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Today, on a grey misty spring morning, we went to McDermott Place, Lake
Ginninderra for a short walk. A melodic call carried from a stand of
eucalyptus at the water's edge.
"Pied Butcherbird!" Brat jnr. yelled.
"No ... wait," but Sami Jane was up and running. Caught up with her a
minute later. "It was on that dead branch but flew to the ground," she
reported. The next second it flew up to another dead branch and we stalked
forward focussing the binos.
" Pied, eh?" she said.
"No! Grey."
"P'raps the light's a bit poor for you."
"There's nothing wrong with the thumping light or me!"
"Grouch, grouch, grouch."
We searched in vain for Black-tailed Native-hens until Sam declared, "The
light's against us, and the native chickens are probably pied too, makes it all
the more difficult."
"Stop it, before I wallop you."
"What is it now, El Groucho?"
John Layton.
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