162 Idle Days in Patagonia. 
produce agreeable sensations in the healthy: the 
patter of rain on the forest leaves, the murmur of 
the wind, the lowing of kine, the dash of waves on 
the beach; and so, coming to birds, the piercing 
tones of the sand piper, and wail of the curlew ; the 
cries of passing migrants; the cawing of rooks in 
the elms, and hooting of owls, and the startling 
scream of the jay in the wood, give us pleasure, 
scarcely less than that produced by the set song of 
any melodist. There is a charm in the infinite 
variety of bird sounds heard in the forests and 
marshes of southern South America, where birds 
are perhaps most abundant, exceeding that of many 
monotonously melodious voices; the listener would 
not willingly lose any of the indescribable sounds 
emitted by the smaller species, nor the screams and 
human-like calls, or solemn deep boomings and 
drummings of the larger kinds, or even the piercing 
shrieks which may be heard miles away. Those 
tremendous voices, that never break the quiet and 
almost silence of an English woodland, affect us 
like the sight of mountains, and torrents, and the 
sound of thunder and of billows breaking on the 
shore ; we are amazed at the boundless energy and 
overflowing joy of wild birdlife. The bird-language 
of an English wood or orchard, made up in most 
part of melodious tones, may be compared to a band 
composed entirely of small wind instruments with 
a limited range of sound, and which produces no 
storms of noise, eccentric flights, and violent con- 
trasts, nor anything to startle the listener—a sweet 
