A PILGRIMAGE 69 



I would not shoot into the large and close coveys 

 upon which we were repeatedly coming. There 

 were quantities, also, of small, brilliantly plumaged 

 paroquets, which zigzagged around us as rapidly 

 as swallows. Also there were vultures, and an 

 ugly appearing kind of hawk. It was entirely de- 

 lightful to tramp along with scent of the fragrant, 

 pulsing earth and of the moist forest ascending 

 to your nostrils, while bird voices sounded high 

 and low. Everywhere were patent evidences of 

 refreshment, and all nature united in rejoicing and 

 in thanksgiving for the rain that had quenched 

 its thirst. Of birds there were many and strange ; 

 birds with sombre plumage and voices melodious 

 as our thrush or meadow lark; birds of beau- 

 tiful plumage and no voice, like one little canary 

 kind of creature with wondrous golden-red feath- 

 ers. Daily I listened to the curiously fascinating, 

 liquid tones of the poot-poot bird, with its nat- 

 ural and flat notes sounded simultaneously, for , 

 all the world like a xylophone. Another bird 

 trilled long on a single high note, with lowering 

 and ascending cadence. And perhaps most fre- 

 quent and certainly most familiar of all was the 

 caw of the crow. A large woodpecker, black gray 

 and golden nearly overcame my scruples against 

 shooting out of mere desire for possession, so at- 

 tractive was it ; but there was another, long-legged 



