mounted bird, watching passing
flycatchers and me and the glimpses of sky. At first he rolled his
little cuckoo-like notes, and his brown mate swooped up, saw me,
shifted a few feet farther off and perched full of curiosity, craning
her neck and looking first with one eye, then the other. Now the male
began a content song. With all possible variations of his few and
simple tones, on a low and very sweet timbre, he belied his unoscine
perch in the tree of bird life, and sang to himself. Now and then he
was drowned out by the shrilling of cicadas, but it was a delightful
serenade, and he seemed to enjoy it as much as I did. A few days
before, I had made a careful study of the syrinx of this bird, whom we
may call rather euphoniously _Trogonurus curucui_, and had been struck
by the simplicity both of muscles and bones. Now, having summoned his
mate in regular accents, there followed this unexpected whisper song.
It recalled similar melodies sung by pheasants and Himalayan
partridges, usually after they had gone to roost.

Once the female swooped after an insect, and in the midst of one of
the sweetest passages of the male trogon, a green grasshopper shifted
his position. He was only two inches away from the singer, and all
this time had been hidden by his chlorophyll-hued veil. And now the
trogon fairly fell off the branch, seizing the insect almost before
the tone died away. Swallowing it with considerable difficulty, the
harmony was taken up again, a bit throaty for a few notes. Then the
pair talked together in the usual trogon fashion, and the sudden
shadow of a passing vulture, drew forth discordant cat calls, as both
birds swooped from sight to avoid the fancied hawk.

A few minutes later the vocal seal of the jungle was uttered by a
quadrille bird. When the notes of this wren are heard, I can never
imagine open, blazing sunshine, or unobstructed blue sky. Like the
call of the wood pewee, the wren's radiates coolness and shadowy
quiet. No matter how tropic or breathless the jungle, when the
flute-like notes arise they bring a feeling of freshness, they arouse
a mental breeze, which cools one's thoughts, and, although there may
be no water for miles, yet we can fairly hear the drip of cool drops
falling from thick moss to pools below. First an octave of two notes
of purest silver, then a varying strain of eight or ten notes, so
sweet and powerful, so individual and meaningful that it might stand
for some wonderful mo