12 Idle Days in Patagonia. 



was a monotonous desert of coarse yellowish grass, 

 out of which rose, as we advanced, multitudes of 

 mosquitoes, trumpeting a shrill derisive welcome. 

 The glory 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 

 intolerable / 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 colour. Perched on a 

 stem above the grass it gave utterance at regular 

 intervals to a clear, long, plaintive whistle, audible 

 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. Concluding that we were now 



