Tales from the garden

First were the wagtails
Bowing and bobbing
Frowning heads nodding
Before people
Ever came to the space
And called it a garden

Their tale comes first, then. A raffish tale, a lively tale

It starts with the long song in the night, pitched like ringing glass, serenading insomniacs and lunatics tossing in the leaf-lacy light.

Then on warming afternoons we hear them whistling persistently, sending a rising query at the end of each call. Who answers? Sometimes we do, for the pattern is easy and seductive. Uncle once said that he whistled back, too, over the way. I wondered then if we were echoing each other, with never a willy wagtail calling in between! That was ages ago, but the wagtail continues spruiking for a mate. And what mate could ever refuse the sweet bidding?

From the window we watch the inspection of real estate, for a nesting site must be carefully chosen. Under the perspex pergola no rain or wind could hinder the task, no prey birds swoop. With water in the bird bath close by and the warmth and light from the roof, what better place could there be than on a branch of the vine above the table?

The tiny cup takes shape. Scarcely a day or two and it is fixed on the branch, coated and refined with silver cobweb. We shift the table. Now let the sitter splatter the brick paving and not make unwelcome contributions to our al fresco eating!

Aloft in her snug she watches us sip our wine, raise the bread to our lips, pass the olives and endive. Then along comes her mate to take his turn, and she is off to sip and raise and nip mosquitoes among the leaves. On and off, down and up, turn and turn again, the wagtail sarabande weaves to the airs of Bach as they drift through the open window and twine around the terrace.

We show the nest to visiting children. "See the babies' heads popping up!" we cry. Children peer upwards, nod recognition and then run away. "Look, Emmie," I say, "Birdie!" Emmie in my arms cannot run anywhere. Her beady eyes look and look as she snuggles her seven-month-old body against my chest. Can she really see the scrawny little heads with their bushy white eyebrows? I wonder. Then she turns away her own bald dome and begins to squawk: time to move on.

Time and a half...the children are gone, the babies are out of the nest. Tremulous balls of fluff, they cling to the branch, while the parents urge and chirrup, darting from twig to twig to show them what to do. The fluffballs quiver and stay where they are. Wise little parents, they bring grubs and wait for another day.

Something must have happened. Now the babies are over the wall and down on the lawn. They must have edged along that elbow of vine until they could manage a soft landing. Did the parents give them a prod? They are certainly circling their offspring, awaiting their next wondrous achievement. Meanwhile Annie says on the phone that Emmie can nearly crawl.

Over the next few days the wind turns cooler, the babies grow livelier as they chase each other through the grass with barley rests on low branches. We watch from the kitchen window, glad to see other offspring and their games in our garden.

Then a series of mornings brings a bitter chill. Any creature would hunt for a warm spot, and these little birds, well, they find it by sitting among the plaster birds placed in the flowerpot of pink bougainvillea. Out comes the camera and we send the pictures to Rob and Siobhan. "That cheered us both," they reply, for Rob is grieving about challenging work to come, and Siobhan is grieving over her mother's death.

We have washed the bricks and the terrace is our dining room once more. The wagtails, successful with their first hatching, have now begun a second. Another clutch, another laying, another batch. And so the round begins again: your time now, and now yours, day in, day out, until we notice with concern that they no longer sit on the nest.

When I go out to sweep and wipe down the table for feeding guests at another lunch, I discover the reason. Little smashed eggs on the table and on the ground contain the partial remains of unborn chicks. The nest is empty. We can only presume that it was rats. The wagtails are nowhere to be seen.

Or yes, they are: they have found their way to the front of the house, and, just where the front vine curves up to the beams of the verandah, they are at it again, setting up the cup in record time. They have chosen a surprising place, for the spot is little more than head height, allowing a tall adult on tiptoe to peer right into their domain.

But humans don't seem to trouble them. When I stand close by with the hose in my hand, a parent bird follows my path silently, sipping the drips, without ever making the chittering call that is the wagtail warning. Or she or he watches me from the nest, less than a metre away from my face. And even our clamorous family gathering under the vines does not dislodge the sitter, who nests silently and watches the chattering humans unaware of her presence.

I have read that Aboriginal families have traditionally distrusted wagtails because they come so close and listen to every word that is said. It would be easy to think that their own chattering was betraying secret human confidences to other people. Walk away, if you want to tell a secret! Wagtails can pick it up and drop it into unintended ears!

Then two days later something happens that leaves us aghast. Cousin Jane has been to spend the day here making Christmas honey biscuits with her young family, Gracie, Cathy and Ruth. In between rolling out the dough and making stars, hearts and gingerbread men to hang on the tree, the little girls run outside to explore the garden. "What are those birds with white eyebrows and the long black tails that go from side to side?" Ruth asks. We explain about the wagtails. Off they rush once more.

A little later they return. Cathy's eyes are shining and she holds out her dark hands. "I climbed up and held one of the eggs in my hand," she says proudly. She sees us recoil. "It's all right," Ruth assures us. "She put it back."

"Well, dears," says Jane, "I'm glad you didn't break the egg, but it's really not a good idea to touch animal babies. The parents may not want to sit on the nest any more if they can smell humans on the eggs." And, indeed, the nest remains empty through the rest of that hot, hot afternoon. The wagtails are round and about, but not on their brood.

The little girls peer anxiously at the nest. "You know," said Jane, "I've often heard people observe that Aboriginal children really take notice of nature and animals, even when they don't live in the country. Mine certainly do." Cathy is sitting downcast on the garden seat. But, the nature of children being irrepressible, she finally jumps up and runs off to the swing. When it is time to hug and kiss goodbye and be strapped into car seats for the hot trip to the city, I think that the girls have forgotten altogether the incident of the egg.

Facebook status: Angela wants people to know that the willy wagtail eggs did hatch out, in spite of being cradled in a little girl's hands and then being put back into the nest. Phew!