134 Idle Days in Patagonia. 



and pass and repass fifty times through the scattered 

 scrub, knowing all the time that I am walking about 

 amongst the birds, as they sit turning their furtive 

 eyes to watch my movements, yet concealed from 

 me by that wonderful adaptive resemblance in the 

 colour of their plumage to the sear grass and foliage 

 around them, and by that correlated instinct which 

 bids them sit still in their places. I find many 

 evidences of their presence prettily mottled 

 feathers dropped when they preened their wings, 

 also a dozen or twenty neat circular hollows scooped 

 in the sand in which they recently dusted them- 

 selves. There are also little chains of footprints 

 running from one hollow to the other; for these 

 pulverizing pits serve the same birds every day, and, 

 there being more birds in the covey than there are 

 pits, the bird that does not quickly secure a place 

 doubtless runs from pit to pit in search of one un- 

 occupied. Doubtless there are many pretty quarrels 

 too ; and the older, stronger bird, regular in the 

 observance of this cleanly luxurious habit, must, 

 per fas et nefas, find accommodation somewhere. 



I leave the favoured haunt, but when hardly a 

 hundred yards away the birds resume their call in 

 the precise spot I have just quitted ; first one and 

 then two are heard, then twenty voices join in the 

 pleasing concert. Already fear, an emotion strong 

 but transitory in all wild creatures, has passed from 

 them, and they are free and happy as if my wander- 

 ing shadow had never fallen across them. 



Twilight comes and brings an end to these useless 



