204



Mr. Hubert D. Astley.



corner of the low stone wall which retains the banks. Perhaps

three or four pairs of Tufted Duck and some Summer Duck, which

we always call “ sweety-drops,” to which a child once likened them,

the white stripes and curves on the dark ground colour of the drakes

recalling', I suppose, peppermint bull’s-eyes !


From the west side another and larger flotilla, headed by the

pair of Black-necked Swans; several Pochard, some Scaup, Chiloe

Widgeon, Brown Call-Ducks, Shelduck, Pinged Teals, Cinnamon

Ducks and others. But I have already mentioned these. A

pair of Golden Eye keep at a distance, and the White-eyed

Pochard never become tame like their commoner, but equally

handsome, cousins. Yet the White-eyes w T ere hatched in cap¬

tivity, and the Common Pochards were caught in a wild state,

as were the Scaup, and the Scaup becomes perfectly tame. At

night, even when their voices are not sounding, one hears the

“plop, plop” of the divers as they dip below; and there are times

when I think they have midnight dances, such a splashing is there ;

wild galops and old-time country dances, none of your languid one-

steps and tangos. They engage the Owls to play the flute perhaps,

for certainly the brown ones perch in the cedar tree and hoot, which

at any rate rhymes with flute ! And the Black-necked Swans are

the “ piccolos.” I love this orchestra. As I lie in bed, with some¬

times the full moon shining through the tracery of the cedar’s stately

boughs, my windows open and the curtains drawn aside, not only do

I listen to the music on the moat, but to the gaggling and grunting of

the Flamingos wading in the pond, separated from the moat at its

north end only by a narrow causeway floored with old red bricks,

edged by irises, and adorned by quite a stately pergola constructed

of large and ancient oak beams and timbers, up which climb roses,

wistaria, honeysuckles, and jasmine; not only do I hear those

quaint, guttural notes, but, as I have already said, there comes a

sudden wild chorus of musically discordant cries from all the cranes

across the meadow, heads uplifted and wings beating' time.


Never does such music distress or disturb me. Unlike one

who, on having the place described to him, answered, “ I suppose


you hear the d-d ducks all night long?” “Yes,” was the


answer, “ and I love it.” I think some people’s minds are not



