A READER’S MEDLEY

Dominion, Volume 28, Issue 106, 29 January 1935, Page 7

A READER’S MEDLEY

The Flotilla One would have thought that he owned the Botanical Gardens, or at least the lakelet with its shores and the little island forming the centre of that irregular circle of water that seemed to be his particular domain. He moved with a speed that suggested a big job and a limited working day, but he carried himself with a charming jauntiness that proclaimed he was on good terms witli himself, and felt at peace with all the world. He must have been about five days old. Already he was feeling the thrill of life. He sited along, alone, bit; unafraid, covering in a few seconds half the circumference of. the pond and making as he went a hurried survey of the coast line. Two white swans floated asleep, 1 each with its long neck looped gracefully over its back, and its bill hidden behind a wing. He dodged about them gaily, like a fussy little launch around a couple of anchored battleships. Every duckling is. of course, it potential swan, but I concluded there was no relationship between him and them. Now he makes for the islet, and climbs ashore. Hullo! There is another one. only just awake, apparently, but a good companion in this joyous business of living. Then from amid the ferns on the little hump of laud the mother duck arises, deliberately, and, a little heavily, as befits one to whom life has brought a fair share of responsibility. She waddles in, accompanied by the family, and 1 begin to count. Twothree —seven —ten of ’em! The flotilla has put to sea, and the still surface of the pond, that before had held in unbroken reflection the ferns and rhododendrons on the bank, is dappled and animated with half a score of fluffy, little yellow bodies speeding hither and thither on happy adventure. What fun, I thought, for the kiddies who will come to watch them. o if Passiug'-fhe pond a few days later I find the two swans, proud aud stately as ever, in undisputed possession. “What has become of the little ducks?” I enquire, thinking of a possible promotion to a wider sphere at. the Zoo. “They are all dead." comes the reply, “the swans have killed them.” So, amid such scenes of quiet beauty, Nature enacts her little tragedies. J.W.B.