WATER-FOWL IN LONDON 



ONE of the most delightful water pieces in the world is 

 the pond that receives the overflow from the Serpen- 

 tine. At the far end, as we look up the water, the 

 overflow drips or dashes down dark, moss-covered 

 rocks, that gleam with the cool moisture among 

 bamboos and other growth, meeting high over an 

 alley of water that broadens to the main pool at 

 our feet. The sun shines through a gracious rift in 

 the fog, bringing up the velvet of the grass lawns, 

 and the precocious pale green noses of the butter- 

 burr and other foliage of next year's spring. A 

 gorgeous mallard, in the full glory of his new plum- 

 age, is sailing to and fro, a fleet in himself, to 

 maintain the mastery of his little sea. On the bank 

 nearest us a duck quacks angrily at him, using all 

 the bad words in her vocabulary to let him know 

 what she thinks of him. A second, more favoured 

 duck quietly explores the recesses of the finest 

 nesting-site in London. 



The drake endures the termagant on the bank so 

 long as she remains among the butter-burr. But 

 when, presently, she crosses the water, he pursues her 

 up the meadow and back to her tribune. Later, he 

 catches her in the pool, and, driving at her neck- 

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