that seemed
to be the brightest evening of our expedition, even the two Indians
seeming to share our satisfaction, for they readily grasped the idea
that they had afforded us pleasure by promising in their fashion to show
us the objects of our weary search.

As we lay down to sleep that night I felt more wakeful than ever I had
been before, and I could hear my uncle turning restlessly about.

All at once he broke the silence by whispering,--

"Asleep, Nat?"

"Asleep? No; I've got quetzal on the brain, and the birds seem to be
pecking at my shoulder on both sides with red-hot beaks. How do you
feel?"

"In agony, my boy. I'm afraid we have been jumping at conclusions.
Perhaps the Indians do not understand, after all."

Sleep came at last, though, and the next day nothing else could be
thought of or talked of. The Indians were questioned in dumb show, with
the skin of the trogon for a text, and we got on more, Uncle Dick's
spirits rising as it grew more plainly that the Indian fully understood
about the birds we wanted. In fact, in dumb show he at last began to
teach us the bird's habits.

He showed us how it sat upon the branch of a tree, taking a parroquet as
an example, pointing out that the bird we meant had toes like it, two
before and two behind, setting it on a piece of wood, and then ruffling
its plumage all up till it looked like a ball of feathers.

"That's right, Nat," cried my uncle. "Exactly how trogons sit. The
fellow's a born observer. I am glad you shot him. Go on, Dusky."

The man understood, as he sat holding the piece of branch in one hand,
the bird in the other. He glanced at us to see if we were watching him,
and then smoothing the feathers quickly, he began to buzz and whirr like
a beetle, as cleverly as a ventriloquist. Next he made the dead bird he
held dart from its perch, and imitated the quick flight of one chasing a
large beetle through the air, catching it, and returning to its perch,
where with wonderful accuracy he went through the movements of it
swallowing its prey, and then ruffling itself up again into a ball of
feathers.

"Splendid!" cried my uncle. "Exact. He knows the right birds, Nat.
Now then, Cuvier, where is the happy spot? Over yonder?" and my uncle
pointed up the river; but the Indian shook his head, and pointed across
and away to the south, after which he laid his head upon his hand and
imitated going to sleep eight times.

"Eight days' journey to th