122 IDLE DAYS IN PATAGONIA 



maculata, so replete with wild pathos, are heard 

 from the leafless willows fringing the river. 

 Meanwhile, in the bosky uplands, one hears the 

 songs of many passerine species; and always 

 amongst them, with lively hurried notes, the black- 

 headed Magellanic siskin. The scarlet-breasted 

 or military starling sings on the coldest days and 

 during the most boisterous weather: nor can the 

 rainiest sky cheat the gray finches, Diuca minor, 

 of their morning and evening hymns, sung by 

 many individuals in joyous concert. The common 

 mocking-bird is still more indefatigable, and 

 sheltering himself from the cold blast continues 

 till after dark warbling out snatches of song from 

 his inexhaustible repertory; his own music being 

 apparently necessary as food and air to his exist- 

 ence. 



Warm lovely days succeeded the snowfall. Ris- 

 ing each morning I could reverently exclaim with 

 the human singer, 



O gift of God! O perfect day! 

 Whereon should no man work but play. 



Days windless and serene to their very end, bright 

 with a cloudless sky, and sunshine sweet and 

 pleasant to behold, making the gray solitudes 

 smile as if conscious of the heavenly influence. It 

 is a common saying in this country that "once 

 in a hundred years, a man dies in Patagonia." 

 I do not think any other region of the globe can 



