We had come to Copan to work, and, as the early morning hours are precious in these tropical climes, dawn always found the camp astir. Fires were soon lighted. As the sun rose Gorgonio would appear at the tent-door with two big bowls of hot coffee, pan-dulce, and bananas, and by 7 o’clock all were off to work: my husband provided with note-books, tape-measures, and drawing-board, followed by the mozos with machetes and scrubbing-brushes, ready for any labour—from clearing bush to scrubbing moss and lichens from the sculptures, preparatory to the moulding-operations, which Gorgonio carried out with such skill and patience. My duties lay mostly in the camp, and were purely housewifely in character, for, as no woman could be found in the neighbourhood who had any knowledge of housework or cooking, I had to do the work myself. The cooking was, of course, the most arduous part of the performance, but the housework occupied at least an hour in the morning. First, the blankets must be hung in the sun to keep them dry and free from insects, then the tent had to be swept out and cleaned of ants and occasional scorpions. Every few days we sent mozos into the hills around to bring in huge bundles of fresh sweet-smelling pine-needles, which were spread over the floor of the house as a carpet, and every morning this carpet had to be attended to. Then came the preparation of breakfast for three hungry persons, for our party was increased by the arrival from Coban of Mr. Erwin Dieseldorff, an enthusiastic archæologist who had come to us on a visit, and had brought with him Gorgonio’s brother Carlos Lopez (an old assistant of my husband) and three Indian mozos.
The tiny kitchen and larder stood beneath the shade of a wide-spreading Ficus tree, and for convenience of serving the food, as well as to save me many steps, we placed the table close beside it. It was a charming dining-room in such a climate, for during the four weeks of our stay not a drop of rain fell to mar the comfort of our al fresco meals. The great Ficus gave us friendly shade from the noonday sun, and at supper-time the moon played hide-and-seek between its branches as they were gently swayed by a soft and balmy breeze.
We shared our dining-room with the birds, who came in flocks to feed on the Ficus and other fruit-bearing trees, and we were never weary of watching them at play amongst the branches overhead. At first the parrots and parroquets vastly outnumbered all the others, and appeared to have formed a settlement in the tree above our tent. These parrots were a boisterous family, who woke at dawn and began screaming and chattering whilst they performed round the branches all those gymnastic feats which I have thought were only devised in captivity to vary the monotony of cage-life; but the parroquets, who lived in the same tree, appeared to be quiet little creatures who nestled near to one another, whispering and cooing gently, until some sudden impulse would seize both parties, and they would dash off in the air, flashing circles of gold and red and green as the sun caught the glint of their plumage, and then return as suddenly to the shelter of the trees to chatter loudly over their exploits. An hour or so after sunrise the noise of the parrots ceased, but whether they flew away or hid themselves amongst the thick foliage I could never make out; certain it is that they disappeared until evening, when they again woke the echoes with their cries before settling for the night.
COPAN. STELA B.
About a week after our arrival, as the fruit ripened upon other trees, the birds greatly increased in numbers, and the air was filled with song and chattering throughout all but the noonday hours. The grey jays perched quite close to us when we were at work, turned their heads knowingly from side to side, and indulged in ribald remarks at our expense; and big toucans, with bright yellow breasts, flew clumsily from tree to tree, as though over-weighted by their great green-and-yellow bills. Sometimes an aurora, or yellow-breasted trogon, honoured us with a visit; less gorgeous in plumage than his relation the quetzal, he nevertheless possesses a fair share of beauty, and his dignity of deportment was imposing as for hours together he sat, almost motionless, solemnly contemplating us and our doings. Now and then the gurgling note of an oropendula rang through the grove, and this large cinnamon-coloured oriole, with yellow tail-feathers, would spend half an hour with us, flying from tree to tree and uttering his strange musical cry. The natives told me that there had been numbers of them about the ruins the previous year, as they then had a settlement close by in a tree overhanging the river, where their hanging nests had numbered over two hundred; but some ardent collector had cut off a branch with three or four nests attached to it, to carry home as a specimen, and the whole colony of birds had at once forsaken the tree and formed a new settlement some distance away. Our occasional visitor was doubtless one of the migrants who had ventured to come back to feed on the fruit-trees he had known of old.
I deeply regretted the disappearance of the colony, as it would have been delightful to watch the birds at one’s leisure. Only once during our journey did I get the chance of watching them, and that only for a short time. As a precaution against attack, the birds always select for their home a tree with a long clean stem standing out from the surrounding vegetation, and a certain smooth red-barked tree with rather thin foliage seems to be an especial favourite. The long bag-shaped nests, with an entrance at the top, are attached to the spreading branches, and swing freely in the breeze. During the nesting-season such a tree-top is a scene of much animation. The birds are continually flying off in all directions in search of food for their mates or families and returning home with their prizes. They seldom hover round the tree, but go straight away as though each had his own well-known hunting-ground. Some few of them will perch for a while on the branches near their nests, and one old bird always stands sentinel on the topmost branch, uttering every few moments his queer musical cry; but should any sign of danger be discerned—and they seem to be of a somewhat nervous temperament—the cry at once changes to a short sharp note, which quickly brings all the birds who are out foraging back to their homes. The sentinels are relieved from time to time, and one can often tell by a slight change in the voice when a new sentry has come on guard.
Flocks of noisy blackbirds we had always with us, and the “tap, tap, tap” of the red-headed woodpecker—“carpintero,” as the Spaniards call him—could be heard through the grove almost all day long. Now and then one could espy amongst the branches a beautiful mot-mot. It was a long time before I could be brought to believe that these birds really trimmed their two long tail-feathers with their own beaks into the fashionable shape, clearing the midrib for an inch or so bare of all plumes, and leaving the characteristic spatula-shaped expanse at the end; but since my return home I have had a good look at the interesting case in the hall of the Natural History Museum, and the untrimmed tail-feathers of the poor mot-mot who had injured his beak and could not cut his tail properly is quite convincing. How his neighbours must have laughed at him for being out of the fashion!
There was one bird whom I never caught sight of, and knew only by his sweet but unsatisfactory song. This song is charmingly musical as far as it goes, but then he never finishes it: just as it is becoming most interesting, he hesitates and stops about a third short of the keynote, waits a moment as though to consider what is wrong, then begins over again, only to stop with the same half-apologetic note, leaving one with the impression that he would like to finish his song, but has forgotten how it goes.
A pair of hoary-headed, disreputable-looking zopilotes hovered about the kitchen all day long, waiting for scraps and clamouring vociferously when a chicken lost his head. When night came the owls hooted at us from the lofty branches of the great ceiba trees, and the cry of the night-jar (or “Puhuyak,” as the natives call him) sounded through the wood. According to the Indian legend, the Puhuyak is one of the birds appointed to guard the gates of Xibalba, the place of departed spirits, which is thought to be situated somewhere near the banks of the Usumacinta. His fellow guardian is his relation the Whip-poor-Will, and sometimes they watch together, and at others take turn and turn about. Oddly enough, the cry of the Puhuyak sounds exactly like “Who are you?” and, chancing to awake in the stillness of the night, one would hear this question reiterated about every half-minute, without the ghost of an answer, until I used to think that if anything could add to the terror of finding one’s self at the gate of Xibalba it would be to hear the Puhuyak ask that irritating question with his casual unsympathetic manner and harsh voice.