He had just picked up a fresh specimen which had fallen to the doctor’s gun.
“Well, it is more novel than beautiful, Jack,” said the doctor, as they turned over and re-arranged the dark purple, or dark-brown, or claret, or black, or green metallic plumage, for it might have been called either according to the angle at which it was viewed. “Come, this will help to make them believe that birds of paradise are of the crow family.”
“No one ever saw a crow half as beautiful as that,” cried the lad.
“At home—no. But look at the shape of this bird—its wings, claws, and build altogether; doesn’t he look as if he could be a crow?”
“There is a slight resemblance, certainly,” said Jack; “but this isn’t a bird of paradise.”
“It is next door to one, my lad, and I am surprised to find it here.”
“You know what it is then?”
“I know there’s a northern Australian bird almost like it, if not quite. I think it is the rifle bird. We’ll have a good look when we get back. Take special care of that one, Lenny.”
“Ay, ay, sir. I takes special care of all of ’em, when the bushes and thorns ’ll let me.”
They were well up the gully through which the stream off which the yacht was anchored ran, for, finding the place rich in specimens, they had toiled up higher and higher that morning.