It seemed as if the Zoological Gardens had emptied its noisiest inhabitants.

Parrots flew across the river, every one talking at the top of its voice, while colonies of ibis croaked out the news of the day in gruff, discordant notes; cranes flying laboriously, with long legs trailing, emitted their deep "honks;" frogs lifted up their voices from out the reeds, and at intervals came the booming cry of the shovel-beaked bittern, and the harsh, baboon-like bark of the green-crested toucan.

The noise of the home-going of the winged multitudes ceased as the night drew its black mantle over the river.
Out of the spell of silence there grew presently other voices, soft whisperings, deep sighings; mysterious sounds telling of things stealthy and oppressed by the stillness; abrupt splashings that startled by their suddenness: grunts, rumblings, and the roar of bull crocodiles.

It must not, however, be supposed that there was a continuous succession of sounds.

Each noise had its own place, and there would be often long intervals between one sound and another.
Venning, who had the first watch, found this out.