56 BUSH DAYS 



Floating from end to end of the pond is a gorgeous carpet 

 of blossom water-lilies in every shade. The tall blue Aus- 

 tralian lilies bow stately heads to the little white English ones 

 which nestle down on the water; a clump of daintiest pink 

 gleams against olive leaves; brilliant crimsons flash against 

 the clear water, and bright yellow beauties shine like fairy 

 gold. And their names, too! Nymphaea aurora, Nymphaea 

 suavissima, Nymphaea gloria; even science grows poetic over 

 their beauty, while from the shelter of the papyrus which edges 

 the pond, a choir of reed-warblers pour forth their praise, in 

 a burst of song which fills the listening world with glory. 



But the beauties of the lakes are obvious, and for all to see. 

 It is amongst the rough grasses, which stretch between the 

 ponds and paths, that the rare treasures are found. Two little 

 dottrels, twinkling along the sand, lure towards the water's 

 edge, and as if by magic we are in another world. Chitwees 

 flit across our path, blue wrens and honey-eaters pass in the 

 low bushes, and a sudden " whir-r-r " makes us jump back a 

 pace as a swamp quail rises at our very feet. Before we can 

 recover from our astonishment, his mate whirrs off in the 

 opposite direction, and a tiny thing like a mouse runs into 

 cover. 



Baby quail ! It is almost impossible to believe our eyes. 

 We poke about the clump of grass with a stick, making enough 

 noise to frighten a dozen ordinary birdlets, but no sign or 

 sound. Then, kneeling low, with careful hands we slowly part 



