and a dissipated emu stalking among the fowls. A melancholy bird which seems to have come unstuffed. So there is nothing romantic at the outset of a journey to Magnetic Island.
But wait. Twenty paces away from the hotel is a stony path, and the trees have closed in behind you. A hundred yards, and if you strayed away from the path the way would be lost. Dense trees, rock cropping out at times, and no way out. A strange bird calls somewhere in the distance, but it is otherwise very still and stifling. There is a tree covered with yellow flowers, but it has a poisonous look; and if you venture to pluck it a regiment of stinging ants sallies out at you. So you drop it and go on. And here is a tree covered with butterflies, thousands upon thousands of them. And now you come to a mangrove swamp, and if you look down at the roots of the mangroves you will find the rare fish that live half in and half out of the water, and can hop about in the mud. So suddenly you realise that this is an island such as all the adventurers and pirates and wrecked sailors have been cast upon in the romances. Here they would have sought long for water, and perhaps have sought in vain. Here they would have had painful experiences with poisonous berries, and would for many days have had to live on shell-
