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  THE UNBURNT EGG

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brian Gill was curator of birds and other land

  vertebrates at Auckland War Memorial Museum for

  over thirty years. He is the author and co-author of

  many acclaimed books on natural history and has

  written for New Zealand Geographic and Forest and

  Bird. He studied zoology at Massey and Canterbury

  Universities in New Zealand and held a research

  fellowship at the University of Queensland in

  Brisbane, Australia.

  ALSO BY BRIAN GILL

  The Owl that Fell from the Sky:

  Stories of a museum curator

  Checklist of the Birds of New Zealand, Norfolk and

  Macquarie Islands, and the Ross Dependency, Antarctica

  with Ornithological Society Checklist Committee

  The Kiwi and Other Flightless Birds

  New Zealand's Unique Birds

  with photographs by Geoff Moon

  New Zealand Frogs and Reptiles

  with Tony Whitaker

  New Zealand's Extinct Birds

  with paintings by Paul Martinson

  Collins Handguide to the Frogs and

  Reptiles of New Zealand

  First edition published in 2016 by Awa Press, Unit 1, Level 3, 11 Vivian Street, Wellington 6011, New Zealand.

  ISBN 978-1-927249-29-1

  Ebook formats

  Epub 978-1-927249-30-7

  Mobi 978-1-927249-31-4

  Copyright © Brian Gill 2016

  The right of Brian Gill to be identified as the author of this work in terms of Section 96 of the Copyright Act 1994 is hereby asserted.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

  International readers may notice that Māori nouns in this book are not pluralised. As there is no “s” in the Māori language, this is now considered correct linguistic practice.

  Cover image: The more damaged of the two moa eggs from Tokerau Beach. Auckland Museum LB4005; photograph by Jason Froggatt.

  Inside cover: Plate from “New species of nudibranchiate Mollusca from Auckland waters” by A.W.B. Powell: in Records of the Auckland Institute and Museum 2(2), 1937.

  Design by pietabrenton.com

  Typesetting by Tina Delceg

  Ebook conversion 2018 by meBooks

  To find out more about Awa Press books and authors, visit

  awapress.com

  Published with the support of

  Contents

  Introduction

  A hapless king penguin

  Secrets of the shining cuckoo

  The unburnt egg

  The man who imagined the moa

  Flight of the long-tailed cuckoo

  Booby eggs and a solar eclipse

  Song of the huia

  Seals in sand dunes

  Ship rats of Big South Cape Island

  Charles McCann's giant flying frogs

  Seeking Pacific skinks

  Rarotonga revisited

  Baden Powell's sea-slug paintings

  Fur, feathers and frogs' legs

  Further reflections

  Illustrations

  Registration numbers

  Further reading

  Other sources

  Acknowledgements

  Index

  From the sea, Auckland—”loneliest, loveliest and last”—looks like the background of an Italian painting.

  A hundred little green conical hills are dotted in the middle distance against a background of mountains. ... On one of the highest of the little hills above the town stands a noble building in the Greek style, a modern Parthenon, looking out across the bay ... a thing of beauty, white against the blue sky.

  F.D. OMMANNEY

  South Latitude (1938)

  Nothing will ever replace the taxonomic knowledge and training that museums provide; funding in this area should become a national priority. Otherwise, knowledge of this planet's biodiversity, and of all the potential benefits therein, will be lost.

  A.V. SUAREZ & N.D. TSUTSUI

  BioScience 54 (2004)

  Introduction

  The stridulations were deafening from the massed cicadas in the trees. I was sweating uncomfortably in my borrowed suit and tie, struggling uphill in the early autumn humidity through the urban bush of the Auckland Domain. I was an outsider—up from south of the Bombay Hills. On the tourist map the museum looked quite close to Queen Street, but the map failed to show the deep gully that intervened. I was lost. A council gardener, removing weeds from the edge of a bush track, pointed me further uphill. Then there came open ground, and I saw it in the distance at the top of the rise: a large magnificent stone building gleaming white in the sunlight and fronted by monumental columns. A palace or temple? A fortress? A prison? I didn't know it then, but to me it was to become all those things for thirty years.

  The job interview was in the director's dimly lit workroom. The director, another staff member and two of the museum's governing council sat opposite me across the large work table. They seemed pleased that I had some experience of research on frogs and lizards as well as birds, as the position was to cover curatorship of all the land vertebrates. One of the councillors asked me what I would say to a farmer who rang to complain about magpies. This threw me a bit as I rather like magpies and wish them no harm, but whatever I said must have been satisfactory. A big and a small thing followed: I got the job and—the deception useful when I had needed it most—I almost never wore a suit and tie again.

  Three decades in the job amounted to a brilliant vocation. It was a privilege—and a challenge—to be responsible for managing a public collection of 20,000 natural history specimens. Since the collection had built up during more than a century, it included items of intense historical interest as well as scientific importance. I had precious opportunities to conduct research in my fields of interest, especially on the life history of New Zealand cuckoos and songbirds and on the palaeontology of extinct New Zealand birds. I was able to publish my work and was often supported by the museum to attend scientific conferences to present results and hear of the work of others.

  Focussing on the needs of the public was satisfying and enjoyable. It included contributing to exhibitions and public events, answering endless public enquiries, and providing access to specimens in the land vertebrates collection for visiting postgraduate students, professional researchers and artists. It was a varied job, and a pleasure to have such a varied group of colleagues—marine biologists, botanists, entomologists, historians, archaeologists and ethnologists, librarians, display artists, security staff, teachers and volunteers, all working under one roof. Then there was the stunning museum building as my place of work and its glorious hilltop location in the midst of a beautiful park.

  Biology had thoroughly gripped me at Massey University in the 1970s when I did a degree in zoology. The huge grey science blocks, designed and built by the Ministry of Works, were monumental. There was awe in the number and size of the laboratories stocked with fascinating and futuristic equipment. The dozens of white-coated science lecturers were so knowledgeable in their specialised fields. There was a sense that this was part of the cutting edge where new knowledge was being ferreted out for a greater glory. There was probing and dissection, and the detached, analytical
scientific approach. Despite this—and also because of it—the wonder shone through of life's incredible mechanisms and processes, and of living things themselves in all their complex adaptations and riotous diversity.

  I came to understand much later that this touches on a point that Charles Darwin made at the close of On the Origin of Species, published in 1859. In the book he cast doubt on the prevailing comfortable dogma of a special divine creation, and advanced instead the seemingly grim and desolate idea that lineages of living organisms could change spontaneously and permanently, driven by a brutish “struggle for existence”. This was one of the greatest insights of the human mind. Darwin felt that bleak thoughts were not warranted, and he stated that “there is grandeur in this view of life ... whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved.”

  For much of its history, Auckland Museum's funding levels seem to have been relentlessly poor by today's standards. In the 1930s, for example, newly acquired moa bones were given storage labels written out on the backs of surplus admission cards printed for the museum's public lectures: new blank labels were presumably too great an expense.

  When I started in 1982, the large storeroom for land vertebrates was dimly lit by a dozen incandescent bulbs hanging at the ends of cables emerging from the high ceilings. Calico curtains on the large windows were stained and perishing. Many of the mounted birds were stored in rather ghastly cabinets that the museum carpenter had converted from display cases salvaged from the Princes Street museum building, which had closed in 1929. The glass fronts of these recycled cabinets were painted out with pale green or beige. Outside my office was a storage cabinet with a pair of fairly presentable painted wooden doors, but when you opened the doors the interior consisted of a stack of wooden kerosene boxes laid sideways so that each formed an open compartment. Every time you pulled out some of the cotton wool stored there it caught on wooden splinters.

  The large extension to the museum's 1929 building, completed in 1960, had been finished as a shell. When the collecting departments occupied these new back-of-house areas, the curators themselves had to paint the walls and ceilings of the offices and storerooms using whatever paint could be bought on sale. This accounted for the colour scheme of battleship grey on some walls and ceilings and a sort of orange-pink on others. In the decade before my appointment stronger finances had been set up, a situation from which I benefited, but it was 1991 before we emptied the entire natural history floor and it was properly fitted out with decent offices and collection stores.

  My early years had a certain excitement as I struggled to understand the collection I was responsible for, and ascertain what rightly belonged to it from among potential items in scattered locations. I was concerned to get every last object indelibly numbered and properly registered and catalogued so the specimens and their background information were safely linked.

  There was a period when staff passed me boxes of things they thought were “mine”, or drew my attention to objects in hidden places. One day the maintenance man showed me a stuffed zebra in a storeroom off the ladies' toilet below ground level near the museum's public entrance. I worked out it had been received in 1907 from the London taxidermy firm of Edward Gerrard & Sons and originally mounted in a group with three kinds of African antelopes. The group had been one of four purchased with funds from the bequest of an Auckland solicitor and local politician, Edmund Mackechnie, who died in 1901. When I first saw the zebra one of its ears was missing; a replacement ear was fabricated in 2002 when we had a taxidermist on the staff.

  Another project was climbing a ladder to a very dirty area above a storeroom for ethnographic carvings and retrieving dozens of mounted trophy heads of deer and other animals. I had to wipe away dust and search each head carefully for labels or inscribed numbers that would be the key to unlocking their background.

  Another time I was called to a hidden and disused staircase—a space currently occupied by a kauri tree exhibit in the Land Gallery. The staircase had once served the back of the 1929 building and had lovely ornamental metal banisters with wooden handrails. Up and down the stairs that connected three floors there were abandoned display props and pieces of broken furniture. My task was to examine a big board on which was mounted a large python skeleton with broad sinuous curves. There was no skull and half the other bones were missing or now lay in an untidy heap on the floor below. I salvaged a selection of ribs and vertebrae, cleaned them, and reunited them with a large python skull and mandibles in the main collection that seemed to be from the same animal. I later realised that this snake skeleton, received on exchange in 1878 from the Muséum national d'Histoire naturelle, Paris, is one of the oldest surviving specimens in Auckland Museum's reptile collection.

  In the land vertebrates department I was surrounded every day by animal specimens and the implements and equipment needed to prepare and study them. I became habituated to things that to most outsiders seemed odd and quirky. One departmental curiosity was Gilbert Archey's osteometric board. Archey had been director of the museum from 1924 to 1964. His paper The Moa—A Study of the Dinornithiformes, published in 1941, was the museum's first scholarly “bulletin” and it had won him a doctorate of science from the University of New Zealand.

  The publication has a diagram of the device Archey used to measure the dimensions of moa leg bones, and because the instrument in the department is similar, and old, I assume it was his. It comprises a plank of wood more than a metre long. Moa bones are large—the tibiotarsus (the bone in the chicken's drumstick) of the tallest moa was probably the longest bird bone ever. A wooden ruler—marked, fortunately, in centimetres as well as inches—is recessed flush along the length of the device. Lined up exactly at the zero end of the ruler is a wooden stop, resembling a bookend, against which you can place one end of the bone to be measured. An opposing “bookend” is mounted on a strip of wood that runs freely the length of the device in a slot. You bring this moving stop against the other end of the bone and the bone's length can be read off where the moving stop crosses the ruler. It is a perfect instrument for measuring long items to the nearest millimetre or two and I used it regularly.

  Another prominent item was LM131, an articulated human skeleton mounted upright in a standing position. Too tall for a cupboard, the skeleton stood on the sidelines in the collection storeroom. The museum had received it in 1883 by exchange from Henry Ward of Rochester, New York, who ran a biological supply company; the company still operates as a supplier of biological specimens to institutions worldwide for teaching and display. I often used the skeleton to confirm or rule out that a particular unidentified bone was human. Having the bones assembled in their correct positions is a great help for naming the bones and determining (for paired bones) whether they are from the left or right side. Being able to touch real bones is important because the look and feel of the surface texture helps to identify fragments.

  Besides its use as a reference specimen, LM131 is historically important as an example of Victorian techniques of articulation. Whereas the small bones on more modern skeletons are often glued together, the bones on LM131 are finely drilled, where necessary, and held together by wires and metal pins and bolts. It's a beautiful object. The octagonal wooden base is painted black, and from its centre arises a strong metal rod (with an ornamented attachment ring) that passes between the legs and through the pelvis to support the spine.

  Around 1898, Thomas Cheeseman created the “Blue Book”, the museum's first register of vertebrate specimens. It's a large bound volume, “folio” in size at around 380 by 245 millimetres, with column headings for details of each specimen. The first specimen Cheeseman entered, the particulars in dark blue ink, was the human skeleton. Its number was therefore V1 (“V” for vertebrates) and this is still visible in original lettering on the base. (LM131 is its number in the current numbering system for the museum's mammal collec
tion.)

  The skeleton is short in stature, but it belonged to an adult because it has fully erupted wisdom teeth. Features of the pelvis suggest it is a male. In a letter to Ward dated December 4, 1882, Cheeseman had requested a “well-mounted human skeleton—adult and perfect, and if possible, a male”. He wanted it mounted in the way that was most suitable for museum purposes, and added, “I should prefer one of the North American Indians.” Ward had the skeleton despatched early in 1883; it was exchanged for kiwi eggs and skeletons.

  Victorian museums collected human bones, especially skulls, because there was scientific interest in the physical variability of humans. Big museums assembled large collections from around the world, including from all regions of Europe. Much contemporary research on variations of the human skull proved unreliable (and some was misguided), but the collections have supported later, sounder research, such as recent computer-assisted investigations of relationships between skull shape and geographic origin.

  People seldom got exactly what they asked for in the late nineteenth-century museum exchanges, and Cheeseman didn't get a native American skeleton. In the Blue Book column headed “Locality”, which Cheeseman always filled out, he wrote against the entry for V1: “Locality not known.” It was presumably a regular skeleton of the kind prepared for medical and teaching purposes. The museum's zoology staff have cared for LM131 for 130 years, treating it with respect. With its original mounting, long institutional history, and association with the famous American supplier, LM131 is an important artefact in the museum's rich history.

  In 1986 I asked at a curators' meeting whether we ought to have a new staff photograph. The director agreed and asked me to organise it. I turned to the Yellow Pages to find a suitable photographer, settled the details and put a memo in staff pigeonholes advising the date and time. On the day it was sunny, and everyone assembled on the museum's front steps. The photographer had checked the site and suggested we move down to the steps in front of the nearby cenotaph so the building would be a backdrop. When I received the proof photos I found they had come complete with a caption. Just above the heads of the back row of smiling staff members was the large inscription “The Glorious Dead” engraved upon the cenotaph. That was one staff photograph that never made it to the pages of the Annual Report.