The morning was cool, but not clear, and the country so far like the
'Garden of Eden' that there went up a mist from the earth and watered the
whole face of the ground. But the mist was a Scotch mist, which, in less
humid lands, might easily pass for fine rain; and the drip, drip, drip of
heavy dew-drops from the broad banana-leaves sounded like a sharp shower.
At this hour the birds are wide awake and hungry; a hundred unknown
songsters warble their native wood-notes wild. The bush resounds with the
shriek of the parrot and the cooing of the ringdove, which reminds me of
the Ku-ku-ku (Where, oh, where?) of Umar-i-Khayyam. Its rival is the
_tsil-fui-fui-fui_, or 'hair grown,' meaning that his locks are too long
and there is no one to cut or shave them. Upon the nearest tall tree,
making a spiteful noise to frighten away all specimens, sits the
'watch-bird,' or _apateplu_, so called from his cry; he is wary and
cunning, but we bagged two. The 'clock-bird,' supposed to toll every hour,
has a voice which unites the bark of a dog, the caw of a crow, and the
croak of a frog: he is rarely seen and even cleverer than 'hair grown.'
More familiar sounds are the _roucoulement_ of the pigeon and the tapping
of the woodpecker.
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