1 64 THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



a moment, with that clamour which a thousand kullum 

 can raise, they are up and away, gradually falling into the 

 figure of a V, each limb of which seems a mile or so in 

 length. 



Late as it is I must go on to the tank, for before starting 

 I magnificently told my " boy " to bring no bazaar to-day. 

 The tank is not far, and soon I hear mingled voices and 

 much quacking. Each kind of duck has its own notion 

 about tanks. Among the rushes of the far-reaching sheet 

 of shallow water, where countless teal and pintails revel, 

 you will not hear the whistle of the genteel little widgeon, 

 and where you shot the splendid spotted-billed duck in 

 January there will be only the gaudy vulgar shoveller in 

 March. This tank is just now the fashionable resort of the 

 gadwall and the pintail, and, as these are two of the com- 

 monest (and most savoury) duck in the country, it is in- 

 deed " a sight for sair een." On each side there is a bund 

 crowded with babul and dense bushes, so it is possible to 

 lie in ambush and get a quiet view of one of the most won- 

 derful scenes of busy life to be seen anywhere the duck 

 jostling one another for room, some swimming peacefully 

 in the deep water, but most in the shallow parts, reaching 

 down their beaks to the muddy bottom until nothing 



