THE BIRDS AT THE TANK. 165 



appears above the water but a dense squadron of pointed 

 tails, the spoonbills trotting in solemn line, and moving 

 their heads from side to side, the shrill-toned greenshanks 

 mingled with stilts and sandpipers and godwits round the 

 margin, the ibises, the herons, grey and white, the pelican- 

 ibises, or " beefsteak birds," the storks, all engaged in a 

 general scramble for breakfast, with a Babel of gruntings 

 and snortings, quackings and croakings, screamings and 

 pipings, that would need for its description the vocabulary 

 of the poet who tells " how the waters came down at Lo- 

 dore." Away on the other side there is a mighty fleet of 

 snowy pelicans majestically sailing on the water, and many 

 more are basking on the bank. 



If all these were only birds, and not game, I could lie 

 and contemplate them by the hour. As the case stands 

 my pleasure at the sight is alloyed with a sense of incom- 

 pleteness or imperfection. While those duck are still on 

 the water, they seem to come short of their end, which 

 obviously includes some reference to my dinner to-night. 

 And how to bring that end nearer is a question with as 

 yet a very dim answer, for there is not a bird within range, 

 and if once I show my head above the bank, some wary 

 watchman will give a warning which all the rest will under- 



