THE HOME OF A NATURALIST. 311 



their wee nests, and looking up with their pretty air of 

 innocent audacity at the supposed intruder. Not a 

 feather is missing or out of place, not a speck of black 

 is to be seen on the burnished gorgets, which literally 

 blaze with ruby, emerald, and topaz, when the sunbeams 

 shine on them. The woodpeckers are hard at work on 

 their trees, the quail trips daintily over the grass, and 

 the warblers sit at rest on the branches, or flutter their 

 plumage as if filled with ecstasy at their own melodious 

 carols. 



The great coulacoimara snake lies coiled in dreadful 

 folds, his eyes dully gleaming under their brows, and 

 his head idly reposing on the pillow of his own body. 

 Venomous serpents are seen lurking amid the foliage, 

 one quietly sleeping, another drawing back the angry 

 head in readiness for the stroke, the forked tongue 

 quivering and the threatening fangs erect, while a third 

 is triumphantly bearing off a fluttering victim in its 

 jaws, the birds around fleeing in dismay. 



Turning from the feathered to the furred races, the 

 specimens are quite as characteristic. A huge ant-bear 

 prowls along, his bushy tail curled over his back, and 

 enveloping him in a torrent of hair, and his long snout 

 held close to the ground, as if in search of his insect 

 prey. A sloth is seen ascending a branch, clinging 

 firmly with all its limbs, stretching out its neck, and 

 wearing that peculiar pitiful, wistful look so character- 

 istic of the creature. The weasel is seen, not stuffed, 

 as is the custom in the dealers' shops, straight and long- 



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