Prueeedinys. 93 



she does with us in the winter. But all depends on the 

 irrigation, as we have said. 



The Botanical Gardens are a delightful place of resort at 

 Oratava. They are supported nominally by the Spanish 

 Government, and though with pay sadly in arrears, are 

 admirably kept up by the manager, a German. Plants and 

 trees from afar— from the North and the South, and from the 

 Tropics as far as possible— are here naturaUzed. Australian 

 and New Zealand Palms figure largely ; the Bamboo, 

 Papyrus, Guava, Coflfee, all interesting, are there, and many 

 strange unfamiliar forms, bounded with Myrtle hedges, blend 

 with fragrant and lovely creepers and brilliant-blossomed 

 shrubs. It is Kew in the open an-— and such delicious air— 

 with the solemn peak, and the circHng rocks, looking down 

 upon all. And yet another attraction have these gardens, 

 they are a Paradise of birds ! Outside the Paradise I had 

 been again disappointed. My dreams had failed of fulfilment, 

 and even iuside the enchanted enclosure, it was dear old 

 friends who greeted me more than new ones. With one 

 exception ; for the first time I heard and saw a real wild 

 native Canary. A Canary who had never known a cage. 

 But he was very different from what I had expected. There 

 was no gleam of gold through the branches; it was only a 

 small plain bird of dark olive green, whose little throat was 

 pouring out the song, utterly unmistakable, so often heard at 

 home. It seems remarkable that while man, alchemist-like, 

 has transmuted the sober plumage into gold. Nature still 

 holds fast to her original idea, and refuses to re-make the 

 melody. But the Canary is by no means a solitary performer. 

 There may be one or two of his own race, but the concert is 

 mainly composed of old familiar voices which we have loved 

 (some of us) all our lives. I never heard so many Blackcaps 

 singing together, hardly so many Blackbirds, while Chaf- 

 finches and Chiffchaffs fill up the pauses ; it is a feast of song 

 indeed, repeated day by day. And one very pretty sight is 

 that of a mother Blackcap sitting on her nest in a Mimosa 

 tree, while the black head of her mate is visible on an 

 adjoining branch as he sits there and sings his sweetest. The 



