204 
NATURE NOTES 
wife, and in the stern surrounded by market baskets sat a 
typical daughter of the Broads. We could have fancied our- 
selves in Holland, had the East Anglian salute not disillusioned 
us. 
We rowed on in silence till challenged by the monotonous 
double-note of a male reed-bunting, who sits, sentinel like, on a 
leafless alder bush, and does not forsake his post until we almost 
splash him with our oars. 
Our next stoppage was to examine some stunted willows. 
Why are willows always stunted in descriptions of fen scenery ? 
We are not responsible for what other people write, but in this 
instance the willows were stunted because they were attacked 
by a parasitic fungus — a fungus which now rejoices in the name 
of Cryptomyces aureus, but which was figured by Sowerby a 
century ago under the name of Sphceria aurea. It is a beautiful 
fungus, making the affected twigs look as if melted pitch had 
been scattered over them, only the black shining spots are 
surrounded by brilliant golden yellow borders. After a time, 
however, the black centre breaks up, and the branch, denuded 
of its bark and dead half way through, shows what a terrible 
enemy to a plant a parasitic fungus can be. But what is that 
noise in the reeds ? What bird is it ? Is it a bird at all ? No, 
it must be the bark of an otter ! Can it be so at this time of 
day ? Whatever it be we cannot get nearer it, so its identity 
has to remain an unsolved problem. But look to the right 
at that water-hen (which is most likely a cock) and then to the 
left at those coots — see the difference ? There far away in the 
distance is a kestrel hovering over the fields which come up 
to the edge of the Broad, while across the Broad itself a heron 
lazily flaps its way to settle down on the shallow margin. Our 
binoculars are so fully employed that we scarcely notice the 
“ big bits and little bits of white fluff,” as a three-year-old 
young lady, a friend of ours, a native of the Transvaal, called 
the first snowflakes she saw. An extensive reed bed, half a 
mile away, appears to offer some protection from the storm, 
but long before we reach it the snow has ceased. As we row 
we look upwards to the fast clearing sky, and there are three 
quacking wild ducks with their necks stretched straight out 
as if they intended their heads should arrive at the coveted 
feeding ground well in advance of their bodies. 
The Broad is as smooth as a sheet of glass as we row over 
acres of water-soldiers (Siraitoies), now all safely hidden away 
on the muddy bottom. We see in the far distance a church- 
tower mirrored upside down in the water, while half way across 
is a wherry, one of those curious barge-like boats with an 
enormously tall mast, so that the proportionately huge main- 
sail may catch the slightest breeze above the reed-lined, willow- 
margined Broadland waterways. As it passes between us and 
the sun the square sail makes a i)arallelogram of blackness on 
the water. But churches and wherries are soon displaced from 
