12 IDLE DAYS IN PATAGONIA 



of the morning that had so enchanted us at the 

 outset had died out of nature, and the scene was 

 almost hateful to look on. We were getting tired, 

 too, but the heat and our thirst, and the intoler- 

 able fi fo fum of the ravenous mosquitoes would 

 not suffer us to rest. 



In this desolate spot I discovered one object of 

 interest in a singular little bird, of slender form 

 and pale yellowish-brown color. Perched on a 

 stem above the grass it gave utterance at regular 

 intervals to a clear, long, plaintive whistle, audi- 

 ble nearly a quarter of a mile away ; and this one 

 unmodulated note was its only song or call. When 

 any attempt to approach it was made it would 

 drop down into the grass, and conceal itself with a 

 shyness very unusual in a desert place where 

 small birds have never been persecuted by man. 

 It might have been a wren, or tree-creeper, or 

 reed-finch, or pipit; I could not tell, so jealously 

 did it hide all its pretty secrets from me. 



The sight of a group of sand-hills, some two 

 or three miles to our right, tempted us to turn 

 aside from the narrow path we had followed for 

 upwards of six hours: from the summit of these 

 hills we hoped to be able to discover the end of 

 our journey. On approaching the group we found 

 that it formed part of a range stretching south 

 and north as far as the eye could see. Conclud- 

 ing that we were now close to the sea once more, 

 we agreed that our best plan would be, after 

 taking a refreshing bath, to follow the beach on to 



