definitely changed for the worse. The deep, rich foliage was replaced by scrub- by open forest, laced with leafless vines. Now and then we would reach a bar- ren open fen, grown over with weeds and tussocks of grass and so boggy that we had to skirt far away from such areas. Misery Creek and Skull Creek, both aptly named, were passed and finally, on the west, we saw Sanameia Lagoon. It was obvious at first sight that it was impossible as a camping ground. About the only thing it had was water and to reach that one would have to break through a deep fringe of reeds and rushes. There were no trees within some miles so tent poles would not be procurable. There was no bird life to be seen and no sign of animal life. We ourselves supplied the only life in the whole landscape. The Jardine River was about two miles further south, so we continued to the telegraph crossing there; the river is crocodile infested and was running with a swift current; the punt kept there was in mid-river, caught in a mess of tangles logs and branches which had swept down the stream. Obviously we could not cross the Jardine so finally we decided on a spot on a rise of ground with swamp east and west of us, about midway between the river and Sanameia. Our camp's official name is Telegraph Crossing, Jardine River. The camp is comfortably placed, a few yards from the water of the swamp. George and I have our tents set up with the entrances facing each other and separated by the length of our work fly, which we share. Len has his tent and fly, Joe sleeps in the dining fly and the two boys, Willie Somerset and Roy, whose last name turns out to be Stephen, not Sampson, share a tent to- gather. We all managed to get a little collecting done in the late afternoon and in the evening George and I went out with lights, travelling in opposite di- rections along the telegraph line. Dick will arrive on Friday night and take us back to Red Island Point, where Van will be awaiting us, I have to pay the three boys and get them off to Cowall Creek Mission to make their goodbyes to the respective families, and then, probably on Monday or Tuesday, we shall leave the Tip of the Pen- sula and start south to Portland Roads. Wednesday, 19 May 1948. It has been somewhat a disappointment so far as col- lecting goes; in the mammal and reptile world, at least. George and Roy Stephen put out somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred traps last night and drew a total blank. My insects are good, as are Len's plant collections but reptiles simply are not here. Frogs do not even croak in the swamp, snakes will not be here unless there is something for them to eat, rats, for example, and although it is supposed to be full of death adders, not a one did I see. I turned rocks and tree stumps, scratched among dead leaves, did everything the book says, and nothing happened. The Jardine, that river fabulously full of crocodiles, did not produce a single one when I went there in the late morning, and although, as I said, it is running with a swift current, and bars stretch in places almost the full width of the river. I need not add that although no crocs were in evi- dence, it still is not a place that I would choose as a swimming hole. In non-scientific spheres, the mail plane, north-bound, passed over us this morning and another, south-bound, went over this afternoon. Jack Cupid is due down here tomorrow for his final inspection of the line before going on two months leave, and Dick is to come the next evening. The weather has been overcast and showery all day, and in general there were no high-lights.