“No,” he said, half aloud, “it must have been the mother, for she would make her nursery somewhere in hiding, for fear that papa should want to play Saturn, and eat his children up.”
The cubs whined softly a little, and nestled their soft heads against his hand. Then they sank down in the nest-like hollow of a decayed limb of the tree and went to sleep, while Oliver Lane found a tough vine-like stem behind which he was able to tuck his piece safely. And a few moments after, regardless of volcanoes, earthquakes, tidal waves, foul gases, and ferocious beasts, the young naturalist went off fast asleep, and did not stir till he heard, mingled with his dreams, the shrill shrieking of a flock of paroquets, which were climbing about among the smaller branches of the tree high overhead, and feasting upon the fast ripening figs.
Chapter Fifteen.
Plutonic Action.
It took Oliver Lane some time to pass from a sound sleep gradually through half-waking dreams to the full knowledge of his position, and then, albeit somewhat cramped and stiff, feeling rested and bright, he lay back listening to the calls and answers of the birds, and watching them with a true naturalist’s intense delight. For there he was in the very position he had longed to reach, right amongst nature’s gems in their own abode, full of life and vigour. He had seen these birds before, but as attractively-plumaged dry specimens. Here they were hanging, crawling, and climbing about, busy, with every feather in motion, their eyes bright, and beaks and claws all abloom with colour. Now their feathers were tightly pressed to their softly-curved bodies, now standing almost on end, giving the birds a round, plump aspect that was delightful when the sun gleamed through, and flashed from the golden green, bright scarlet, or vivid blue, with which they had been painted by nature’s loving hand. Others were entirely of a beautiful green, all save their heads, which glowed with a peach bloom, while, again, others bore the same leafy uniform, and, for decoration, a dark collar, and long, pencil-like-produced feathers in their tails.
There was the gun close at hand. Lane had but to take it from beneath the creeper which held it fast; but, at this time, it never occurred to him that he might secure two or three splendid specimens for the collection he sought to make, so occupied was he by the action of the flock in the tree.
It was all delightful to him to watch the soft, easy, deliberate way in which the paroquets climbed with beak and claw, hooking on with the former, and then raising one foot with its soft, clasping, yoke-toes to take a firm hold before bringing up the other; then, holding on by both, and swinging gently to and fro, the beak was set at liberty, and the bird hung head downwards, to feast upon some luscious fig.
“If they only had a sweet note, instead of their harsh scream,” thought Lane, “what lovely creatures they would be.”