A NATURALIST IN BRAZIL 



It is still dark, but the household is waking, and voices are heard 

 in the adjacent rooms ; for in the country houses of Pernambuco 

 the walls of the rooms are not carried up to the roof, but end at 

 what would be the level of a great loft if there were a ceiling, so 

 that at night the bats fly over all the rooms in turn. We get up 

 quickly; already the splashing of water is heard in the different 

 rooms ; and presently we go out on the verandah, where the little 

 frogs are croaking from the thatched roof. The stars are still 

 twinkling overhead; the forest is black against the sky; the valleys 

 are swathed in a white mist. 



We step out smartly; the east is slowly growing lighter; there is 

 a ruddy flush on the horizon, and near and far are no longer con- 

 fused. Horses laden with wood come towards us; the track goes up 

 hill and down over the felled woodland. Now the sun rises above 

 the horizon; its first rays strike the forest, and the tree-trunks are 

 picked out in red. The fresh voices of birds ring from the bushes 

 at the edge of the forest, and even within the forest there is life. 

 Silk-monkeys swing themselves along the boughs, and in a clearing 

 some little green parrots are performing gymnastic feats, and 

 loudly calling to one another. The birds are singing on every side. 



By half-past eight, however, silence has fallen on the forest. 

 The misty atmosphere of morning gives way to the clarity of sun- 

 shine. Everywhere the sunbeams are drifting into the forest, and 

 the green leaves glow and glitter in response. Now the insects are 

 waking to life. With outspread wings, of which only the tips appear 

 to vibrate, while the narrow surfaces uninterruptedly display their 

 black, red and yellow or black and yellow pattern, the Heliconid 

 butterflies float slowly through the air ; the splendid blue Morphidae 

 too pass gleaming through the glades, and up the tree-trunks climbs 

 a beetle, Euchroma gigantea, the bright green of his wing-covers 

 flushed with a red metallic bloom, while the dark spots on the 

 scutum look like black eyes. Late in the afternoon the forest is less 

 silent. A shrill Tui, tui, tui, rings out; the Forest Leguan, a lizard, 

 uplifts his voice. With a loud whir, a startled cicada makes a dash 

 for the next tree, the heavy body tearing through the air with its 

 long glassy wings ; a great gorgeously coloured toucan flies off", a 

 squirrel whisks up a tree, and perhaps we may catch sight of the 

 yellow arm of a sloth slowly jerking itself forwards. 



As the sun sinks the forest grows noisier. A hedge-sparrow is 

 scolding in the bush before settling down to sleep, and the little 

 cinnamon-coloured Curutia is uttering shrill cries. Once more a 



86 



