i64 Bird - Lore 



has a most characteristic little song, all on E. It has seven sharply staccato 

 notes, forming a perfect crescendo to the fourth, then diminishing to piano 

 again at the end. The middle note is strongly accented. This little hermit 

 lives in the sweltering weed-thickets along the sun-baked beds of the low- 

 land streams. I shall never forget an hour in a burr-thicket with nettle 

 accompaniment, at a temperature of perhaps 115°, trying to find the elusive 

 author of that queer little song. At least five times I had him within close 

 range, but never could I see more than a ghost of a movement, or the sudden 

 wiggle of a fern rubbed against in his approach. Nearly discouraged, with 

 hair, eyebrows and clothes matted thick with little burrs, almost exhausted 

 with the heat, I at last hit upon a very effective scheme. Deliberately 

 clearing out a space of ten or fifteen feet, and a tapering lane through which 

 I could watch the opening, by gently approaching the sound I drove it to 

 a point well beyond my clearing, and retreated to my station. Waiting 

 here a few minutes in silence, I repeated the call, in full loudness, until I 

 got a response. Then, as the bird approached, I did the call more softly, 

 to appear farther away and allay his wariness. My unfair subterfuge worked, 

 and little long-legged piper entered my trap unsuspecting, and I was able to 

 identify it. We had not encountered this species before, and never saw it 

 again after leaving the torrid lowlands about Villa vicencio. I was never able 

 to identify the song of the big slaty-blue breasted G. ruficeps, in the upper- 

 most forest zone above Bogota. These were all the species of the genus that 

 I, personally, encountered. 



On the wooded slopes above Villa vicencio we found another bird conspicuous 

 in song, but spirit-like in actions. We at first thought it was a Grallaria, but 

 it proved to be a closely allied bird, Chamceza brevicauda, very similar, but 

 with shorter legs and more delicate bill. It had a curious song of about seven 

 gradually ascending 'toots,' followed by four or five queer little falling 

 yelps: oot, odt, hot, oot, oot, oot oat — elp, elp\ elf, ulp', ulp\ It was com- 

 mon, and, because the forest was much opener and almost like our woods, 

 it was much easier to find and see. But, even so, many more were heard than 

 we were ever able to discern, and we never got over a feeling of victory when 

 we succeeded in seeing the singer. The color gradation was so perfectly ad- 

 justed to the lighting in the woods that only a motion was visible, and that 

 scarcely. 



In the dark, fog-steeped forest along the culm of the Central Andes, a 

 closely related species, darker in color, gave me one of the great song-sen- 

 sations of my life. I heard a sharp, loud, wip-wip-wip and ascribed it to one 

 of the Wood-quail. I hunted it unsuccessfully, until I was discouraged and 

 exhausted. Also, I became dully aware of a distant and long protracted whistle, 

 which I vaguely attributed to a steam-whistle in some neighboring village. 

 So does our common sense become dulled when we are confronted by un- 

 familiar surroundings! On my tired way back to camp, I realized that there 



