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summer birds have not yet returned, nor the for- 

 est of dwarf mimosas burst into brilliant yellow 

 bloom. Through all seasons the general aspect 

 of nature remains the same, owing to the gray 

 undeciduous foliage of the tree and shrub vegeta- 

 tion covering the country. 



As spring advances each day dawns apparently 

 more brilliantly beautiful than the preceding one, 

 and after breakfast I roam forth, unencumbered 

 with gun, in search of recreation. 



Hard by my residence there is a hill called the 

 "Parrots' Cliff," where the swift current of the 

 river, altering its course, has eaten into the shore 

 till a sheer smooth precipice over a hundred feet 

 high has been formed. In ancient times the sum- 

 mit must have been the site of an Indian village, 

 for I am continually picking up arrow-heads here ; 

 at present the face of the cliff is inhabited by a 

 flock of screaming Patagonian parrots, that have 

 their ancestral breeding-holes in the soft rock. It 

 is also haunted by a flock of pigeons that have 

 taken to a feral life, by one pair of little hawks 

 (Falco sparverius), and a colony of purple mar- 

 tins; only these last have not yet returned from 

 their equatorial wanderings. Quiet reigns along 

 the precipice when I reach it, for the vociferous 

 parrots are away feeding. I lie down on my 

 breast and peer over the edge ; far, far beneath me 

 a number of coots are peacefully disporting them- 

 selves in the water. I take a stone the bigness of 

 my hand, and, poising it over the perilous rim, 



