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 naturae 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 somewhat 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 cafios, or sluggish channels, and by 
the lucios, big and little—the latter partially sprinkled with 
armajo-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 
