A HUNT FOR HOATZINS 107 



very affecting, and my interest increased with 

 every minute. 



The evening chorus of the tropical night had 

 commenced outside, and a glance out of the 

 window showed a network of motionless fronds 

 dimly outlined against the rose-colored clouds 

 over the waters of the Berbice. Below I heard 

 the soft click of billiard balls. Then I returned 

 to the books. Their rich bindings were falling 

 apart, musty, worm-eaten, many held together 

 only by a string. It was as if I had entered the 

 richly filled library of some old manor-house 

 which had been sealed up for two-score years, 

 and yet kept lovingly dusted. It was this 

 sense of constant care which served to empha- 

 size the weird isolation, the uncanny desola- 

 tion. 



I glanced at Lives of the Lindsays, by Lord 

 Lindsay, a work of sixty-five years ago, un^ 

 known to me, quaint and delightful. This 

 rubbed covers with Lockhart's Life of Scott. 

 On another shelf I recall The Colloquies of Ed- 

 ward Osborne, Citizen and Clothmaker of Lon- 

 don, which held me until I knew that the Colony 

 House dog would get all of my dinner if I did 

 not start homewards. The next volume to this 



