:■:::::::*? ALONG THE STRE.\M OF DEATH [Sks::::::; 



ours. We leave the arroyo and climb up a steep ledge, 

 which will cut oft' a half-mile of winding stream-bed. 

 A single dead mesquite crowns the narrow summit, 

 and on its topmost branch a full-plumaged Caracara 

 Eagle sits erect and watchful, his outline silvered by 

 the clear moonlight. He seems not to notice us as we 

 pass beneath. 



Pausing a moment, on the narrow summit of the 

 dividing cliff, we watch the dull glow above the crater 

 of the volcano. It is quiet now, after a few days of 

 more than usual activity. Its lurid reflection is the 

 Avildest touch in this landscape of black chasms and 

 shadowless jjlains. A strange cry comes from some 

 bird of the night high overhead, and as we are about 

 to resume our way, a muffled sound comes from the 

 great harranca far to our left, — a sonorous growling 

 roar which rises to a scream, — cut short off. It has 

 been described to us by some American miners, and 

 now we know it instantly for the cry of the jaguar, a 

 sound new to us and setting every nerve a-quiver with 

 love of the wilderness, — a love which, after all, is but 

 slightly " sicklied o'er " with the veneer of our civil- 

 ization. Few of us are without this feeling. 



Descending on the other side into the arroyo again, 

 we leave the silent Caracara still motionless, keeping 

 his midnight vigil. As we brush through a dense line 

 of bamboos and willows, we startle a Canyon Wren. 

 It flutters away, and in its excitement breaks into 



«4 255 ^ 



