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 fi 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 
