CHAPTER IX. 
IDLE DAYS. 
Berore the snow, which has given rise to so long 
a digression, had quite ceased falling the blue sky 
was smiling again, and I set forth on my muddy 
walk home. Under the brilliant sun the white 
mantle very soon began to exhibit broad black lines 
and rents, and in a brief space of time the earth 
had recovered its wonted appearance—the cheerful 
greenish-bluish-grey, which is Nature’s livery at 
all times in this part of Patagonia; while from the 
dripping thorn bushes the birds resumed their 
singing. 
If the birds of this region do not excel those of 
other lands in sweetness, compass, and variety (and 
I am not sure that they do not) for constancy in 
singing they indubitably carry the palm. In spring 
and early summer their notes are incessant; and 
the choir is then led by that incomparable melodist, 
the white-banded mocking-bird, a summer visitor. 
Even in the coldest months of winter, June and 
July, when the sun shines, the hoarse crooning of 
the spotted Columba, resembling that of the wood- 
pigeon of Europe, and the softer, more sigh-like 
lamentations of the Zenaida maculata, so replete 
