CAMP LIFE IN THE TROPICS. 21 
waiting for the summer rains. Soon I emerge into a 
grassy glade, surrounded by mango, coffee-trees, and 
trees resembling the live-oak. The mangos are bris- 
tling with spikes of blossoms — white with them — but 
not a bird nor a butterfly is hovering above them, 
though the surrounding trees and shrubs are alive with 
them. This is a fact I have long noticed, that the mango 
is ever deserted, though adjacent trees may be vocal 
with bird-music. But, flitting across this green glade, 
now bright under the rays of an ever-brightening sun, 
are many birds; that is, many for this island, for it is 
not abundant in species, nor in numbers either, save of 
the humming-bird. 
There is a tree full of warblers of strange species—of 
Sucrzer, or sugar-bird —a bird resembling our yellow 
warbler ; several of the more strictly fly-catching birds, 
and a few sparrows, grosbecs, and blackbirds. The 
three species of humming-bird are well represented, 
and dash hither and thither seeking their favorite food, 
indulging in mimic battles and amorous caresses. I 
push on, after an hour’s stop, perhaps, over a rugged 
trail made by the half-wild cattle as they travel from 
glade to glade, and crossing another stream, climbing 
a hill, and descending into a ravine, I climb the steep 
slopes of the hill on which my cabin is perched. Every- 
thing is as I left it five hours before. The door, which 
is merely kept fastened by a stick braced against it, 
has not been opened; but I find on the floor a clus- 
ter of oranges, a branch of fragrant lime-flowers 
for my humming-birds, and a tastefully arranged bunch 
of roses from 8ne of the girls. 
While I am putting the finishing touches to my bird- 
notes, the girl comes in with my lunch, and my little 
