A HUNT FOR HOATZINS 99 



Like the colors, the sounds were individual- 

 ized by sharpness of tone, incisiveness of utter- 

 ance. The violent cries of flycatchers cleft the 

 air, and, swiftly as we passed, struck on my ear 

 fair and strong. The notes of the blackbirds 

 were harmonious shafts of sound, cleaving the 

 air like the whistle of the meadowlark. Hawks 

 with plumage of bright cinnamon and cream, 

 hurled crisp, piercing shrieks at the train. Only 

 the vultures, strung like ebony beads along the 

 fronds of the cocoanut palms, spread their wings 

 to dry, and dumbly craned their necks down as 

 we passed. 



Past Mahaica and Abary we rushed, the 

 world about us a sliding carpet of all the emer- 

 ald tints in the universe. And just as the last 

 tint had been used up and I knew there must be 

 some repetition, the clouds split and a ray of 

 pure sunlight shot through the clear air and 

 lit up a field of growing rice with living green 

 of a still newer hue, an unearthly concentrated 

 essence of emerald which was comparable to 

 nothing but sprouting rice in rain-washed sun- 

 light. Whether this be on the hot coastlands 

 of Java, in tiny sod-banked terraces far up on 

 the slopes of Dehra Dun, or in the shadow of 



