THE HOME-LIFE OF THE 

 SPOONBILL. 



It was about the middle of June, 1909, that we found 

 ourselves rowing through the endless channels and 

 innumerable lagoons of a great swamp in quest of 

 Spoonbills. Had we been left to our own devices we 

 might well have wandered through that marsh for days 

 in fruitless search for the breeding-ground, but with 

 old Jan Hoetmer as a guide we knew that we were going 

 as directly towards our goal as the meandering of the 

 waterways would permit. 



On the way we constantly passed small colonies of 

 Black Terns, the dainty little birds rising from their 

 small floating nests at our approach, and scolding us with 

 their shrill cries until the boat had left them far behind. 



At last it was obvious, from the number of birds 

 constantly sweeping overhead, that we were now in the 

 vicinity of the Spoonbills' nursery, but of its exact where- 

 abouts there was not the slightest indication. On every 

 hand the meres and channels were surrounded by the same 

 impenetrable wall of reeds, rising six feet or more above 

 the surface, and beyond or through which nothing could 

 be seen. It was found quite impossible to force the boat 

 through by any quicker or less laborious method than 

 that of cutting away those reeds immediately in its 

 course, and we had therefore to content ourselves by 

 following such more or less open water as could be found. 

 Gradually we thus worked our way into the great reed- 

 bed, peering through the forest of stems and craning our 

 necks to try to catch a glimpse of something white — 

 either nest or bird. Suddenly, with a rattle and a rush 

 of great wings, the colony rose thirty or forty yards 



