“It must have been a leopard, then,” said Panton.
“No,” said Oliver decisively, “not that made the loud crashing noise. One of those great cats would have glided away almost in silence. I fancy that it was some kind of deer. Keep on steadily and we may hunt up another.”
But they tramped on for quite an hour, without any such good fortune, though had their aim solely been collecting specimens, their opportunities were great. For at every opening sun-birds flitted here and there, poising themselves before some blossom which they probed with their long curved bills, and sent forth flashes from their brilliant plumage like those from cut and polished gems. Every now and then too, thrush-like birds flew up from beneath the bushes—thrush-like in form but with plumage in which fawn or dove colour and celestial blues preponderated. Mynahs and barbets were in flocks: lories and paroquets abundant, and at last Lane stopped short and held up his hand, for from out of a patch of the forest where the trees towered up to an enormous height, and all beneath was dim and solemn-looking as some cathedral, there came a loud harsh cry, waark, waark, wok, wok, wok, and this was answered several times from a distance.
“Only some kind of crow,” said Panton, “and we don’t, as the American backwoodsman said, ‘kinder hanker arter crow.’”
“Kind of crow? yes, of course,” said Oliver impatiently. “That’s the cry of the great bird of Paradise. Come along quietly, we must have some specimens of them.”
“No, no,” cried Panton. “If we fire at them good-bye to any chance of a deer. Steal up and have a look at them, we shall have plenty more chances.”
Oliver was strongly tempted to fire, for just then a bird skimmed down from on high into the gloom beneath the trees, and they had a glimpse of the lovely creature, with its long, loose, yellowish plumage streaming out behind as if it were a sort of bird-comet dwelling amongst the trees. Then it was gone, and the young man consoled himself with the thought that had he fired the chances were great against his hitting, and it would have been like a crime to let the bird go off wounded and mutilated to a lingering death.
He thought this as they stood listening to the cries of the birds, harsh, powerful, and echoing as they rang out in all directions.
“Not the kind o’ bird as I should choose for his singing, eh, Billy?” said Smith, suddenly breaking the silence of the gloomy spot.
“Well, no, Tommy, can’t say as I should either for the sake o’ the moosic, but there’s a deal o’ body in it.”