We reach the lake long before the dew is dried and before the freshness of the dawn is dissipated. Hurrying over the planks and the temporary rails laid for the workman’s hand-cars, we push on a half-mile or more to the southward, where nothing hints of man’s proximity. To the north and west are irregular peaks running off into a blue and misty range—the foot-hills of the Spanish Main. To the south the high woods are close to us and tower high overhead, but even with the eye of yonder lofty, soaring Vulture we could see no mountains in that direction—nothing but flat, green miles of mangroves, stretching to the horizon over the immense delta of the Orinoco. The pitch lake itself is surrounded on all sides by dense forests, the front ranks of which are made up of the marvellously tall and graceful moriche palms. There is one oasis in this pitchy expanse—Parrot Island it may be called. To this shelter, guarded on all sides by soft, quaking pitch, Amazon Parrots come at dusk by hundreds, roosting there until the next morning.

Near the northern edge is the “mother of the lake,” just above the deep-hidden source of supply, where the pitch is always soft, and where no vegetation grows. It is a veritable pool of death, and nothing can enter it and live. The lizards and heavy-bodied insects which scamper over the rim are often clogged and drawn down to death. A jaguar, leaping after a Jacana, slipped in shortly before we came and made a terrible fight for life. Half blinded, its struggles carried it only farther outward, but fortunately the end came mercifully soon.

All the rest of the lake is a varied expanse of black pitch bubbles, short grass, clumps of fern and sedge, with occasional isolated palms. Flowers of many kinds and colors spring from the heart of the raw pitch itself. Jacanas23 rise before us with loud cries and flashing wings of gold. One may walk over the lake at will, morning and evening, but in the heat of midday, in many places, one’s shoes sink quickly unless one keeps constantly on the move.

White is not a very common color in nature, and yet here, in striking contrast with the inky blackness of the pitch, most of the birds show large patches of this color. In the distance are always to be seen Snowy Egrets33 and immature Blue Herons34—spots of purest white, while near at hand, absurdly tame, a big hawk forever soars slowly about or perches on some great frond of a tall palm. It is a White-headed Chimachima Hawk56 with plumage of white, save for back, wings, and tail.

The two most abundant small birds are chiefly white in color. Both are Flycatchers, one with white head and neck—White-headed Marsh Flycatcher98—perching in the reeds and making fierce sallies after passing insects, while even more beautiful and conspicuous are the little terrestrial Flycatchers—White-shouldered Ground Flycatchers97 or “Cotton Birds”—which scurry along the ground over pitch and fallen logs. Their tails continually wag from side to side, and they come within a few feet of us, uttering low inquiring notes: pit! pit! They too are clad in white, except for back, nape, wings, and tail.

We follow one about, watching it through the ground-glass of the camera, when we blunder into a thicket of dry, crackling twigs. A sudden rustling sound draws our attention, and we look up and find ourselves within a few feet of a dry palm stub. Around the roughened stringy bark peers a green head with wide, yellow eyes, and we stiffen into immobility. The position is anything but comfortable; thorns are scratching us, flies are tickling our faces, but we dare not move. After five minutes, which seem hours, the big Yellow-fronted Amazon Parrot64 withdraws, and we hear a scuttling within the stub. Silently and with the greatest caution we step backward, and after a rest we arrange our plan of attack.

These birds usually nest in hollows in the tops of the tallest, most inaccessible trees, and this is a golden opportunity—one in a lifetime—for a photograph of a Parrot at home.

The entrance is rectangular, about three by six inches, and some five feet above the ground. Painfully I pick my way to the side of the stub, and bracing myself, focus on that spot of black on the trunk. Then Milady rustles the weeds in the rear of the stub. Again a rustling, and on the ground-glass of my Graflex flashes the green head. Snap! I have her! and with the slowest of motions I change plates. While she is engrossed with the disturber in the rear I advance a step and get another picture. Then screwing up my speed-button, I push slowly forward, and just as she is about to hurl herself from the stub I secure a third photograph. Off she goes to the nearest palms, shrieking at the top of her lungs, and is joined by her mate.

We cut a hole in the trunk near the ground, and there find the nest of the parrot. Three white eggs, one of which is pipped, and a young bird just hatched reward us, all resting on a bed of chips. The diminutive polly is scantily clothed with white down, and while in the shade lies motionless. When a ray of warm sunlight strikes it the little fellow becomes uneasy and crawls and tumbles about until it escapes from the unwelcome heat. During its activity it keeps up a continuous, low, raucous cry like the mew of a catbird. Far out on the expanse of black pitch—six feet in the depth of this dark cavity!—this little squawking mite surely had a strange babyhood to fit it for its future life in the sunlight among the palms.

It was the Yellow-fronted Amazon Parrot,64 a common species with dealers everywhere, but we shall never see one in a cage, uttering inane requests for crackers, without thinking of the interesting family we discovered at the pitch lake.

We found strange fish in the pools of water scattered over the lake. Some must have wriggled their way over dry land for some distance to get there. There were round, sunfish-like fellows (Aequidens) and others, long and slender, with wicked-looking teeth (Hoplias malabaricus). Most curious of all were the Loricates or armored catfish, with a double row of large overlapping scales enclosing their body from head to tail. Like the Hoatzins among the birds, these fish are strange relics of the past, preserved almost unchanged from the ancient fossil Devonian forms.

Days passed like hours in this wonderland, and the time for returning to civilization came all too soon. The strange living beings which filled jungle and air and water, made us long for the leisure of months instead of weeks, in which to study all the infinite variety of life which surrounded us.

Our last view of Venezuela was like the first—a panorama of silent, majestic green walls, guarding a stream of brilliant copper; every one of the untold myriads of beating hearts beyond the walls resting silent in the noonday heat, waiting for the coolness of evening to awaken them to activity. To some it would bring song and happiness with nest and mate, to some combat, to others death.