight have told me what is afoot, I visit the little creek to see which of the frogs have spawned. A patch of froth, like soapsuds, with tiny spheres of black and white embedded in it, is the egg-mass of one or other of the two species of _Limnodynastes_. Two kinds of eggs are neatly arranged in cylindrical bunches round the submerged roots and grasses. Each egg is surrounded by a sphere of clear jelly, and a thin gelatinous matrix envelopes all the eggs. Those of _Crinia_ are black and white, those of _Hyla ewingi_ brown and cream. Floating on the surface, as if peppered over it, are the brown-and-white eggs of _Hyla coerulea_; while hidden under the debris round the edges of the water I find the much larger eggs of the little _Pseudophryne_, twenty to a nest, with the gaily orange-marked mother toadlet in attendance.

[Illustration: _A balloon almost as big as the frog itself_]

All are amusing, as frogs have ever been since the days of Aesop and Aristophanes; but there is none so amusing as the big green tree-frog, _Hyla coerulea_. He is the one that makes the great frog concert in moist places, and many a bad sleeper has cursed him for croaking on all through the hours of darkness. But once you have seen one of these frog gatherings you can never feel quite the same about their chorus. Amusement will temper your irritation. They come from all round the neighbourhood to the meeting place, and in the dusk you may even trip over the large green frogs hopping along the footpath on their way from neighbouring gardens. Often the gathering numbers hundreds, and they sit about the edge of the pond, in the grass, and on the stones, chanting loudly. And at each deep note a great balloon swells out in front of the throat, a balloon almost as big as the frog itself, going up and down, up and down, as each deep note goes out and the breath comes back for the next boom. I know of nothing in the whole bush quite so ludicrous as a frogs’ party, and I must confess that the knowledge that so few people have attended one adds to its interest. There is a rare satisfaction in being on intimate terms with the really shy, strange, wild creatures. If you would share my pleasure all you need do is to keep a little wild patch of bush near your home. For wherever there is sanctuary the shy bush things will come and make their homes beside you.

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