Above all, there was the moorhen, a bird that one can surely never be tired of watching, it is so full of quips and cranks. It has a little red wafer on its nose and queer little patches of white under its tail, which it keeps on flicking as it goes in a comical automatic sort of way, in time with its steps, as if its tail were a kind of pedometer measuring off the distances it walks. And when it is in the water swimming, it jerks its head backwards and forwards, as if doing so helped it along and it could not help jerking every time it kicked out its legs. And when it is in the water, how it bobs about! You can never depend upon it for an instant, going in the direction it started for; something or other is sure to attract its attention, especially if it has its brood behind it, and its mate is on the watch, making a great show of vigilance and unnecessary sagacity. The young ones--trying to follow the mother's movements as she darts at a fly here, pecks at something there, suddenly stands on her head to fetch something up from down below, or makes an unexpected dash at an insect that is skimming across to the reeds--twist and wind about and get in each other's way, like a squad of badly-managed boats, that keep on fouling and ramming one another, and all the time keep up a feeble little chorus of disconsolate cheep-cheep. But they are learning their lessons all the time, and it is delightful to watch their imitations. They gape at the passing flies, make sudden little excursions, three inches at a time, after something they think they see, and ridiculously attempt to dive, as they notice their mother do. But they are so light and so weak that the resistance of the water is too much for them, and all they can do is to put their heads under water and kick in the air with their legs, exactly like little boys trying to turn somersaults on the grass, but only getting half over.