“Brings back old times in the South American forests, Nat,” he said coolly. “I could put a name to nearly every musician at work in Nature’s orchestra yonder.”
“What was that horrible cry?” I whispered. “Jaguar or puma?”
“Neither, my boy; only a heron or crane somewhere up the stream.”
“That snorting croak, then?”
“Only frogs or toads, Nat; and that chirruping whirring is something in the cricket or cicada way. If we heard a jaguar or puma, it would most likely be a magnified tom-cat-like sort of sound.”
“But that mournful howl, uncle?” I whispered.
“A poor, melancholy spider-monkey saying good-night to his friends in the big trees. Most of the other cries are made by night-birds out on the hunt for their suppers. That cry was made by a goat-sucker, one of those ‘Chuck-Will’s-widow’ sort of fellows. They’re very peculiar, these night-hawks. Even ours at home keeps up that whirring, spinning-wheel-like sound in the Surrey and Sussex fir-woods. Ah, that’s a dangerous creature, if you like!” he said, in a whisper.
“Which?” I said, below my breath.
“That piping ping-wing-wing.”
“Why, that’s a mosquito, uncle,” I cried contemptuously.