- Nov 9, 2013
- 1,844
- 2,523
- 331
[We have data from many sources, but Felicity's story is perhaps unique: S.E. blundered into her world when she was just a chick; and she has been under observation almost all her life.]
We wriggled and cheeped in our eggs, and we could each feel and hear the wriggling and cheeping of our brothers and sisters in the darkness around us. Why, I don't know, but there's a moment at which you know it's time to peck your way out. When you get out, all wet, you are in the dark feathery space under Dad; and the Drama of Life starts right there.
You get your first view of the world when Dad stands up to check on you: brothers and sisters and broken eggs around you; and Dad so tall above you; and the trees thrashing in the rain and wind all around the nest.
It was strange in the last minutes before we left the nest. It was late afternoon, and raining hard, and Dad and the rest of us -- six brothers and sisters and I -- stood looking at the the two eggs that weren't wriggling and cheeping. We were all cold and hungry and thirsty; but they were our brothers and sisters not-wriggling and not-cheeping in their shells, so we didn't want to leave them.
But we did leave them, and began struggling through the gum litter to water, where we drank, then just a little way back into the trees, where we all got in under Dad, where it was warm and dry.
We were attacked on the second night by two foxes. One came at Dad from the front, and he jumped up and lashed out at it, hitting it and hurting it -- but the second fox grabbed my brother, dragging him away from us as we cheeped and cheeped in panic. That fox killed my brother and ate him.
We moved from the spot at first light.
Sometimes, though, life was safe and fun. Dad would take us to water to drink, and he would guard us as we played in the warm shallows, rolling about in the mud. Then we would all sit in the sun and preen and scratch, then lie down to rest -- sometimes even rolling over on our sides, so the sun could warm our bellies. We loved the spring sunshine.
I remember the day that we first visited the old orchard -- only three of us by then. Four of my brothers and sisters had already died. It was a fine late-spring morning, sunny and clear; and we were moving in single file behind Dad through the gums when we came out in a big clearing. Dad lead us straight to the early-plum tree, under which I found almost the first plentiful Yummy food I had ever eaten. We had always had plenty of grass and flowers and seeds; but the plums were big, and you could toss them down your throat one after another. We got almost all those plums because Dad was an alpha bird, who would attack and drive off almost any birds that approached us.
Best of all was Non-Emu. We were scared of him at first, but he gave us yummy things. Every day. For a long time. So now we don't worry about him -- he's just Non-Emu. But Greedy and Number One and I were always wary of the backyard. We sometimes wanted to get back to Dad, but the fence was in the way, and we would cheep cheep cheep until Non-Emu guided us out.
I recall Non-Emu taking us for long walks when we were about one: out the front gate; turn east; walk through the bush all the way down to the river. Out the front gate; turn west; all the way over to the big reed swamp. Our 'map of the world' was getting bigger and bigger.
Soon though, I was big enough to want to go even further. I left the clearing when I was two, and followed the wild birds across the bitumen into the Big Green: thousands and thousands of acres of unfenced land where emus can roam and roam and roam.
There I learned to fight with other females. We females have to find and fight for an area of good food and water, where we can breed and lay, where our consort can safely hatch. Before that, though, we spend weeks and weeks 'interviewing' males: are they big? glossy with health? will they help me fight if necessary?
I recall one afternoon, when I was looking for a consort south of the Old Oudman place, I lost a fight with a powerful female from Stinky Creek. I challenged her when she vocalised at me. I come from a family of powerful birds, and never back down from a fight. My Dad is a double-alpha bird, and so is my horrible bully sister Greedy. Our family has ruled the orchard-clearing for a long time.
(Greedy's gone now -- probably dead. But I don't care!! I spent three years of my life standing in the gum trees on the edge of the clearing, hoping to fight my way to the control of my home-turf. Finally, when I was four, I beat her. She left the following spring, and the clearing is now mine. Che sera!)
Well, the Stinky Creek female and I lowered our heads, flared our chest feathers, threatened each other with our eyes, then charged. But I lost that fight, withdrawing with a puncture-wound right in the middle of my chest, and blood streaming all over my feathers.
So I went home.
Non-Emu was there. He gave me Extra Wheat and dried fruit for weeks. I relaxed in the sunshine, and healed, and grew strong again. When I left home the next time, I was away for seven months, this time with birds from the north east. We travelled in a flock of nearly thirty birds, and grazed in yellow sunshine in great paddocks of yellow wheat, crossing the fences at different places at different times.
Each and every night, everyone would choose a different place in the gums, and roost. Nights are beautiful, with stars peeping through the canopy, and the sounds of night birds -- birds that can fly, roosting high off the ground -- all around you. Even so, there is always still danger. You can't just sleep all night. You must always be vigilant.
However, even though I loved roaming with the wild birds, I wanted to come home. I wanted to come home to mate and lay.
Eventually -- the year after Greedy left -- I chose Noddy Big Ears Emu to incubate my eggs, and I did go home. Other females had bred when they were much younger, but I was always pushed out by Greedy.
All went well that autumn. I was Queen of the orchard-clearing! No other female could displace me, though I had confrontations every day; and Noddy and I had control of the fig tree all through the season, doing big green fig-poohs, and building up fat for winter: no fat; no chicks; no species . . .
By the time the shimmering-black-winged crows were flying off with the last figs, the autumn rains had begun. Yellow and russet leaves were falling from the fruit trees, and grass was springing up, green and lush, all around Noddy and I. The threat of death by starvation -- for that season at least -- was at an end. Then we mated, and I laid: seven little Future Felicities.
The laying is the end of the really hard work for me, for the females; but winter is still hard. I recall one time it rained for six days. As Noddy approached the end of his vigil that winter, we had big storms. You try to sleep, with your head laid back, as the trees all around you thrash and groan in the streaming-wet darkness, and two or three times the ground shakes as a tree comes down. And all the while your body is burning that store of fat, laid up all through autumn, to keep you warm.
And that's my story. Of the nine eggs my mum laid, only two of the chicks that hatched survived -- Number One and I.
My Dad is dead; and I don't know how many of Noddy's chicks lived -- I haven't seen him since the hatch. But the autumn sun is warm today, and the nights aren't cold yet. I 'interviewed' another male this afternoon; and if he turns out to be satisfactory, I will lead him out of the Big Green, all the way across Oudman's block, across the bitumen, and down the long straight track to the clearing, to the orchard-clearing, where I expect to be queen again.
And I'll do that every season until misfortune brings me down. Then my bones will slowly return to the soil, and maybe grown-up Felicities will walk in the sunshine past those bones on the ground, and never know that their DNA came from them, that my name was Felicity Emu.
We wriggled and cheeped in our eggs, and we could each feel and hear the wriggling and cheeping of our brothers and sisters in the darkness around us. Why, I don't know, but there's a moment at which you know it's time to peck your way out. When you get out, all wet, you are in the dark feathery space under Dad; and the Drama of Life starts right there.
You get your first view of the world when Dad stands up to check on you: brothers and sisters and broken eggs around you; and Dad so tall above you; and the trees thrashing in the rain and wind all around the nest.
It was strange in the last minutes before we left the nest. It was late afternoon, and raining hard, and Dad and the rest of us -- six brothers and sisters and I -- stood looking at the the two eggs that weren't wriggling and cheeping. We were all cold and hungry and thirsty; but they were our brothers and sisters not-wriggling and not-cheeping in their shells, so we didn't want to leave them.
But we did leave them, and began struggling through the gum litter to water, where we drank, then just a little way back into the trees, where we all got in under Dad, where it was warm and dry.
We were attacked on the second night by two foxes. One came at Dad from the front, and he jumped up and lashed out at it, hitting it and hurting it -- but the second fox grabbed my brother, dragging him away from us as we cheeped and cheeped in panic. That fox killed my brother and ate him.
We moved from the spot at first light.
Sometimes, though, life was safe and fun. Dad would take us to water to drink, and he would guard us as we played in the warm shallows, rolling about in the mud. Then we would all sit in the sun and preen and scratch, then lie down to rest -- sometimes even rolling over on our sides, so the sun could warm our bellies. We loved the spring sunshine.
I remember the day that we first visited the old orchard -- only three of us by then. Four of my brothers and sisters had already died. It was a fine late-spring morning, sunny and clear; and we were moving in single file behind Dad through the gums when we came out in a big clearing. Dad lead us straight to the early-plum tree, under which I found almost the first plentiful Yummy food I had ever eaten. We had always had plenty of grass and flowers and seeds; but the plums were big, and you could toss them down your throat one after another. We got almost all those plums because Dad was an alpha bird, who would attack and drive off almost any birds that approached us.
Best of all was Non-Emu. We were scared of him at first, but he gave us yummy things. Every day. For a long time. So now we don't worry about him -- he's just Non-Emu. But Greedy and Number One and I were always wary of the backyard. We sometimes wanted to get back to Dad, but the fence was in the way, and we would cheep cheep cheep until Non-Emu guided us out.
I recall Non-Emu taking us for long walks when we were about one: out the front gate; turn east; walk through the bush all the way down to the river. Out the front gate; turn west; all the way over to the big reed swamp. Our 'map of the world' was getting bigger and bigger.
Soon though, I was big enough to want to go even further. I left the clearing when I was two, and followed the wild birds across the bitumen into the Big Green: thousands and thousands of acres of unfenced land where emus can roam and roam and roam.
There I learned to fight with other females. We females have to find and fight for an area of good food and water, where we can breed and lay, where our consort can safely hatch. Before that, though, we spend weeks and weeks 'interviewing' males: are they big? glossy with health? will they help me fight if necessary?
I recall one afternoon, when I was looking for a consort south of the Old Oudman place, I lost a fight with a powerful female from Stinky Creek. I challenged her when she vocalised at me. I come from a family of powerful birds, and never back down from a fight. My Dad is a double-alpha bird, and so is my horrible bully sister Greedy. Our family has ruled the orchard-clearing for a long time.
(Greedy's gone now -- probably dead. But I don't care!! I spent three years of my life standing in the gum trees on the edge of the clearing, hoping to fight my way to the control of my home-turf. Finally, when I was four, I beat her. She left the following spring, and the clearing is now mine. Che sera!)
Well, the Stinky Creek female and I lowered our heads, flared our chest feathers, threatened each other with our eyes, then charged. But I lost that fight, withdrawing with a puncture-wound right in the middle of my chest, and blood streaming all over my feathers.
So I went home.
Non-Emu was there. He gave me Extra Wheat and dried fruit for weeks. I relaxed in the sunshine, and healed, and grew strong again. When I left home the next time, I was away for seven months, this time with birds from the north east. We travelled in a flock of nearly thirty birds, and grazed in yellow sunshine in great paddocks of yellow wheat, crossing the fences at different places at different times.
Each and every night, everyone would choose a different place in the gums, and roost. Nights are beautiful, with stars peeping through the canopy, and the sounds of night birds -- birds that can fly, roosting high off the ground -- all around you. Even so, there is always still danger. You can't just sleep all night. You must always be vigilant.
However, even though I loved roaming with the wild birds, I wanted to come home. I wanted to come home to mate and lay.
Eventually -- the year after Greedy left -- I chose Noddy Big Ears Emu to incubate my eggs, and I did go home. Other females had bred when they were much younger, but I was always pushed out by Greedy.
All went well that autumn. I was Queen of the orchard-clearing! No other female could displace me, though I had confrontations every day; and Noddy and I had control of the fig tree all through the season, doing big green fig-poohs, and building up fat for winter: no fat; no chicks; no species . . .
By the time the shimmering-black-winged crows were flying off with the last figs, the autumn rains had begun. Yellow and russet leaves were falling from the fruit trees, and grass was springing up, green and lush, all around Noddy and I. The threat of death by starvation -- for that season at least -- was at an end. Then we mated, and I laid: seven little Future Felicities.
The laying is the end of the really hard work for me, for the females; but winter is still hard. I recall one time it rained for six days. As Noddy approached the end of his vigil that winter, we had big storms. You try to sleep, with your head laid back, as the trees all around you thrash and groan in the streaming-wet darkness, and two or three times the ground shakes as a tree comes down. And all the while your body is burning that store of fat, laid up all through autumn, to keep you warm.
And that's my story. Of the nine eggs my mum laid, only two of the chicks that hatched survived -- Number One and I.
My Dad is dead; and I don't know how many of Noddy's chicks lived -- I haven't seen him since the hatch. But the autumn sun is warm today, and the nights aren't cold yet. I 'interviewed' another male this afternoon; and if he turns out to be satisfactory, I will lead him out of the Big Green, all the way across Oudman's block, across the bitumen, and down the long straight track to the clearing, to the orchard-clearing, where I expect to be queen again.
And I'll do that every season until misfortune brings me down. Then my bones will slowly return to the soil, and maybe grown-up Felicities will walk in the sunshine past those bones on the ground, and never know that their DNA came from them, that my name was Felicity Emu.
Last edited:
