A NATURALIST IN BRAZIL 



In the Sertao, of course, wandering may become a terrible necessity. 

 If it fails to rain even in January, or if, as may happen, there is 

 no rain at all for three years in succession, the last green leaves 

 will wither, and the cattle will die of thirst in the bush. Then the 

 little towns in the interior are left lonely; the inhabitants leave in 

 crowds for the coast, there to lead a sorry existence. 



One night, when we started about midnight, and were driving 

 up into the hills in the bright moonlight, we met such a crowd of 

 wanderers in the bush. Hammocks had been slung between the 

 gnarled branches of the trees ; here and there the moon shone upon 

 a face; one man rose to look after the passing travellers. It was a 

 scene of peculiar charm. We drove on ; a Ferreiro, taking, perhaps, 

 our headlights for the dawn, began to sing. But it was still a long 

 time before a cold breeze, so cold that it made us shiver, heralded 

 the coming of day, and the tangle of boughs and thickets limned 

 itself in jet black against the glowing heavens, and the Gallo da 

 campino in its grey and white dress, and the crimson-crested Cardinal- 

 finch, announced that yet another day had dawned on the ancient 

 Sertao. 



