GOLDFINCHES AT RYME INTRINSICA 223 



its complement of shining' pearly eggs — a beautiful sight 

 to a boy! 



Then another picture follows. We are now in the 

 burning days of November and December, the vast open 

 treeless plains as far as one can see parched to a rust- 

 brown, and cattle and horses and sheep in thousands to 

 be watered at tlie great well. I see the native boy on 

 his big horse drawing up the canvas bucket ; the man 

 by the well catching the hoop as it comes to the surface 

 and directing the stream of clear cold water into the 

 long wooden troughs. But the thing to see is the crowd 

 of beasts, the flocks and herds gathering before noon 

 at the accustomed spot, first seen coming in troops and 

 lines, walking, trotting, galloping from all that shade- 

 less illimitable expanse where the last liquid mud in 

 the dried pools has been sucked up. What a violent 

 crowd! What a struggling and what an uproar of 

 bellowings, whinnyings and multitudinous bleatings! 

 And what dreadful blows of horns and hoofs rained on 

 each other's tough hides! For they are all mad at the 

 sight and smell of water, and only a few at a time have 

 room to drink at the trough. 



But the crowding and fighting and drinking are now 

 ended ; even the sheep, the last to get to the water, have 

 had their fill and streamed away over tlie plain once 

 more, and the spilt water lying in pools at the side of 

 the long wooden troughs is visited by crowds on crowds 

 of little birds — small crested song-sparrows, glossy 

 purple cow-birds, with other-coloured troupials, the "star- 

 lings" of the New World; and tyrant-birds of divers 



