The Marismas of Guadalquivir 91 



across a flooded plain only to bring within view more and yet more 

 vistas of watery waste and endless horizons of tawny water. On a low 

 islet at farthest distance stand a herd of cattle — mere points in space ; 

 but these, too, partake of the general wildness and splash off at a gallop 

 while yet a mile away. Even the wild-bred horses and ponies of the 

 marisma revert to an aboriginal anthropophobia, and become as shy and 

 timid as the ferae txaturae themselves. After long days in this monotony, 

 wearied eyes at length rejoice at a vision of trees — a dark-green pine- 

 grove casting grateful shade on scorching sands beneath. To that oasis 

 we direct our course, but it proves a fraud, one of nature's cruel 

 mockeries — a mirage. Not a tree grows on that spot, or within leagues 

 of it, nor has done for ages — perhaps since time began. 



Such is the physical character of the marisma, so far as we 

 can describe it. The general landscape in winter is decidedly 

 dreary and some^Yhat deceptive, since the vast areas of brown 

 armajos lend an appearance of dry land where none exists, since 

 those plants are growing in, say, a foot or two of water — " a 

 floating forest paints the wave." The monotony is broken at 

 intervals by the reed-fringed cams, or sluggish channels, and by 

 the lucios, big and little — the latter partially sprinkled with 

 armoyo-growth, the bigger sheets open water, save that, as a 

 rule, their surface is carpeted with wildfowl. 



Should our attempted description read vague, we may plead 

 that there is nothing tangible to describe in a wilderness devoid 

 of salient feature. Nor can we liken it with any other spot, for 

 nowhere on earth have we met with a region like this — nominally 

 dry all summer and inundated all winter, yet subject to such 

 infinite variation according to varying seasons. It is not, however, 

 the marisma itself that during all these years has absorbed our 

 interest and energies — no, that dreary zone would offer but little 

 attraction were it not for its feathered inhabitants. These, the 

 winter wildfowl, challenge the world to afford such display of 

 winged and web-footed folk, and it is these we now endeavour to 

 describe. 



By mid-September, as a rule, the first signs of the approach- 

 ing invasion of north-bred wildfowl become apparent. But if, 

 as often happens, the long summer drought yet remains unbroken, 

 these earlier arrivals, finding the marisma untenable, are con- 

 strained to take to the river, or to pass on into Africa. 



Should the dry weather extend into October, the only ducks 

 to remain permanently in any great numbers are the teal, the 



