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 
flew 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 
