62 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



liglit. My efforts were rewarded by the acquisition of 

 one fact. The buzzards murmured to themselves as 

 they settled down to rest. It was a curious sound. Not 

 harshly guttural, as might be imagined, but a fairly 

 smooth and soothing utterance. I had not waited for 

 nothing. For the first time, I had heard a turkey-buz- 

 zard sing ! The sounds soon ceased, and when all was 

 quiet, save the ceaseless racket of the katydids, I shouted 

 loudly, when, with a pig-like grunt, each buzzard stood 

 alert, with half-open wings. I shouted again. Again 

 the answering grunt, but not one left its perch. I re- 

 mained quiet for a few minutes, and gradually they 

 sunk again to more easy positions, and were soon, I 

 hope, asleep. 



For the third time I withdrew to the main creek, and 

 as I turned my boat's bow homeward, the rising moon 

 flooded with silvery, uncertain light the deep recesses of 

 the leafy " Rest," and there, silent as the eternal hills, 

 and sharply limned against the eastern sky, were the 

 weird forms of twenty slumbering vultures. It was an 

 uncanny sight. 



