To Paradise 369 
10.23. Kam (ar?) akata Itabo. A bright blue Morpho butterfly, 
just out of reach, mocks the entomologist, and flirts into the bush. 
10.30. ‘Small Creek.” Urania day moth at this time very 
plentiful all over the colony, flits by. 
10.30. Yowarano Creek—hbigeish—the Itabo that joins it is called 
Yowarani. A troop of green and black dragonflies and some yellow 
butterflies dance a fairy measure; but bodily wants to discount ethereal 
joys. 
10.35. Land for breakfast, and while it is preparing we PLUNGE 
INTO THE FOREST. We have guns of course (and butterfly nets) ; 
Tartarin Quixote : “Cover yourself with glory ” Tartarin Sancho (very 
calm) : ‘'Tartarin cover yourself with (mosquito net).” Tartarin Quixote 
(very excited): ‘An axe, somebody give me an axe.” Tartarin Sancho 
(very hungry) : “Jeanette, my breakfast.” 
After climbing a mountainous ant’s nest, nearly as big as the dome 
of St. Paul’s—hush! we see a Maam (a bird that runs along the high 
branches of trees like a squirrel) ; it is at the top of the tree, at the foot 
of which we stand. Silence falls. The marksman takes aim. His is not 
“The rifle of Master Gervai 
“ Always loaded, always loaded. 
“ The rifle of Master Gervai, 
“ Always loaded, never goes off.” 
On the contrary the gun goes off too soon—the bird flies away— 
the sportsman seems stunned—he is unable to speak—Hn ejfet, it is 
not the gun of Master Gervai, it has gone off and given him a mule’s 
kick on the bridge of the nose. The Maam, you understand, is a 
difficult bird to shoot. 
In our walk we find Karimanni gum, the “Buck” substitute for 
cobblers’ wax, and the Bukaroona bush rope, a somewhat elastic vine, 
with a Morocco leather-like smell; and the Sada pimplas or, rather, 
squat thorns, used to prevent over-development of mamme in young girls. 
Here we found, too, the Wadaduri (Monkey pot)—Lecy'his sp.—with 
its bark deeply furrowed like broom; and one of the ‘‘ Kama-a-dan,” a 
plant with pouch-like fruit, the leaves of which are much appreciated by , 
the Maipuri or Tapir. 
Breakfast ended at 1.15 hurried by heavy shower of rain. Our 
chef's cooking was somewhat defective and his method of serving com- 
plicated—violent struggle for supremacy going all the while between the 
smells of the Morocco leather bush rope (which, from being novel and 
agreeable, had become nauseating from its insidious persistence), some- 
body’s French drill trousers, and petrol. 
