A PUZZLER. 349 



in the chorus. I stole carefully in the direction 

 from which the sound came, but as I neared the 

 spot the whistle ceased, and it was now far too 

 dark to descry any object on the ground. So, in 

 doubt, and sorely puzzled to account for such an 

 unusual sound, and with a firm determination to 

 unravel the mystery in the morning, I returned 

 to my camp. Could it be Indians? Xo, im- 

 possible ; there were far too many whistlers, and 

 the tone of each whistle was precisely alike. I 

 was equally sure it was not the cry of the 

 rock-whistler (Actomys) ; that sound I knew 

 too well. What could it be? 



As the grey light of morning came peering 

 into my tent, I started off to investigate the 

 secret of the mysterious whistler ; but all I could 

 discover, after a long and diligent search, was, 

 that there were numerous runs and burrows ex- 

 cavated in the sandy banks of the river, but by 

 what sort of animal I could not for the life of me 

 guess. Setting a steel-trap at the entrance to 

 one of the holes, I strolled down to the Indian 

 village, thinking I should possibly be able to find 

 out from the redskins what it was that made such 

 shrill sounds. Partly by signs, and by using as 

 much of their language as I knew, I endeavoured 

 to make the old chief comprehend my queries. 



