NOON IN A BRAZILIAN FOREST. 21 



dense foliage, beneath which, when the sun strikes merci- 

 lessly on every other spot, all is coolness and repose. 

 The birds are all silent, sitting with panting beaks in the 

 thickest foliage ; no tramp or voice of beast is heard, for 

 these are sleeping in their coverts. Ever and anon the 

 seed-capsule of some forest-tree bursts with a report like 

 that of a musket, and the scattered seeds are heard patter- 

 ing among the leaves, and then all relapses into silence 

 again. Great butterflies, with wings of refulgent azure, 

 almost too dazzling to look upon, flap lazily athwart the 

 glade, or alight on the glorious flowers. Little bright- 

 eyed lizards, clad in panoply that glitters in the sun, 

 creep about the parasites of the great trees, or rustle the 

 herbage, and start at the sounds themselves have made. 

 Hark ! There is the toll of a distant bell. Two or three 

 minutes pass, another toll ! a like interval, then another 

 toll! Surely it is the passing bell of some convent, 

 announcing the departure of a soul. No such thing ; it 

 is the note of a bird. It is the campanero or bell-bird of 

 the Amazon, a gentle little creature, much like a snow- 

 white pigeon, with a sort of soft fleshy horn on its fore- 

 head, three inches high. This appendage is black, 

 clothed with a few scattered white feathers, and being 

 hollow and communicating with the palate, it can be 

 inflated at will. The solemn clear bell-note, uttered at 

 regular intervals by the bird, is believed to be connected 

 with this structure. Be this as it may, the silvery sound, 

 heard only in the depth of the forest, and scarcely ever 

 except at midday, when other voices are mute, falls upon 



