Gigantic appetites, hadn't they? And if Anne hadn't tasted it all how could she have commented with so much definiteness? They grew tulips here! Why not? But they won't grow, is the answer. I expect the secret lies in the neat myrtle hedges, which can yet be seen in some old-fashioned gardens in Sea Point and Cape Town. They drank well and unwisely, also, these Peninsula people. Thompson remarks upon this in his book on the Cape: 'The Pokaalie cup, like the blessed beer of Bradwardine, too often drowns both reason and refinement.' FOOTNOTES: [3] Palmiet is a high, strong river-weed. [4] A fresh-water fish. CHAPTER VI THE BOSHEUVEL, OR HEN AND CHICKENS HILL We crossed the river at the bottom of the Bishopscourt gardens, and found ourselves looking down the long fir avenue, arched as perfectly as the nave of a Gothic cathedral. Opposite, ran another little avenue along the side of the hill, and to the right, staring at us like black and white toadstools of monstrous size out of the green gloom, the thatched cottages of Bishopscourt. We chose a little narrow pathway running up the hill from the middle avenue, winding through low protea-bush and silver-trees. [Illustration: SILVER TREES AND WILD GERANIUMS] There is cruel, continuous, silent fighting on this hillside--the battle between the silver-trees and the firs. The firs, or pines, who came here last, are creeping, year by year, higher and higher up the hill; year by year the brave little 'witteboomen' (white trees) are driven before this strong green army of invaders; soon there will be a last stand on the hilltop--the survival of the fittest. We shall all see it; we are seeing it every day of our lives--and will no one help? The pines are helped by unthinking man in his horrible materialism--the silver-tree branches are easy to break off, and make good fuel. Day by day, like a file of gaudy beetles, the dwellers of 'Protea' crawl along our little path and down again to the river huts, with loaded shoulders, and leave the silver woods leaner.