We had made two successful expeditions into the jungle or “bush” of Guiana, and now our third and last trip was to be in the open savanna region in the eastern portion of the Colony, near the coast. The first resident American to welcome us to British Guiana was Mr. Lindley Vinton who, with Mrs. Vinton, did all in their power to make our stay in Georgetown a pleasant one. Their house was made our home and certainly no strangers in a strange land were ever made more welcome than were we.
Mr. Vinton is a living refutation of the statement that continued residence in the tropics invariably results in loss of energy, for seldom, even in our own virile country, can one find a man more full of vitality. At the time of our visit he was interested in several large concessions, one of which was a rice growing proposition on the Abary River.
When he promised “Canje Pheasants,” or Hoatzins11 in his back yard, and thousands of Ducks flying past every day, we smiled as we remembered the Hoatzins in the depths of the Venezuelan mangroves. But, exaggerated as we believed his enthusiastic reports to be, we were glad indeed to accept his invitation to spend a week at the bungalow on the rice plantation. We ultimately found that he had actually understated the conditions of bird life on the Abary!
On April 12th, Milady and I took the funny little compartment train for Abary Bridge, or, as our ticket read, Belladrum, which we reached at 9.30 after a two hours’ slow ride.
The land along the coast is all flat savanna, dotted for the first half of the journey with tumbled down coolie huts and tiny dyked fields of pale green young rice. Later for some distance these give place to large groves of cocoanuts. On the left, stretch the seawall dykes, relics of Dutch industry, perfected by the English.
Throughout the entire journey, hundreds, sometimes thousands of birds were in sight, often for several miles in succession; but as exactly similar scenes were later visible and at closer range on our up-river trip, I will not repeat myself.
The train was stopped for our benefit at the bridge across the so-called Abary River, which proved to be a little stream only about a hundred and twenty-five feet wide. Loading our luggage and ourselves into a fussy little launch we chugged up-river for three hours.
Along the right bank—the leeward—for most of the distance, grew an irregular fringe of bushes and low trees. Beyond, almost to the horizon, stretched the vast savanna, covered with reeds, rushes and tall coarse grass, each a pure culture in its place of occurrence.
Scattered over this great expanse were myriads of birds of many species, the only other visible living creatures being a small herd of half-wild cattle here and there.
Fig. 143. American Egret on the Abary River Savanna.
For the first few miles two species predominated—as they had almost all the way from Georgetown—the Little Yellow-headed154 and the Red-breasted Blackbirds.155 Few more beautiful sights can be imagined than a cloud of these birds rising ahead of the train or launch, and scattering far and wide over and through the reeds. The general color of both is a rich black, which itself contrasts strongly with the green of the savanna. But when we add to this the brilliant yellow head and neck of the former and the scarlet throats, breasts and wing edges of the latter, the color scheme is one which is never forgotten. The two species would rise in distinct flocks, perhaps six or eight hundred of each, flow up and over the tall grass in two living waves of scarlet and gold, and then intermingle, the rain of red and yellow sparks being gradually quenched by the green expanse, as the birds settled among the shelter of the reeds. Of course these flocks were composed only of those individuals close to the track or the river bank. How many myriads were scattered over the savanna we shall never know. We must have flushed a great many thousand of these two species in the course of the day, and scattered among them were a few Guiana Meadow larks157 looking much like our northern birds.
Every few dozen yards over the savanna, a tall white figure stood motionless, silently watching us—American Egrets32 distributed for their day’s fishing, hundreds dotting the marsh, each solitary, statuesque. Among them was a sprinkling of Wood Ibises28 and beautiful Cocoi Herons.31 These latter were much shyer than the others and all within a hundred yards of us would take to flight as we passed, leaving their more fearless comrade-fishers in full possession.
All these Herons soon became a common sight, and we swept mile after mile of savanna with our glasses, seeing nothing but the white birds dotted everywhere. At last we were rewarded, and a giant white Stork came into sight, towering above the Herons, with black head and neck, and the sun reflected from the distended scarlet skin of the lower neck. The bill had the faintest of tilts upward and we knew we were looking for the first time at a living Jabiru,30 the biggest and perhaps the rarest wading bird of our continent. It stands fully five feet in height and the spread of the wings is about eight feet.
Soon another appeared a half mile farther on, and a third, and before our journey’s end we had seen at least a dozen of these splendid birds. We have but one or two meagre descriptions of its nesting and I therefore have included among the illustrations a most interesting one taken by Dr. Bingham, showing a Jabiru on its nest together with its two half-grown young. These birds do not nest on the Guiana savanna but retire at the rainy season far into the interior.
Fig. 144. Nest and Young of Jabiru. (Photo by Bingham.)
Spur-winged Jacanas23 in loud cackling pairs were everywhere, showing conspicuously against the green reeds—dark chocolate when at rest and flashing pale yellow in flight. Guiana Cormorants47 and Snakebirds48 rose or dived ahead of the launch, twenty of the former taking refuge in one small tree as we passed.
Hawks were abundant and one of the most numerous was the Cream-headed Hawk,54 which soared low over the savanna or perched on the shrubs along the bank. Small birds showed no fear of it, often alighting in the same tree. From almost every bush along the river bank little Guiana Green Herons38 flew up from their nests, built close to the surface of the water. These herons “froze” like Bitterns when they alighted, standing motionless with the bills at an angle of 45°. Along the railroad they were semi-domesticated, flying fearlessly in and out of the coolie yards, and snatching bits of food from the very door-ways of the huts.
About eleven o’clock, on rounding a sharp turn in the river, we saw what appeared to be great expanses of burnt marsh. On and on we went and at last we realized that we were looking at vast phalanxes of Ducks. Suddenly, without warning, a living sheet of birds rolled up from the ground, hung a moment, then gained momentum and wheeled upward. Thousands began to rise at once, until for fifty or a hundred yards on each side of the river, there was an almost unbroken wave of birds, flying upward and backward. From this mass of life, giving forth a medley of shrill whistles which soon deepened into a perfect roar of wings, single lines of ducks detached themselves, shooting out in all directions, passing up and across the river, or right and left out over the savanna. They were Gray-necked Tree-ducks45 with a plentiful scattering of the Rufous44 and a very few White-faced.46 The great curving wave never ceased for a moment as we approached, but widened and thickened and wheeled over and behind us until the sky was pitted with their bodies. I took picture after picture with my Graflex, the ground glass reflecting a myriad of swiftly moving forms.
Then the Ducks which had first arisen, having flown in a great circle over the savanna, returned, and intersecting the newly arisen host, formed a crisscrossing maze which carpeted the heavens with a close warp and woof of living birds. Even in Mexico, where we had watched the vast flocks of Ducks and Geese on Lake Chapala, there was nothing to equal this. The Ducks looked dark against the sunlight but whenever they veered, the white wing-bands flashed like mirrors.
Fig. 145. Gray-necked Tree-ducks rising From the Savanna.
We counted the birds in one short line near us and found there were four hundred and twenty individuals. No one could count those in even one of the flocks but there must have been at least twenty thousand in the first phalanx we encountered.
As we passed on, many hundreds settled again on their feeding grounds, where nothing was visible of them save a myriad heads and necks, stretched high and watching us curiously. As many others however flew far away, the dense matted flocks fraying out into long single or double lines, some of which must have been a half mile in length.
In this region these birds are Tree-ducks only in name, as later in the year hundreds of eggs will be found scattered over the savanna, and sooner or later the flocks will dissolve into pairs, each to nest on some low hummock in the marsh.
These Ducks never settle on the open water of the river on account of the many dangers swimming beneath, of which more anon. They sleep and feed and nest among the thick growth of reeds and grass of the savanna itself.
After passing the second main body of Tree-ducks we now and then heard a louder whistle of wings, and a family flock of four or five great black Muscovy Ducks43 would rush past; the leader, the drake, being almost twice the size of the members of his harum.
Small birds were not much in evidence from the launch, although Anis80 were abundant, fluttering awkwardly among the bushes, and the big Kiskadees101 were nesting about every hundred yards. This was the first time in the Colony that we had seen these latter birds nesting away from human habitations, so this open savanna region would appear to be their natural home, while the other yellow Tyrants frequent wooded river banks.
At one o’clock we came in sight of a barn-like shelter in which was housed a huge steam traction plough, and radiating out across the savanna were the lines of dykes which marked the great fields intended for rice planting.
Fig. 146. Our Bungalow on Abary Island.
A few minutes more of steaming brought us to a landing place on a small island, with the bungalow in the centre. This islet and in fact this whole region has an interesting history. All this savanna was once a densely wooded jungle of mora trees, eta palms and other growth. In 1837 a drought occurred of such extent that all the vegetation—trees, palms and underbrush—became dry as chips. The inevitable followed and a fire started in some way which swept this whole region, reaching in places even to the Demerara. Then floods came, broke through the loosened barrier of tangled roots, and infiltrated through the soil. Grass and reeds took the place of the great moras, and now, almost to the horizon, stretches the flat, open expanse of marsh. Indeed it is only to the west that trees are visible, where two miles away “eta bush” begins. In the tops of these palms the black Muscovy Ducks make their homes, feeding out on the marsh and bringing down their young—so it is reported—in their beaks.
Sixty years ago or thereabouts, many runaway slaves fled into the interior, most of them hiding in the recesses of the “bush” or high woods. These lived either with the Indians, in many cases intermarrying with them, or founded settlements by themselves. Some of these unfortunate blacks, however, made their way up the Abary and when they had come thus far—eighteen miles—finding no habitable land they set to work to make an island.
In the midst of this then (as practically now) unexplored region, these desperate men toiled at the black muck of the river edge, scooped it up and packed it on the foundation of reeds until a more or less dry island of about five acres had been formed. Here to-day we found a low mound of rich black mould, with nine good-sized isolated trees, several cocoanut palms and a few bananas. Corn planted here grows with wonderful rapidity.
The long occupancy and numerous inhabitants of the islet is attested by the thousands of pieces of pottery with which the ground is covered. On some I found a rude attempt at decoration, and the shape of the rims and handles were much like the primitive African art of to-day. There was probably a low hummock or mound as the nucleus for the island, and four or five feet beneath the surface several Indian stone axes have been unearthed—telling of still earlier human habitation—perhaps in the days of the jungle.
Here we had planned to spend a week, but were prevented by an accident from remaining more than three days, but even in the short space of thirty-six hours of daylight we learned much of the life on and about this islet.
Our two other trips had been to tiny islands of cleared ground in the midst of a sea of the densest jungle; here we were marooned in the shade of a little isolated group of trees on a diminutive hillock of earth, bounded in all directions by an impenetrable marsh. If one so much as took a single step from the island, it was into three feet or more of water and tangled reeds, too dense to push a boat through. During the rainy season boats can be poled through, and at the dry season firmer footing is possible, but our visit was at a time betwixt and between. I have made a small rough plan of our domain on the Abary, Fig. 147.
The river was at this point only about seventy-five feet in width, flowing almost due south. As we ascended it, a narrow inlet became visible in the right bank, which led into a good-sized lagoon about as wide as the river, which had probably been formed by the excavation of the marsh. This lagoon bounded the north and part of the east sides of the island. The prevailing wind was from the east and this probably accounted for the line of small trees and bushes being almost altogether on the western bank.
We were welcomed at the bungalow by Mr. Harry, the young American engineer in charge, who, without the ornate phrases of Spanish hospitality, but in the simple American manner, put the bungalow and everything at the plantation at our disposal.
Fig. 147. Map of Abary Island.
Nothing more different from what we encountered in the bush can be imagined. There, no sunlight save what sifts down through the tall trees; here, a blaze of light from horizon to horizon: there, hosts of living creatures, but as a rule single individuals of a species or in pairs; here, unnumbered hosts in flocks of many thousands of the same species. It was a wonderland guarded by stern guardians; teeming with life on land, in the air and in the water. Not a moment of the day, or for that matter, of the night was free from sight or sound of some of these interesting creatures.
Fig. 148. Abary River, showing High Growth on West Bank.
First as to the guardians. The sun we found to be a most terrible menace on the quiet open waters, and an exposure of an hour would have resulted in most painful blisters, and these in the tropics are of more serious moment than in the north. With broad-brimmed hats, however, there was no danger.
Fig. 149. Spider Lily near Abary Island.
The day, even out on the marsh itself, was comparatively free from insects, but at 5.30 a few mosquitoes appear. By 6 o’clock one would call them numerous, and between 6.30 and 7.30 they are legion and ferocious. One cannot sit still unprotected for a moment at a time. After 7.30 they all disappear, especially when there is a light wind, but at nine o’clock they are present in full numbers again. We slept the first night, or rather lay down, on cots with nets. The mosquitoes, or most of them, could apparently easily make their way through the mesh, but when swollen with blood failed to escape again. We slept but little, kept awake by the biting and humming of the wretches.
From daybreak when we arose until about nine o’clock sand flies held high revel, biting severely, after which all the insect pests vanished and one could decide to postpone suicide until the coming night! After this however we used close cloth nets, which defeated the efforts of the mosquitoes.
We found so much to interest us on and in the immediate vicinity of the islet that we made no extended trips either up or down the river. In the three days we lived there we observed the following fifty species of birds, nineteen of which (marked with asterisks) were nesting on the islet or within a few yards of it:
The most interesting of all were the Hoatzins,11 whose raucous squawks brought vividly to our minds the mangrove swamps of Venezuela where we had studied them last year.
Fig. 150. Nest of a Hoatzin in the mucka-mucka on which these Birds feed.
As I have said the east bank of the river is for the most part clear of growth, save for the reeds and grasses of the savanna. Along the western bank is a dense shrubby or bushy line of vegetation; occasionally rising to a height of twenty or thirty feet or again appearing only two or three yards above the reeds beyond. The brush grows altogether in the water and consists chiefly of a species of tall Arum, or mucka-mucka, as the natives call it, frequently bound together by a tangle of delicate vines. Here and there is a low, light-barked tree-like growth. This narrow ribbon of aquatic growth was the home of the Hoatzins, and from one year’s end to another they may be found along the same reaches of the river. In general, their habits did not differ from those of the birds which we observed in Venezuela. Throughout the heat of midday no sight or sound revealed the presence of the birds, but as the afternoon wore on a single raucous squawk would be heard in the distance, and we knew the Hoatzins were astir.
Fig. 151. The Author Photographing Hoatzins.
Directly in front, between the bungalow and the river, as may be seen from my diagram (Fig. 147), the brush had been cut away on either hand for a distance of about sixty yards. Every evening from 4.30 to 5.30 P.M., the Hoatzins gathered on the extreme northern end of this wide break in their line of thickets, until sometimes twenty-five or thirty birds were in sight at once. Some would fly down to the low branches and begin to tear off pieces of the young tender shoots of the mucka-mucka. With much noise and flapping of wings, several made their way to a single bare branch which projected out over the cleared marsh. The first bird would make many false starts, crouching and then losing heart, but the next on the branch, getting impatient, at last nudged him a bit, and at last he launched out into the air. With rather slow wing beats, but working apparently with all his power, he spanned the wide extent of cleared brush, then the ten feet of water, then fifteen yards more of stumps, and with a final effort he clutched a branch—and his goal was reached! After several minutes of breathlessness he continued on his way out of sight into the depth of the brush. The second Hoatzin would then essay the feat, but fail ignominiously and fall midway, coming down all of a heap among the stumps. Here a rest was taken, and for five or ten minutes the bird would feed quietly. Then a second flight carried it back to the starting point or to the end of the open space.
Sometimes when the birds alighted and clutched a twig, they would be so exhausted that they toppled over and hung upside down for a moment.
Watching the Hoatzins carefully with stereos for several evenings in succession we came to know and distinguish individual birds. Two, one of which had a broken feather in the right wing, and the other a two-inch short central tail feather, were excellent flyers and, taking their leaping start from the high branch, never failed to make their goal, going the whole distance and alighting easily. All of the others had to rest and one which was moulting a feather in each wing could achieve only about ten yards. This one fell one evening into the water at the second relay flight, and half flopped, half swam ashore.
One evening a Hoatzin flew toward us and alighted near some hens on the ground, but took wing almost instantly back to his brush-wood. A day or two before we came one of the birds had used a beam of the porch as a perch.
This general movement occurred at both sunrise and sunset and was always as thorough and noisy as we found it the first evening of our stay. For months, we were told, it had been kept up as regularly as clockwork.
Fig. 152. (A) Female Hoatzin flushed from her Nest; the Male Bird approaching.
In the morning as the sun grew hotter the birds became quiet and finally disappeared, not to be heard or seen again until afternoon. They spend the heat of the day sitting on their nests or perched on branches in the cooler, deeper recesses of their linear jungle.
Fig. 153. (B) Female Hoatzin in the same Position, the Male having flown nearer.
The last view of them in the morning, as the heat became intense, or late in the evening, usually revealed them squatted on the branches in pairs close together. On moonlight nights however they were active and noisy, and came into the open to feed. The habit of crouching or settling down on the perch is very common with the Hoatzins, and it may be due to the weakness of the feet and toes. I am inclined however to consider it in connection with the general awkwardness in alighting and climbing, as a hint of the unadaptability of the large feet to the small size of the twigs and branches among which they live. Inexplicable though it may appear, the Hoatzin—although evidently unchanged in many respects through long epochs—yet is far from being perfectly adapted to its present environment. It has a severe struggle for existence, and the least increase of any foe or obstacle would result in its extinction.
At the time of our arrival the Hoatzins had just begun to nest. They were utilizing old nests which, although so apparently flimsy in construction, yet were remarkably cohesive. The nests are almost indistinguishable from those of the “Chows” or Guiana Green Herons which were built in the same situations. The latter were usually low over the water, while the Hoatzins’ were higher, from five to twelve feet above the surface of the marsh. The twigs were longer and more tightly interlaced in the Hoatzin’s nest, and while the nests of the Heron crumbled when lifted from the crotch, the others remained intact. The Hoatzins placed their nests in crotches of the tree-like growths, or more rarely supported by several branched mucka-mucka stems. Both sexes aided in the building as we observed two birds collecting and weaving the twigs. Three sets of eggs which came under our observation numbered respectively 2, 3, and 4. From what information I could gather, two seems to be the usual number.
The eggs are rather variable in shape. One which I have, from the Orinoco, is elliptical, while my Abary specimens are oval. The ground color is creamy white. The entire surface is marked with small irregularly shaped dots and spots of reddish brown, inclining to be more abundant at the large end. The brown pigment deposited early in the oviduct is covered by a thin layer of lime and thereby given a lavender hue. The size averages 1.8 by 1.3 inches.
Hoatzins seem to be very free from enemies, although from year to year their numbers remain about the same. The waters beneath them are inhabited by numbers of otters, crocodiles, anacondas and voracious fish, so that death lies that way. They seem also to fear some predatory bird, for whenever a harmless Caracara Hawk53 skimmed low over the branches on the lookout for lizards, the Hoatzins always tumbled pell mell into the shelter of the thick foliage below.
Fig. 154. (C) Male Hoatzin alarmed and about to take Flight.
We found that the best time to approach and photograph the birds was during their siesta. As we paddled along the bank they scrambled from their perches or nests up to the bare branches overhead, calling hoarsely to one another. Pushing aside the dense growth of Arums and vines, we worked our canoe as far as possible into the heart of the bush, to the foot of some good-sized tree perhaps a foot in diameter. Stepping from the boat to the lowest limb, Milady would hand me the big Graflex with the unwieldy but necessary 27-inch lens, and I began my painful ascent. At first all was easy going, but as I ascended I broke off numerous dead twigs and from the broken stub of each issued a horde of black stinging ants. These hastened my ascent and at last I made my way out on the swaying upper branches. (Fig. 151.) From here I had a fairly clear view of the surrounding bush and if I worked rapidly I could secure three or four pictures before the Hoatzins took flight and hid amid the foliage.
Fig. 155. (D) Female Hoatzin crouching to avoid Observation.
Of all my pictures that of Fig. 157 is the prize. We came upon a flock of Hoatzins late in the afternoon and were fortunate enough to get into a clear space and to photograph eleven on the same plate; the confused mass near the centre of the picture containing four individuals. Fig. 148 shows the character of the country where we found the Hoatzins on Abary River, with the line of dense growth on one side and the level savanna on the other.
A study of an individual pair of birds is given in Figs. 152 to 156, and the actions of these two birds were so typical of Hoatzins that an account of them will apply to the species in general. I made these photographs from a boat, standing on the thwarts while Milady guided it through the brush.
We flushed the female from her nest (marked by a circle in Fig. 150) and she flew to a branch some eight feet higher (Fig. 152). The male then appeared from a tree beyond (centre of Fig. 152). We remained perfectly quiet, and the next photograph shows her tail-on, looking about, while the male, who has flown nearer, is watching us suspiciously. Fig. 154 shows the male on another perch, still more alarmed, and a moment later he thrashed his way out of sight. Meanwhile the female had rediscovered us and crouched down (Fig. 155) hoping to avoid observation, but as we pushed closer to the nest, she rose on her perch, spread tail and wings to the widest (Fig. 156), her scarlet eyes flashing, and uttering a last despairing hiss, launched out for a few yards. At this moment, as may be seen in the same picture, a second pair of birds left their nest in the next clump of undergrowth and raised their discordant notes in protest at our intrusion.
The assertion which we made last year—Milady having been the first to observe it—that Hoatzins use their primaries as fingers, in the same way that the chicks and partly grown young use their wing claws, has been received with some doubt, and I am glad to offer a photograph (Fig. 156) as evidence. In the right wing of the Hoatzin, the thumb feathers are plainly visible, with their inner edges fretted away, while the first six primaries also show signs of severe wear, such as would be expected from the rough usage to which they are put.
Attention is called to the apparent immobility of the crest, which is as fully erect in the crouching Hoatzin (Fig. 155) as in the same bird a minute or two later, alert and about to fly (Fig. 156).
Thus it was that we took the first photographs ever made of these most interesting birds.
Fig. 156. (E) Female Hoatzin taking flight, with wings fully spread; a second pair of birds leaving their nest, in the background.
Insects were abundant on the island and if we had taken time we could have made an interesting collection. Three species of bright Orange butterflies were numerous (Euptoieta hegesia, Colaenis phaerusa and the familiar Red Silver-wing, Agraulis vanillae, of our northern fields), and with these were also a White (Pieris monuste) and a Yellow (Callidryas statira). The three commonest dragon-flies were Diastatops tincta, Erythrodiplax umbrata and E. peruviana.
There were two pairs of Black-capped Mocking-thrushes126 on the island and they afforded us much amusement. They are true cousins of the Catbird and Mockingbird, and from their actions would almost seem to have a strain of Chat blood! A pair lived in each of the brush clumps a and b (Fig. 147) and hour after hour would sit calling and answering each other. One pair (the two birds sitting close to each other) would shout in unison powie! powie! powie! rapidly a dozen times in succession. The other pair responded week! week! week! week! as often and as rapidly. At each enunciation the half-spread tails of the respective pair of birds wagged violently from side to side, exactly as if pulled with a string. As the utterances of each of the two birds were synchronous, the wagging was always in perfect time, but sometimes the “strings” got crossed with this effect (a); or this (b); but almost every time the movement was in unison thus (c); or thus (d). These active, interesting birds have in addition an elaborate song, uttered singly, which these individuals were practising but which we had heard fully developed at La Brea in Venezuela.
Fig. 157. Flock of Eleven Hoatzins.
Purple Gallinules13 and Cayenne Wood Rails12 were seen every day but were not abundant. A pair of the latter were nesting near the island and well merited their native name of Killicow, screaming a confused chorus of syllables resembling these for five minutes at a stretch every morning.
Among the smaller marsh birds, Jacanas23 easily held first place, both in numbers and in action and voice, day and night. About every half hour through the day a group of these birds would set up a wild and frantic clacking, sounding as if a dozen hens were being pursued and had about given up all hope of escape. This was usually caused by the appearance of a crocodile, large or small, from beneath the lily pads. All the Jacanas within sight would gather at once and dance excitedly about on the surrounding pads until the pestered reptile sank again into the muddy waters. Several times we saw trios of these birds in play or combat, each holding the wings spread low and in front, ready to strike with the sharp spurs or to protect their own body by the buttress of feathers. They are very graceful in all their motions, holding the wings straight upward for a few seconds after alighting.
This being practically a treeless region, the birds were of necessity either terrestrial, aquatic or aërial, and the latter formed a not inconsiderable percentage. Terns were one of the most picturesque features of the savanna, flying over and around the island in small flocks, the large Great-billed fellows14 with black caps and wings, and the tiny Eye-browed species15 reminding one of our Least Tern. Both beat back and forth, or hung fluttering over the lagoon, and now and then dropped plummet-like after a small fish.
The Swallows were legion—six species in all, forever swooping over the marsh or snatching sips of river water as they flew. The Variegated119 were the most beautiful, and we welcomed as old friends Barn121 and Tree Swallows,120 whose twittering forms brought our northern autumn marshes vividly to mind. Many Flycatchers and Seed-eaters were nesting close by, while the beautiful Orioles159 clung to their pendent nests over the water, and a House Wren124 divided his time between inspecting his brood in a hollow stub at the foot of the bungalow steps, and singing his heart out, from the roof. The little “Rooties” or Cinnamon Spine-tails94—absurdly Wren-like but in reality Woodhewers which have deserted tree-trunks for reeds—showed us their homes, concealed in great untidy balls of twigs. As they flit here and there through the bushes and grasses, they let off a sound like a miniature rattle.
The mornings and evenings, here as elsewhere in the tropics, are the periods of greatest activity among birds and other creatures. In the afternoon, before the Hoatzins began to gather, great tarpon would play in the river, the shower of drops scattered by their leaps sparkling like silver in the slanting rays of the sun. The few in the lagoon are of small size, but tarpon in the Abary reach a weight of 185 pounds. A swirling in the shallows near the landing shows where an anaconda (Eunectes murinus) is stirring after his day’s rest. His mate, ten feet long, has just been shot after having helped herself to the bungalow chickens—one each night for a week, and serpent number two (whose size our Arrawak Indian squaw cook places at a fabulous thirty feet or more!) must soon pay the same penalty unless he changes his diet.