A TROPIC GARDEN 233 



diles. A cackle arose, so shrill and sudden, that 

 it seemed to have been the cause of the shower of 

 drops from the palm-fronds; and then, on the 

 great leaves of the Regia, which defy simile, we 

 perceived the first feathered folk of this single 

 tropical glimpse — spur-winged jacanas, whose 

 rich rufus and cool lemon-yellow no dampness 

 could deaden. With them were gallinules and 

 small green herons, and across the pink mist of 

 lotos blossoms just beyond, three egrets drew 

 three lines of purest white — and vanished. It 

 was not at all real, this onrush of bird and blos- 

 som revealed by the temporary erasing of the 

 driven lines of gray rain. 



Like a spendthrift in the midst of a winning 

 game, I still watched eagerly and ungratefully 

 for manatees. Kiskadees splashed rather than 

 iSew through the drenched air, an invisible black 

 witch bubbled somewhere to herself, and a wren 

 Sang three notes and a trill which died out in a 

 liquid gurgle. Then came another crocodile, and 

 finally the manatees. Not only did they rise and 

 splash and roll and indolently flick themselves 

 with their great flippers, but they stood upright 

 on their tails, like Alice's carpenter's companion, 

 and one fondled its young as a water-mamma 



