by Darryl Jones
Enhancing the availability of native plants is one of the fundamental objectives of “wildlife gardening” where attracting birds is usually the predominant goal. If you have the space, trying to replicate components of the bird’s natural environment is an obvious platform for providing habitat and enticing wild visitors. Habitat always starts with vegetation, though not all plants are suitable for attracting birds. For example, it is now well established that native species of birds make better use of indigenous plants than they do of species originating elsewhere. For the majority of birds, this relates to the availability of insects they can use as food—native plants support more invertebrates than do introduced species—and native plants are also more likely to be used for nesting and perching sites as well. In general, flowers may offer nutritional resources, such as nectar and pollen, but far more important for birds is what pol-linated flowers result in: fruits and seeds. These concentrated bundles of energy and protein are crucial sources of bird food and are key elements in a well-designed wildlife garden.
The general principles of wildlife gardening are all about creating habitat, hopefully for as many species as possible. In the case of the Australian nectar-producing plants we are discussing here, however, we seem to have a problem. Popular shrubs such as grevilleas and callistemons, often promoted as “bird magnets,” provide a massive sugar supply, and, thanks to clever selective breeding for prolonged display, one that is unnaturally long-lived and reliable. Add to that the abundance of these plants and you have a suburban landscape literally dripping in super-sweet, bird-attracting native plants. Surely that must be a good thing for urban bird conservation in Australia.
That is certainly what was expected, and so-called bird-scaping gardens through the planting of bird-attracting plants has been encouraged by Australian bird and conservation organizations for decades.3 Indeed, such garden design is often strongly promoted as an alternative to feeding: “Bring them in with nectar, not seed.” It was an activity that worked only too well, but not at all as hoped. Certainly, the plants did attract large numbers of birds seeking the nectar, but instead of increasing the diversity of birds to apparently “enhanced” suburban gardens, all too frequently the result was lots of one species: the Noisy Miner. A typical native honeyeater found throughout the eucalyptus bushland of eastern Australia, this bird should be welcome in our gardens, or so you’d think. It is most certainly not, for the simple reason that if you have Noisy Miners, you don’t get anything else.4 Noisy Miners live in complex and tight-knit social groups that aggressively defend their territories. Territorial activity is normal behavior for the majority of songbirds during the early breeding season. Noisy Miners, however, take this to the extreme by remaining savagely despotic all year round, and most significantly, driving away all other species from their defending area. The only species able to withstand these relentless attacks are birds bigger and, in some cases, even nastier than the miners. This unfortunate but otherwise natural behavior by a common native bird species is now recognized as a major “threatening process” in Australia, seriously undermining the conservation status of numerous smaller species. The threat is most acute in the woodlands outside the cities but has been catastrophic for people living in the suburbs trying to bring in the birds. The nectar-rich garden has turned out to be a honey trap.5
Overrun by honeyeaters? It seems to have little relevance to wild bird feeding, doesn’t it? Not if you are a typical feeder doing your best in the suburbs of much of Australia. No matter what you try, the presence of miners often means not much else in the way of smaller species. What started as seemingly sensible wildlife gardening decisions has often resulted in a disastrously depleted bird community. This is a cautionary tale of unintended consequences stemming directly from our attempt to provide a key resource for the purpose of attracting birds. Planting particular types of shrubs may appear to be more “natural” than putting out seed, but the effects on the birds may be just as pronounced. Providing any sort of food for wild creatures is an experiment with a range of possible outcomes. One of the simple messages of this book is that changing the foods that birds can eat almost always changes other things as well.
For a large part of Australia, the wholesale planting of nectar-bearing vegetation has indeed changed the community of birds in the suburbs. I have witnessed the dramatic consequences among the varieties of birds that are able to visit my garden and eventually my feeder. Earlier I suggested that the birds at my table were probably different from those at yours. There are several reasons for this, beyond the simple fact that you may live in a different country. First, as mentioned, I live with a colony of Noisy Miners. Not a lot, but this colony of about a dozen effectively keeps all the smaller species away, almost completely. Imagine your garden or feeders without any of the smaller birds: no tits or chickadees, no hummingbirds or Silvereyes, no finches or robins. I hope you see my point.
Thankfully, I live within a well-treed suburb and not far from a large conservation reserve. As a result, I am fortunate to have visits from a wide variety of the slightly larger—and miner-resistant—species, including several species of parrots such as cautious Pale-headed Rosella, raucous Sulphur-crested Cockatoos, feisty butcherbirds, and jittery but animated Spangled Drongos. These birds are the more occasional visitors, always welcome but, being somewhat casual, they are much harder to get to know. No, when I consider the real birds at my table, the reason for my efforts and concern—and the genuine impetus for this book—it comes down to just two species, Rainbow Lorikeets and Australian Magpies.
The Birds at My Table
Rainbow Lorikeets are simply outrageous. They are outlandishly colorful, ridiculously unaware of risk, and disarmingly confident. No bird so conspicuous and extroverted should have the audacity to also be the most abundant bird in a majority of the large cities of Australia. But this is a status recently confirmed; numerous surveys of Australia’s urban birds have found that these spectacular birds now outnumber all others.6 This includes the usual global dominants such as feral pigeons, House Sparrows, and blackbirds—all of which are well established in Australia—as well as the ubiquitous corvids (crows and related species). The proliferation of lorikeets is a relatively recent phenomenon; traditionally, lorikeets were more likely found in open eucalyptus woodlands characteristic of the Australian bush. Why have so many become city dwellers? As is so often the case, the answer seems tied to food.
Lorikeets are a fairly distinctive group within the broader parrot group, and are distinguished from their relatives by their remarkable tongues. The business end of this specialized apparatus is covered in a dense forest of soft, fleshy bristles, giving them the rather obvious name of “brush tongues.” While lorikeets do eat seeds like regular parrots, the structure of their tongues indicates that they are also adapted to exploiting a particular resource: the nectar and pollen produced by the predominant trees of Australia, the eucalyptus. As with so many ecological cycles in this unpredictable land, the flowering of these trees is highly erratic, but when conditions are right, vast landscapes may be transformed into a sweet-smelling banquet. As expected, a great diversity of Australian animals—beetles and moths, marsupial gliders and possums, bats and many different birds—quickly take advantage of these bonanzas.7 From the big ecological perspective, this is all about ensuring pollination, of course, but the lorikeets don’t care. With their specialized feeding equipment and belligerent personalities, they dive right in, determined to make the most of the all-too-brief boom times. When it’s all over, they are back to gleaning whatever they can find.
Unless they are among the many lorikeets now living in the suburbs. Not only are these birds able to take advantage of the same nectar-bearing shrubs as the Noisy Miners (and easily win any interspecies arguments with the much smaller honeyeaters), they also benefit from the types of larger trees found in domestic gardens and city parks and along the streets. Because of the usual human preference for large, colorful, and prominent flowering displ
ays, the species and varieties selected for these places are typically showy. Such trees are also often developed selectively for prolonged displays. While these preferences resulted in a range of spectacular tree species from distant lands (such as the scarlet flowers of the Afri-can tulip tree and the gorgeous purple jacaranda from South America), the same criteria have been applied to the selection of eucalyptus trees for ornamental planting. As mentioned previously, interest in using native Australian plants for gardens has revolutionized the way homeown-ers and local planners have designed their plantings. But while the trees chosen may indeed be native, they are often species (as well as cultivars bred to enhance their display) with larger and longer-lasting blooms than just about anywhere on the continent. It’s what people want to see. And what we appreciate aesthetically, our brush-tongued nectar-feeding visitors enjoy as an unnaturally prolonged supply of their favorite foraging resources. Instead of an irregular, temporary, and unpredictable boom, the wide diversity of eucalyptus now available across the Australian suburban landscape ensures that the busts are brief, if at all. It is hardly a surprise, then, to find that these clever, adaptable, and opportunistic birds have prospered spectacularly.8
The abundance of their main natural diet across the local landscape is apparently the chief reason that my most regular bird-table visitors are Rainbow Lorikeets. They almost certainly don’t need the seeds I diligently provide, and their periodic absences are probably due to some massive flowering by a eucalyptus clump nearby. I guess this puts my feeder into perspective. And as much as I enjoy their presence and vibrancy, I can’t pretend that we are really that close. Why, I can’t even be sure that they are the same birds each time!
There are no such qualms when it comes to my other special guests. Compared with the brash party-animal presence of the lorikeets, the arrival of the magpies is quiet, discreet, and professional. Their demeanor and presentation could hardly be more different; these birds are strictly black and white. You know where you stand: you’re equals, and yet it can also be personal. OK, I will stick my neck out and say it: these are birds you can develop a relationship with. Really.
First, though, some relevant background. The Australian Magpie may have pied (black and white plumage) coloration, but it is not closely related to the various magpie species of the Northern Hemisphere. These “true” magpies are corvids and part of the large group of intelligent birds that includes crows, jays, and ravens. The confusingly named Australian Magpie is really a “butcherbird,” a group of mainly carnivorous birds found in all habitats but especially the open woodlands. Australian Magpies spend much of their day wandering around on the ground foraging for worms and grubs just below the surface. Their feeding behavior means that the best substrates for magpies to seek their prey in are where the soil is soft and moist;9 watered and regularly mown suburban lawns are therefore ideal, and magpies have become one of the most successful and familiar suburban species throughout Australia.10 Again, this is due to human actions influencing the availability of a key food.
The seed I place on my feeding table is not exactly what Australian Magpies regard as a key food group, but they come anyway. They do consume seed regularly, but it is not their main reason for visiting. To gain the attention of birds like magpies, quite a different diet is required. So periodically my bird table is scattered with a variety of foods most people would be astonished, if not horrified, to see on a feeder: meat. If you seek such a fish, however, you need the right bait—and for a big carnivore such as a magpie, the most successful lures are distinctly nonvegetarian. Magpies will eat almost anything, but typical feeder items are ground beef (minced beef), sausage, salami, and canned or dry dog food, as well as meaty leftovers from the family’s last meal.11 Of course, none of these are in any way “natural,” and many feeders are legitimately concerned about whether such foods may be suitable or harmful (this topic is explored in Chapter 6). What would be far more appropriate would be real live worms and grubs, but a ready supply of these would be difficult to obtain. Instead, I try to provide that standard live insect food, mealworms, whenever possible. Mostly, though, it’s raw mince or dog food.
The magpies visit my bird table only after the lorikeets have left. Usually, they wait quietly in a nearby tree, flying over quickly should they see that meat is present (the lorikeets having ignored this, of course, but strange things can happen . . . see Chapter 9). Because magpies are strictly and permanently territorial, I know that these birds are the same individuals each time. The male, distinguished by the clear, clean white-and-black nape, always arrives first, his mate soon after, but only if there are no other birds of any species anywhere nearby. The female (her neck color graduating from white to black) is far more reticent than her mate, and spends most of her time at the table scanning for trouble. In contrast, the male magpie is exceptionally trusting (I am avoiding saying “tame”), often continuing to feed when I carefully and slowly approach. And just occasionally, he will approach me, especially if I hold a piece of meat or cheese (or he thinks I do). Interacting with a wild creature such as this, often accompanied by a gentle caroling, can be genuinely moving. Who could resist that bright quizzical eye, the slanted head, the deft plucking of the morsel from my fingers? I didn’t train him, but I suspect this bird knows all about training me. He gets his treat, but for me, it’s a treasured experience.
As the magpie skips away a little to consume the item, I—again— consider some of the many elements to this minor interaction between human and wild bird. The sheer possibility of hand-feeding a wild animal is the end point of a long and complex series of manipulations of natural situations. Even if we ignore the landscape-scale changes associated with urbanization (loss of habitat, replacement of the original vegetation with plants selected for nonecological reasons), the species of wildlife now living among us in urban environments are very likely to share several important characteristics. These will include fundamentals such as overcoming their natural fear of people, a tolerance of human disturbances, and a willingness to try new things.12 Shy, easily disturbed, risk-averse species are unlikely to do well in human-dominated environments. Bold, assertive, inquisitive, risk-taking animals, in contrast, are much more likely to be the ones making it in towns and cities. While there are plenty of obvious exceptions, these are traits typical of the birds that visit our feeders. A far more extreme group make up the very few that are confident enough to take food from our hands.
And Then a Few Questions Come to Mind
Stepping back a little, simply visiting a feeder marks a decidedly “unnatural” behavior for most birds. Whatever structure we use—horizontal platform, vertical tube, covered hanging bird house, ceramic bell, elaborate squirrel-proof multientrance “avian apartment tower”—it will not be anything like what our birds will have encountered during their entire evolutionary history. Yet somewhere, some bird sometime had to over-come its strong and sensible fear of a new thing in its world before it landed, and its companions and descendants were able to follow suit and reap the benefits. Even more fundamentally, these pioneering birds had to recognize that the items being offered were actually food. It is worth remembering that most of the food routinely provided on feeders throughout the world is not a traditional part of the diet of the species consuming it. While the birds obviously love certain types of feeder foods (think black sunflowers, suet, even bread), can we be certain that these items are nutri-tionally suitable or even harmless? Just because a food type attracts plenty of takers, does that mean it should be used?
If I wander down this particular route in my considerations (the magpies have withdrawn because a crow has arrived), it’s hard to escape the most fundamental of all these questions: Should I be feeding wild birds at all? This is a question rarely heard in many parts of the world but is almost unavoidable in Australia where opponents of feeding are ubiquitous and vocal. Everyone—feeders included—knows the standard arguments: feeding leads to dependence; it spreads disease; it increases aggression;
it leads to poor nutrition; it disrupts movements (and probably causes global warming as well). These potentially negative impacts are acknowledged around the world, but they are definitely the dominant narrative in Australia. Any possible benefits are typically dismissed or be-littled, if mentioned at all.13 As a result, the practice of wild bird feeding here is much more private, a discreet activity rarely acknowledged or discussed. The antifeeding stance of almost all bird and conservation organizations also means that Australian feeders find it difficult to obtain advice or hints on how best to feed. We all know that the answer to “How?” will be “Don’t!”
The attitude almost everywhere else in the world could hardly be more different. As evidenced by the public statements made by most of the major bird and conservation groups of the Northern Hemisphere, it is the apparent benefits of feeding that are clearly prominent if not self-evident. Again, the reasoning will be fairly familiar: feeding assists birds through the winter, enhances breeding and survival, supports many species of conservation concern, and engenders interest in environmental issues.14 There are many more benefits named along similar lines. My guess, however, would be that the majority of people engaged in wild bird feeding (outside Australia, at least) have relatively little exposure to the various arguments and debates concerning feeding. Perhaps these are all a bit academic and remote. After all, feeders are participants in a very popular pastime that seems to have a clear message (simply put): “If you care about birds, feed them!” Furthermore, advice, hints, tips, and commandments are everywhere, all promoting feeding and advocating ever more associated hardware, squirrel guards, species-specific seed mixes and opportunities to share your experiences and even contribute to scientific understanding.15 No wonder the feeding industry in Europe and North America continues to expand. A largely private activity has become a very big business on the strength of personal experiences and community participation. “Feeding is popular with the people; it must be good for the birds” seems to be the reasoning.16