Some of the turtles are four feet long, and all are of a prodigious thickness. It is interesting to see a dark, bulky form, wet and glistening in the moonlight, emerge from the sea and toil slowly up the sloping sands. Active enough in the water, the turtle is a slow heavy mover on land. Laboriously she pushes herself along with her short flappers until she finds a place which satisfies her meticulous, maternal instinct. She scoops out a nest in the sand, some two feet deep, and lays her eggs, a couple of hundred more or less. She then covers them up with sand and leaves them to shift for themselves. It is just as well that that is the last their parent knows about them, for the fate that too frequently befalls them would break an affectionate mother's heart. Generally they are dug up the following morning and despatched to the bazaars for the consumption of Burmese epicures. If a nest is overlooked and the young are hatched they have many other enemies. They run down to the sea as fast as they can, but few reach sanctuary, for cormorants, sea-gulls, and big fish lie in wait to slaughter the innocents^[1].