48 
NATURE NOTES 
his life of wickedness, as the crocodile uttered cries that would 
have melted the heart of anything that was not so utterly heart- 
less as its relentless enemy, who seemed to take a pleasure in 
putting it to death by a slow process of torture. After all, if 
it were not for the everlasting warfare waged in Nature, the 
world would soon cease to be habitable, and the crow was only 
doing its allotted duty in Nature’s battlefield, though it might 
have performed it less cruelly. 
Now, as the shades of night are falling, and I have to wend 
my weary way through three miles of jungle, we will bid the 
river “ adieu ” until some future occasion ; and I only wish the 
wings of imagination would lift me over the tops of the bamboos 
to the bungalow as easily as they will transport your readers 
back to dear old England. 
Arthur W. Strachan. 
AMONG THE ROBINS. 
VERY paradise for birds is to be found in the gardens 
of the Manor House at Little Shelford, near Cam- 
bridge, The owner, Mr. Walton, and his niece, who 
take a warm interest in their feathered friends, dis- 
courage visits from the cats of the neighbourhood, and do their 
best to convince the marauding boy that the way of trans- 
gressors is hard. The gardens, lawn, and meadow, which afford 
plentiful cover for nesting, are surrounded by a protective belt 
of trees, and intersected by the river Cam — at this part a 
slender stream, though amply sufficient for the needs of the 
bird-world, and affording a home and livelihood to some beauti- 
ful kingfishers. A large lawn, sloping from house to river, 
is visited by the shy little moorhen in the early morning, 
before the wide world is astir, and at nightfall is thronged by 
thrushes and blackbirds, the late diners of the feathered tribe, 
Gay little bands of long-tailed tits rush to and fro between the 
trees that skirt the lawn, and the tiny, beautiful goldcrest slips 
in and out of the shrubs and shines like a jewel in the dark 
branches of yew and cedar. 
How shall I describe the harmonies of that happy garden, 
the song of praise that hails the first light and outlives the 
setting sun ? The voice of blackbird and thrush resound 
above the rest. They began the day, and they alone end it ; 
but chaffinch, linnet, warbler, and a host of other voices have 
all their little day — and the little brown wren, whose voice is 
to me a wonder that custom never stales. It was truly half 
joke, half miracle, to hide that brazen trumpet in so small a 
throat. The cold, clear nights of March and April bring the 
nightingale to some favoured trees near the river, from whence 
