336 U. S. NATIONAL MUSEUM BULLETIN 211 



Morj&, a tributary of the Motagua. Here on the hilltop, several 

 hundred feet above the Valley floor, a numerous company of grackles 

 established their headquarters in the tall coconut palms that shaded 

 the house. From my arrival in February until the following July, 

 I awoke every morning with their voices in my ears. In the earliest 

 dawn the clarineros repeated over and over again, in a calm, subdued 

 voice, a long-drawn note between a screech and a whistle, which 

 sounded very pleasant and contented, and reminded me of one run- 

 ning up the entire scale on some stringed instrument with one deft 

 stroke. How different from the shrill calls they uttered later in the 

 day, at the height of their amorous passion! 



Then, as the morning grew lighter, with much commotion and 

 clucking on the part of the females and excited calling by the males, 

 they left their sleeping places among the coconut fronds and flew 

 down to seek their breakfast. Many alighted on the Conostegia, a 

 melastomaceous shrub with small pink flowers that grew abundantly 

 on the grassy hillside below the house, to eat the small, black, sweetish 

 berries. Others settled in the cowpen and on the road, where they 

 walked about seeking small, creeping things on the bare ground, or 

 on the lawn to forage in the grass. One morning I watched four 

 sanates perform an office of kindness to a gaunt old cow who stood 

 alone in the pen. One bird alighted on her back and pecked at 

 vermin among the hair. After a slight show of resistance, she allowed 

 a second to settle beside her and share the feast. Two more sanates 

 moved about on the bare ground at the beast's feet, and at intervals 

 jumped up to pluck something from her flanks or belly. They 

 clambered over her legs and tail, performing the same service, while 

 the cow stood patiently still. 



Many of the grackles, upon leaving their roost, flew directly down 

 into the Valley. As the morning wore on the rest melted away, singly 

 or in small flocks, to the banks of the Rio Morja, which wound through 

 the banana plantations half a mile away. Here they foraged along 

 the moist shore or in the shallows, or searched among the piles of 

 driftwood and washed-out banana plants stranded in the shoals. 

 The clarineros walked sedately along the shingly beach and flicked 

 small stones aside with their bills, to see what edible morsels might 

 be lurking beneath them. On hot afternoons they delighted to bathe 

 in the shoals at the margin of the steam, shaking wings and tail so 

 vigorously that they sent up a shower of crystal drops which sparkled 

 in the sunlight. One afternoon I saw a sanate approach a clarinero 

 that was bathing and stand as close to him as she could, although 

 there was an abundance of room elsewhere, seeming to enjoy the 

 shower he was creating. She used him as the boat-tailed grackles 

 of the towns sometimes employ the lawn sprinklers. Finally all the 



