24 BOMBAY NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETY. 



These, by the way, are true mangroves, very different from the small- 

 leafed, greyish Avicennia of Bombay harbour. Their great stacks 

 of roots are hidden by the flood-tide, but the laurel-like leaf and 

 heavy scent of the flowers filling the air of the creek distinguish 

 them at once. 



There are lots of small birds flattering indistinguishable in the 

 trees, and on the outer boughs every here and there a blue kingfisher. 

 Our griffins prepare to make war upon these, talking about hats ; but 

 we disapprove of killing pretty little birds to put in hats, and check 

 them, observing that there is fitter game ahead, where the glasses 

 show a snake-bird, which looks almost white in the morning sun, the 

 sign of plumage in good condition. As the boat closes with him, he 

 rises and flies off before her ; the gunners grumble, and are told to 

 hold their tongues and wait a minute ; sure enough, about half 

 a mile ahead the bird turns and comes back almost over the 

 boat. A couple of men have already slipped into the dinghy astern 

 with a landing net, and as they hear the shot, slip the painter, 

 while the sail-trimmers jump to their feet and put the boat under 

 bare poles in an instant, and the stern grapnel goes overboard 

 with a splash. 



The bird is only winged, and the chase would be a long one, but 

 he has foolishly dived with the ebb tide and comes up near enough 

 to the boat for a second shot to catch him in the head and neck, 

 and in a minute more he is in the landing net, the grapnel coming 

 up and the sails coming down. The shot has put up a flock of teal 

 a mile ahead, which wheel about a little and then settle, as the 

 bowman observes, just where we got a couple two years ago, in 

 a back water behind a little island. As we come down outside, 

 we anchor, man the dinghy, and send a gunner ashore to stock 

 them there, and he gets a couple. Meanwhile Domingo has done 

 skinning the snake-bird, and the handsome scapular plumes are 

 pressed between two old cigar-box boards lashed with twine, the 

 rest going over board to be presently picked up by a brahminy- 

 kite that has been following us. He can hardly lift the carcase, 

 but at last manages to strand it on an island. 



Here the creek opens into a triangular lake, with sides of about 

 a mile each, and we fall in with a couple of fishing canoes, and 

 chuck a rupee into one of them. Thereupon the fisherman begins 

 to chuck mullet aboard us till it is clear that the supply exceeds the 

 demand, and we call out to '"vast heaving" It is getting near 



