THE LAST OF THE KINGFISHERS. 
49 
yielding even to spur until you had put things straight, so that 
you had reason to look about, if of his own accord he stopped on 
his way. A strange Father once let fall his overcoat and forced 
the animal, in spite of his good intention, for he could not talk, 
to proceed on his journey. Within half-an-hour an officer came 
up to the Father bringing his lost apparel — discovering to the 
unaccustomed Padre the reason of the horse’s delay. 
During the rainy season once I had to cross a nasty mud 
hole which extended from side to side of the road. Cortes ob- 
jected to mud, and walked the whole line to find a decent pas- 
sage. But it was mud, mud, mud, except at one place where 
some pedestrians had thrown the limb of a tree across. To my 
amazement and dread the animal carefully placed one foot after 
the other on the round bough and landed me safely on the other 
side of the swamp, as much to his own satisfaction as to mine. 
During the rainy season he would wait his opportunity of 
stealing into the house, and, as if conscious of being in the wrong 
place, would sidle up against the wall behind the door, like a 
beggar asking not to be driven out. 
He never was cheated of his corn, for nothing short of a 
rope could ever make him quit the doorway till he had had his 
allowance. 
THE LAST OF THE KINGFISHERS. 
Inhuman man ! curse on thy barbarous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 
Nor even pleasure glad thy cruel heart. — Burns. 
OME ten or twelve summers have flown since the beau- 
tiful kingfisher was last seen sporting over tlie spark- 
ling trout streams which abound in Carnarvonshire ; 
and the dipper only remains to remind us of that 
glancing flight, those gorgeous plumes, and sprightly motions 
which characterise the former bird. The eagle is no longer 
observed floating above the mountain-tops, and the sdlitary croak 
of a raven is a rare occurrence. The boom of the bittern is silent 
in the lonely marsh, and the woodcock are becoming scarcer 
year by year. Passing mallards are seldom observed against the 
rosy sky at sunset, and the gay little goldfinch is destined to be 
a victim for the bird-catcher’s lime. But, alas ! the kingfisher — 
the pride of the ornithologist — has already fled, never, I fear, to 
return again to its favourite haunts. Though it may be plentiful 
enough in some favoured spots, its days are numbered, and, if 
something is not done for its protection, it will surely be swept 
away, leaving only its dry bones to remind us of the old days, 
when it graced our rippling streams, and flew before us from 
stone to stone, as we carried the rod in the month of May. 
