GOLDFINCHES AT RYME INTRINSICA 221 



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 shadeless 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 the 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 " starlings " of the New World ; and tyrant-birds 

 of diver colours — olive-green, yellow, chestnut, black 

 and white and grey and many more ; doves, too, and 

 finches in great variety. The best of these were the 

 goldfinches, in close little flocks and in families, the 

 young birds clamouring for food and drink with 

 incessant shrill tremulous reedy cries. 



What a contrast between this dainty bright-coloured 



