CHAPTER XIII 



THE HOT LANDS OF THE PACIFIC 



|0T far from our camp was a tangle and 

 maze of vines and fig-trees, through which 

 the brook flowed softly, and here Ave 

 spent whole days, quietly watching the 

 tropical life going on about us. 



As we parted the thick screen of leaves one day, 

 a glance into the dim vista ahead showed a spot of im- 

 maculate white — a Little Blue Heron in its snowy 

 juvenile plumage, standing motionless in the shallow 

 water. The bird's quick ear caught a swish of the 

 twigs and it glanced suspiciously in our direction. For 

 a minute it stood straight and slim, then spread its 

 wings and lightly and gracefully drifted away over the 

 water, its blurred reflection doubling its beauty, until 

 a low-branching cottonwood intervened. 



At the first step forward, three White-winged Doves 

 burst from the underbrush ahead, and with a clatter 

 and rush of wings left the woods, much to our relief, 

 for these stupid creatures never take to flight until one 

 is almost upon them, and then tear off with such an 

 uproar that the birds, for many yards around, are made 

 suspicious and uneasy. But withal these doves were 



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