I asked, finding the Indian up when
I awoke.

"Pretty well, Tatita; but I find I mustn't move it much. If I do, it
feels as if the blackguard water-dog was still holding me."

I again dressed the wound, the Indian continuing to hurl fresh abuse at
the otter. I made him keep quiet, and prepared the coffee. Sumichrast
and Lucien then rose, and we decided to start--the rainy season, which
was approaching, rendering haste necessary.

L'Encuerado, in spite of our remonstrances, insisted on shouldering the
load; but, on raising the burden, he found he was unable, so I
shouldered the load.

At last, after no end of exertion on my part and Sumichrast's--for we
alternately bore it--three leagues were traversed. We then halted at the
foot of a hill, among ebony, mahogany, and oak trees.

L'Encuerado took charge of the camp, while I, with my friend and Lucien,
climbed a neighboring hill. The trees which crowned its summit were
limes--_Tilia sylvestris_--here the type of what bear the same name, and
which are so plentiful in Europe, where they have been so changed by
cultivation that they scarcely appear to belong to the same species as
their brethren in the virgin forests. The wood of the lime is valued by
the Indians for making various odds and ends, which are sold by
thousands in Mexico. In Europe, the bark of this tree is used for
well-ropes, and the charcoal made from its wood is preferred to any
other for the manufacture of gunpowder. Few trees are more useful, and
its beautiful green foliage makes it highly ornamental in a garden.

Our attention was attracted to a familiar noise--the cooing of doves. I
moved gently under the trees, and soon put to flight several fine
specimens, of a dark, ashy-blue color, with a black band across the
tail-feathers, which were of a pearl-gray. I killed a couple of them;
and Sumichrast, who was better placed, knocked down three others. They
were quite sufficient for our dinners. They were the first of this
family that we had killed, and Lucien in vain tried to make out what he
called their relationship.

"They are neither passerines," said he, "nor palmipedes. Climbers, too,
have differently-made feet."

"Your doubts are very natural," interposed my friend; "even
ornithologists are very undecided on this point. Nevertheless they
class pigeons among the gallinaceae, looking upon them as a link between
this order and the passerines."

"Why don't they make an order for them by themsel