Australia, New Zealand and some islands of the South seas

by Frank G. Carpenter

One of the most curious things about this bird is the size of its egg, which is almost as big as the kiwi itself. It is a creamy white colour and as smooth and as glossy as ivory.

Another New Zealand bird quite as strange as the kiwi is the kea parrot, which kills sheep. Thousands of sheep have been destroyed by these birds, the loss from them being so great that the government pays a bounty of one dollar a head. As many as fifteen thousand keas have been killed in a year, though they are no longer as numerous as formerly. The kea has fastidious tastes. It does not care for any part of the sheep except the kidneys and the fat surrounding them. It has become as expert in anatomy as a surgeon and has learned just where the sheep’s kidneys lie. I am told that it strikes the right spot every time. Fastening its talons into the wool on the animal’s back it bores with its bill into the side of the sheep directly over the kidneys, making a hole as smooth as though the flesh had been cut round with a knife. The kea tears out the kidneys and the fat, and then leaves the sheep to die in great agony.

There are different theories as to how keas acquired this strange taste. Until sheep were introduced into New Zealand the birds had lived on berries and insects. Then they began to pick the meat from the sheep skins hung up to dry. Later on they attacked the live sheep, and after a time, having discovered the kidneys, ignored every other part of the animal. Whether the birds talk to each other or not I do not know, but they hand on to one another as effectively as though they had a language their gruesome way of butchering sheep.

There is one place in the Dominion where the kea’s life is safe. This is at the Hermitage, on the sunny slopes of Mount Cook, where the government maintains a sanctuary, in order that this parrot may not become entirely extinct. The Hermitage is the starting place for those who try to scale New Zealand’s loftiest mountain, and some of the people who have stayed there bring back stories of the doings of the keas. They are great thieves, and one woman tells how her moccasins were stolen from the windowsill of her room. Others complain of being kept awake at night by the keas squawking and clawing up and down on the corrugated-iron roof of the hotel. If the birds get hold of a pillow they will tear it all to pieces, perhaps thinking that inside the soft substance they will find some of the kidney fat they love.

Kiwis and keas are, however, but a few of the freaks that Mother Nature has placed in this out-of-the-way part of the world. There are others so strange that I hesitate to mention them. In New Zealand there are no kangaroos, but there are marsupial rats here, and I saw at the college a mouse not much larger than a good-sized cricket with a pouch for bringing up its young. This mouse, which is one of the smallest marsupials known, is now very rare. It is a part of the biological collection of the college museum at Christchurch, and was shown me by the chief biologist. He showed me also a live lizard, the tuatera, which is a descendant of a family of three-eyed lizards. The third eye is in the middle of the head and, is clearly visible through the skin of the young animal, but becomes thickly covered when he reaches maturity. The scientists say there is little doubt that this eye was once used. The lizard I looked at was about a foot long, and, I should say, measured two inches in diameter.

But better than the mother mouse and the three-eyed lizard, I liked the black swans of New Zealand. They are to be seen in all parts of the islands, and one can shoot them anywhere around the lakes. They are even more beautiful than the white swans, and as they sail along in the water their feathers look just like black plush. Then there are the swamp hens which, with their bright blue bodies and red legs, look, as a woman who had been in the United States said to me the other day, “like your Mystic Shriners on parade.”

I must not forget to mention the strangest pet any country ever had. This was a dolphin, the only whale I ever heard of which had its own special act of Parliament. When passing through Pelorus Sound on the trip between Wellington on the North Island and Nelson on the South Island one always hears the story of “Pelorus Jack.” He was a big silvery gray fellow, different from all the other whales in these waters, and he had a habit of going out to meet incoming ships. He would escort them for miles and then go back to his own haunts. He would play about the vessels and even rub himself against their sides, and one theory was that he came to the boats so as to rub his back against their keels, and thus rid himself of parasites. Another was that he loved playing in the waves ruffled up by the ships.

The fame of “Pelorus Jack” spread until there were tourist trips into the Sound to see him and Parliament passed a law to protect him, for there was always a fear that some of the whalers in these waters might kill him. In fact, it was said that one ship injured him and that he would never meet that steamer again. But at last he disappeared. Some hold a party of Norwegian whalers responsible for his death, while others believe he was killed by one of the mines sowed by a German raider during the World War. Perhaps he merely died of old age, for the Maoris claim that he was not under two hundred and seventy-five years old. Once, it is said, he had a mate, but, if so, he never brought his wife out to greet the tourists.

New Zealand has some curiosities of vegetable life quite as remarkable as those of her animal world. One of the strangest is what is known as the vegetable caterpillar. This looks like a real caterpillar, two inches long, with a sprout, like a horn, growing out of its head. When it is full grown the sprout comes out and takes root and becomes a vigorous plant about eight inches tall, with a single stem, but no leaf. The only one I have seen was a plant that had been dried after being taken out of the ground.

I might also speak of New Zealand flax, which I have seen at many places on the islands. This flax, which grows wild and on swamp lands, has thick blades about two inches wide and five or six feet long. In the middle of the clustered blades grows the tall, straight flax stick with seed pods at the top. The upstanding New Zealand men are often called “flax sticks.” When the blades are harvested, at intervals of three years, the green covering is stripped from them, leaving the fibre exposed. This is washed, hung up to bleach, and then made into tow and cordage. It competes successfully with the hemp of Manila, and thousands of tons are exported every year. Of late years the flax fields have suffered from a small fly which makes holes in the leaves and so reduces the quantity of good fibre. Since it has been found that drained swamp lands make the richest dairy farms, it is a question whether it is best to drain them for cattle runs or leave them to produce flax.