126 Idle Days in Patagonia. 
with wild pathos, are heard from the leafless willows 
fringing the river. Meanwhile, in the bosky up- 
lands, one hears the songs of many passerine 
species; and always amongst them, with lively 
hurried notes, the black-headed Magellanic siskin. 
The scarlet-breasted or military starling sings on 
the coldest days and during the most boisterous 
weather: nor can the rainiest sky cheat the grey 
finches, Diuca minor, of their morning and evening 
hymns, sung by many individuals in joyous concert. 
The common mocking-bird is still more indefatig- 
able, and sheltering himself from the cold blast 
coutinues till after dark warbling out snatches of 
song from his inexhaustible repertory; his own 
music being apparently necessary as food and air 
to his existence. 
Warm lovely days succeeded the snowfall. Rising 
each morning I could reverently exclaim with the 
human singer, 
O gift of God! O perfect day ! 
Whereon should no man work but play. 
Days windless and serene to their very end, bright 
with a cloudless sky, and sunshine sweet and 
pleasant to behold, making the grey solitudes smile 
as if conscious of the heavenly influence. It is a 
common saying in this country that “once in a 
hundred years, a man dies in Patagonia.’’ I do 
not think any other region of the globe can boast 
of a saying to equal that; though it has been ill- 
naturedly suggested that the proverb might owe its 
