THE BOOK: AN APOLOGY 9 



greedy rascal, a petty rural magistrate with an itching 

 palm, and if justice was required at his hands it had 

 to be bought with money like any other commodity. 

 One summer afternoon he rode over to my home and 

 asked me to go for a walk with him by the river. 

 It was a warm brilliant day in early autumn, and 

 when we had walked about a couple of miles along 

 the bank to a spot where the stream was about fifty 

 yards wide, we sat down on the dry grass under a 

 large red willow. A flock of birds was in the tree — a 

 species of a most loquacious kind — but our approach 

 had made them silent. Not the faintest chirp fell 

 from the branches that had been full of their musical 

 jangle a few minutes before. It was a species of 

 troupial, a starling-like bird of social habits, only 

 larger than our starling, with glossy olive-brown 

 plumage and brilliant yellow breast. Pecho amarillo 

 (yellow breast) is its vernacular name. Now as soon 

 as we had settled comfortably on the grass the entire 

 flock, of thirty or forty birds, sprang up into the air, 

 going up out of the foliage like a fountain, then 

 suddenly they all together dropped down, and sweep- 

 ing by us over the water burst into a storm of loud 

 ringing jubilant cries and liquid notes. My com- 

 panion uttered a sudden strange harsh discordant 

 laugh, and turning away his sharp dry fox-like face, 

 too late to hide the sudden moisture I had seen in 

 his eyes, he exclaimed with savage emphasis on the 

 first word — " Curse the little birds — how glad they 

 are ! " 



