I was struck with the remarkable elegance of one, that I saw by the roadside, about mid-way between Savanna le Mar and Bluefields. It was at one of those pieces of dark water called Blue-holes, reputed to be unfathomable. The surface was covered with the leaves and tangled stems of various water-plants, and on these the Sultana was walking, supported by its breadth of foot; so that the leaves on which it trod sank only an inch or two, notwithstanding that the bird, according to its usual manner, moved with great deliberation, frequently standing still, and looking leisurely on either side. As it walked over to where the water was less encumbered, it became more immersed, until it seemed to be swimming, yet even then, from the motion of its legs, it was evidently walking, either on the bottom, or on the yielding plants. At the margin of the pool, it stood some time, in a dark nook overhung by bushes, where its green and purple hues were finely thrown out by the dark background. I could not help thinking what a beautiful addition it would make to an ornamental water in an English park; and the more so, because its confiding tameness allows of approach sufficiently near to admire its brilliancy. Nor are its motions void of elegance: the constant jerking of its pied tail is perhaps rather singular than admirable, but the bridling of its curved and lengthened neck, and the lifting of its feet are certainly graceful. That the Sultana could be easily domesticated is probable: Mr. Hill once kept one for three months, which fed eagerly on Guinea-corn (_Holcus sorghum_). The immense length of the toes in this bird is a wise and beautiful provision for its support on the aquatic herbage, which usually covers the surface of standing waters in warm countries. Xenophon, in the Retreat of the Ten Thousand, if I mistake not, has mentioned a country, where they were in the habit of affixing hurdles to the horses’ hoofs, to enable them to cross rivers without sinking. This device, however, could be available only on a weedy surface. Robinson, who has a drawing of this species, says, “This is called the true Plantain Coot, by reason of his great affection for that fruit.” In describing what he calls the Carpenter Coot, which seems merely the present bird in immature plumage, he says, “It has its name from the noise it makes; it being customary for these birds to assemble, and knock against pieces of felled timber with their beaks, either in search of insects, or _to break the shells of the water-snails_, which are common in the ponds and rivers of these parts. The noise they make when thus busied has been not badly likened to that of carpenters at work. And I am deceived if the Clucking-hen makes not a like noise, and for a similar purpose. I have been since credibly informed they do. The Carpenter Coot lays in March, and has young in April.” (MSS.)