THE BIRDS. 
177 
Among the mental pictures of the Alto- 
Parana not the least permanent will be one of 
sitting in the bows of the launch, a hot sun 
beating on the old sail which serves as awning 
but a cool breeze flowing from the movement 
of the boat, eating the good oranges of Para¬ 
guay, and watching the agate water slip past; 
whilst there is a Little Blue Heron flapping 
unhurriedly in a bee-line up the bank; White 
Kites swinging in the air or sweeping in a 
mighty curve over the tree-tops; a kingfisher, 
bigger than our jay, with a blue-grey coat and 
orange waistcoat, sitting on a dead bough; and 
across the burnished surface of the river pass 
and repass the tireless swallows, with light 
bodies and a broad azure band round their 
shoulders, like a belt of turquoise. 
It is always exciting to see wild those birds 
which you have only known in cages, and the 
first sight of parrots is thrilling. But the 
thrill is nothing compared with the first sight 
of a macaw. You have to go north to find them. 
When we had passed the mouth of the Iguazu, 
and were steaming up to Puerto Mendez, Brazil 
on the right hand and Paraguay on the left 
our captain told us that in the afternoon we 
should reach a certain tree where there would 
be macaws. The tree you see a long way off, 
standing out half-way up the cliff, thick and 
heavy, something like our sycamore. I got my 
glasses on to it, and there sure enough were two 
M 
