In the Wilds of South America

by Leo E. Miller

The little wren-like birds of this genus (Scytalopus), known commonly as “tapacolas,” are perhaps among the most difficult to collect of any species in South America, and for this reason they are invariably only poorly represented in museum collections. Native collectors, hunting mainly with blow-guns, have gathered many thousands of birds, the greater number of which have eventually found their way to millinery establishments and scientific institutions in many parts of the world; but usually only those of brilliant plumage, and others which could be taken with little difficulty, have been collected. The small, slate-colored or blackish tapacolas, found only in the densest of subtropical forests or among the tangled vegetation bordering bleak, frigid paramos, have usually been overlooked. This is not surprising when we find how seldom even the trained field-naturalist of to-day finds it possible to lure the tiny, feathered creature from its secure retreat among the mosses, roots, and ferns to which its mouse-like habits confine it, and how rarely he succeeds in recovering the inconspicuously colored bird after it has been shot. Even after a long, patient search has revealed the specimen lodged somewhere in the deep stratum of matted plants, it is by no means sure of reaching the museum; I know of instances where birds, slipping from the hunter’s hands and dropping at his feet, have been forever lost in the riot of vegetation which everywhere carpets the ground.

Our quest for this little creature was destined to extend over a period of months, and to take us into many an out-of-the-way place. We were eager to begin the search, so took the first available train which left La Quiaca two days after our arrival and started southward.

Leaving the desolate settlement, the railroad winds upward through a narrow, rocky gorge to the station Tres Cruces, the altitude of which is twelve thousand four hundred feet. There it descends at a steep grade—so steep in fact that a rack and pinion are used part of the way. The rocky knobs flanking the gorge are old and weathered and very picturesque. A small stream winds back and forth across a boulder-strewn course; the water is clear and cold. About mid-afternoon we encountered an abrupt change in the type of country. The bare crags and narrow, rocky floor of the gorge gave way to a wide expanse of brush-covered land and green pasture. This change was first noticeable at a small station called Leon (elevation five thousand feet); the vegetation grew thicker and the landscape more inviting as we continued the journey. At dusk we reached Jujuy, a city of some pretensions; the buildings are attractive, the streets are broad, and the people appeared clean and intelligent. Following Jujuy were numerous small towns and stations; also many truck-farms owned by Italians who were settling in Argentina in great numbers. There were also vast green meadows in which fine-looking cattle, horses, and sheep were grazing.

Our first stop was at Salta. The journey from La Quiaca had required fifteen hours.

Salta has about thirty thousand inhabitants, and is a modern city. It possesses wide, paved streets, buildings of imposing dimensions, electric trolleys, and lights, a zoological park, good hotels, and a college. The contrast between being in a city where comforts and luxuries abounded, and living on the bleak, Andean uplands amidst stolid Quechuas guarding their herds of llamas, was great, and we enjoyed the change to the fullest extent. After frozen potatoes and canned provisions, the inviting coffee-houses were irresistible; and the “movies” made us forget the miles of inhospitable desert. Fortunately there were enough of each of these attractions so that we could spend a whole day visiting them, alternating from one to the other, without repeating.

Our first headquarters in the Argentine were made at Rosario de Lerma, one hour by train from Salta. This is a most delightful spot and afforded rare opportunities for work and observation. The town contains about one hundred houses and is surrounded by fields, pastures, and patches of low, open woods. There is an abundance of water, and excellent meat, fruits, and vegetables may be had in abundance. The people are industrious and of good appearance, and treated us courteously.

We soon discovered that in Argentina we were not at liberty to carry on our work in any place or manner that suited our purpose; in other words, there were game-laws, closed and open seasons, and it was necessary to secure permits from the owners of all lands on which we proposed to hunt. Of all these restrictions we were ignorant, and spent a blissful three days doing as we pleased; then a sergeant of police called and notified us that we were under arrest, and to call at headquarters as soon as convenient. I lost no time in going to see the chief, explained the nature of our work to him, and then acting on his suggestion took the next train to Salta to get a permit which entitled us to hunt anywhere within that province. All this was accomplished within a few hours. The various officials with whom I came in contact were most courteous and obliging.

Our study of bird-nesting at Rosario de Lerma was confined largely to observing the parasitic habits of the black cowbird (Molothrus b. bonariensis), referred to by the Spanish-speaking people as the “tordo.” The bird usually called tordo, however, is a species of oriole, highly esteemed as a cage bird on account of its not unmusical singing ability. This bird is of slender, graceful build, about the size of a red-winged blackbird, and of a uniform glossy, purplish-black color except on the wings and tail, which have a pronounced greenish sheen. The female is of a dark, ashy-brown color.

We saw flocks of them daily in the fields, on the backs of cattle grazing in the pastures, in the courtyards of houses, in corrals, and more particularly in the scattered trees, which were almost certain to contain at least one nest of the oven-bird (Furnarius) or of some species of brush-bird (Phacellodomus). Usually the flocks were composed of from ten to twelve individuals, the bright, glossy males outnumbering the dull, grayish females in the proportion of four to one. Azara gives the proportion of males to females as ten to one, but this disparity is too great for any part of the Argentine known to me.

The birds are noisy, keeping up a loud chatter, especially where a flock is on the wing, or when preparing for the night’s sleep. The male bursts into a short, pretty song with frequency, dropping his wings and moving in a nervous manner while singing. Apparently the female does not sing.