BIRDS AT THEIR BEST 9 



I was at a small riverine port of the Plata 

 river, called Ensenada de Barragan, assisting a 

 jfriend to ship a number of sheep which he had 

 purchased in Buenos Ayres and was sending to 

 the Banda Oriental — the little republic on the 

 east side of the great sea-like river. The sheep, 

 numbering about six thousand, were penned at 

 the side of the creek where the small sailing ships 

 were lying close to the bank, and a gang of eight 

 men were engaged in carrying the animals on 

 board, taking them one by one on their backs 

 over a narrow plank, while I stood by keeping 

 count. The men were gauchos, aU but one — a 

 short, rather grotesque-looking Portuguese with 

 one eye. This fellow was the life and soul of 

 the gang, and with his jokes and antics kept 

 the others in a merry humour. It was an exces- 

 sively hot day, and at intervals of about an hour 

 the men would knock off work, and, squat- 

 ting on the muddy bank, rest and smoke their 

 cigarettes ; and on each occasion the funny one- 

 eyed Portuguese would relate some entertaining 

 history. One of these histories was about the 

 Age of Fools, and amused me so much that I 

 remember it to this day. It was the history of 



