Chapter Thirty Nine.
The Avestruz.
Soon after the trio of trackers have re-entered the algarobia grove, a frizzling, sputtering noise is heard therein; while an appetising odour spreads all around, borne afar on the balmy breeze of the morning. Both the sound and the smell proceed from some choice tit-bits which Gaspar has taken from the body of the great bird—chiefly slices from the thigh bone and breast.
By the time Cypriano has doffed the masquerading dress, and resumed his proper travelling costume, the cooking is done, and breakfast declared ready.
While eating it, by way of accompaniment they naturally converse about the bird. Not the particular one which exclusively forms their repast, but of ostriches in general, and more especially those of South America commonly called rheas; though to the gauchos better known by the name avestruz.
Both the boys are pretty well acquainted with these birds and their habits; Cypriano having several times taken part in their chase; while Ludwig best knows them in a scientific sense. Still there are many of their ways, and strange ones, of which neither one nor the other has ever heard, but that Gaspar has been witness to with his own eyes. It is the gaucho, therefore, who imparts most of the information, the others being little more than listeners.
“Though the thing isn’t generally known,” he says, “there are several distinct kinds of avestruz in different parts of the country. Of myself I’ve seen three. First, a very small sort, not much bigger than a turkey cock. It’s darker coloured than the kind we’re eating, with shorter legs and feathered further down. It don’t lay so many eggs either; but, strange to say, they are almost as big as those of the other sort, only differently shaped, and with a tinge of blue on the shell. It I saw when I once went on an expedition with the Buenos Ayres army down south to the plains of Patagonia. There the climate is much colder than up here, and the avestruz petise, as the bird’s called, seems to like that best; since it’s never seen on the warm pampas farther north. On the other hand, the sort we have here, which is the biggest of all, never strays down to these very cold districts, but goes all over the Chaco country, where it’s hottest. The third kind I’ve seen is in bulk about midways between the two; but it’s a very rare bird, and I believe not known to the learned naturalistas. Isn’t that so, Señor Ludwig?”
“Indeed, yes. I never heard of a third species, though father has told me of the avestruz petise; which, as you say, is only found far south, ranging from the Rio Negro to the Straits of Magellan.”
“Well,” continues Gaspar, resuming his account, “I’m sure of there being there sorts; though I don’t know much about the other two, only this we’ve met here. Of them I ought to know a good deal, having hunted them as often as there are days in the year. One thing there’s been no end of disputation about; and that is whether several hens lay their eggs in the same nest. Now, I can say for certain they do. I’ve seen several go to the same nest, one after the other, and on the same day too. What should take them there if not to lay their eggs? True, they drop them about everywhere, in a very loose, careless way; as can be told by their being seen scattered all over the campo, and far from any nest. What this is for I cannot myself tell; though I’ve heard some gauchos say that these stray eggs—huachos we call them—are laid here and there for the young birds to feed upon. But that can’t be so, since the huachos are never found pecked or broken, but always whole, whether they be fresh or addled. I think it’s more likely that the hens drop these stray eggs because they have no nest in which to put them; that where they have laid their others being already full. Besides, there is the cock sitting upon it; who won’t let any of them come near, once he has taken to hatching?”
“Is it true, then, that the cock does the hatching?” interrogates Ludwig.