NOTE AND SONG OF THE BIRDS. 379 



nothing more dazzling than our ruby-crested humming-bird. On 

 the one hand the metal, on the other the gem, reflects the light. 



Let us acknowledge, nevertheless, that this luxuriousness 

 does not speak to the imagination, does not reach the heart, 

 does not move it. Our admiration is kept alive, but we yet 

 commune with this world, which it is so sweet to forget in the 

 forest recess whilst the ear imbibes the plaintive notes of the 

 nightingale ! 



Our forests are not, however, altogether silent, nor our copses 

 either. Often in the depth of our woods our attention is 

 awakened by sounds which remind us of those of a bell. Hark ! 

 those two or three notes, loudly and several times repeated, are 

 those of the averano, calling forth its mate from the summit of 

 some tree towering to the clouds. The metallic tone, and the 

 fulness of the bird's call, produce a complete illusion; it re- 

 sembles the toll of a far-ringing bell ; wherefore, the Spaniards 

 have given it the name of campanero, or bell-ringer. It perches 

 chiefly on trees which clothe the mountain sides, and the sounds 

 of its voice, re-echoed by the adjoining mountains, so intermingle, 

 that it becomes difficult to find out precisely the spot occupied 

 by the bird itself. This, though a purely physical effect, the 

 vulgar assign to the instinct of the averano, which thus modifies 

 its note in order the better to conceal its retreat. 



Here, as elsewhere, our doves pour forth their tender moan, 

 thus rendering still more melancholy the stillness of our woods : 

 one of them particularly, the partridge, imparts to its cooing the 

 impress of sadness ; it resembles the complaint of suffering 

 humanity, so complete is the illusion. 



The early morn is welcomed by the qu'est-ce-qui-dit {Tyr an- 

 nus pitanga), whose song, or rather cry, though containing 

 nothing of melody, yet rings in sounds of pleasantness around 

 our dwellings. The cry is clear, and is answered by the voices 

 of several others of these birds, which are the better heard, as 

 they perch at the extremity of some branch. Sometimes the 

 united notes become a regular uproar, though far from being 

 unpleasant. We hear, without attending to them, the twittering 

 of other smaller birds that also welcome the dawning light. But 

 our attention is still attracted by the gay tumult of the qu'est- 

 ce-qui-dit : there is a cheerfulness in their cry, and man is never 

 more disposed to be cheerful than in the morning. 



