It was just about this season that you used to take us to the cottage you had on the Lagoa de Bodingo Freitas. What various amusements we had there! The road along the slope of the mountain was so pretty, among myrtles, begonias, and paullinias; and there we were always sure of finding the diamond-beetle; and then when gradually descending from the hill, we drove along the banks of the sea covered with lofty ferns; and when you used to allow us to stop on the shore and search for sea-stars, urchins, shells, and plants. Oh, those were happy times! Or when we used to go with you to the low grounds near the lake, and lose ourselves in the thickets of mangrove trees, while gathering their curious seeds, and wondering at the long roots they shoot out to the ground, and while you were searching for marsh plants and fern bushes. Indeed, I never, never can forget those days; nor the still solitude of that valley, the beauty of the rock of Gavia, covered with the blue gloxinia, and the wild mountain stream that came tumbling down into the lake; nor the poor fishermen who used to look so happy when you gave them a few reals.
Though we live here on the borders of a forest, it is quite unlike that forest near which the Senhor Antonio Gomez lives, and where we used sometimes to spend a few weeks so pleasantly. I miss several little things that seemed to me to belong to a forest, and which used to amuse Marianne and me so much—the howling of the monkeys in the wood, that wakened us in the mornings, and the deep noises of the frogs and toads, with the chirp of the grasshoppers and locusts, like a monotonous treble mixed with that croaking bass.
And then when playing about in the wood after the mists of the night had been dispelled by the rising sun, and when every creature seemed to be rejoicing in the return of day, we had such delight in chasing the pretty butterflies. Nothing at all here like those great butterflies that used to flutter from flower to flower, and hover among the bushes under which we sat; or that sometimes collected in separate companies on the sunny banks of the little stream that ran through the valley near the Senhor’s house. None of those great owl-moths sitting quietly on the trees waiting, with their wings spread open, for the approach of evening. Alas! I see none of those beautiful creatures here; nor the long nests of the wasps hanging from the trees; nor the beetles sparkling brightly on the flowers and fresh leaves; nor the beautiful little serpents, equal to flowers in splendour, gliding out of the leaves and the hollows of trees, and creeping up the stem to catch insects.
I have just been describing to Mary those woods which seemed actually alive, when the monkeys came leaping and chattering from tree to tree, and enjoying the sun; as well as all our birds with their bright plumage, whose various notes formed such extraordinary concerts. The urapong, which makes the woods resound with a noise like the strokes of a hammer on the anvil. The showy parrots of every colour, and the manakin, whose melodious morning song you loved, because it was so like the warbling of the nightingale; and which Mary tells me is called the organiste, in St. Domingo, on account of the compass of its song, as it forms a complete octave. And besides all these, the dear little busy orioles, that my sister and I have so often watched creeping out of the little hole at one side of their long bag-shaped nests, to visit the orange trees, while their sentinels gave them notice by a loud scream of the approach of strangers.
Mary smiled when I told her, what I am sure Marianne remembers—how we used to like to listen to the toucan rattling with his large hollow beak, as he sat on the extreme branches, and calling, in plaintive notes, for rain; and how sometimes, when he was sitting comfortably and almost hid in the nest which he had scooped in the stem of a tree, we used to pretend to alarm him, that we might see how instantly he prepared to attack the invader with his bill.
But these are all passed away. Dear Mamma, forgive this list of pleasing recollections: describing them to you makes me feel as if I was again enjoying them in your company. There is such a glowing splendour, as I told Mary, in the sunny days of Brazil, when the glittering humming-birds dart about, and with their long bills extract the honey from the flowers, that I cannot avoid perceiving how gloomy every thing appears here; but pray do not think me discontented.
Mary, to whom I had been describing all these past delights, came back to me just as I had written so far; and, seeing the tears in my eyes, she seemed to feel with me, and to think it quite natural that I should every moment perceive the difference between two countries so opposite in climate and in every thing; though she laughed a little at my repeating to you all that you see continually; but you know, Mamma, you desired me to write all I thought, and you may well suppose how constantly my thoughts turn towards the country in which you live.
Mary said she should have been surprised if I had not felt the change. “But indeed, Bertha,” said she, “you must not forget how well balanced are our blessings. If Brazil has a climate, and various beautiful productions which England does not possess, England, on the other hand, has far more substantial comforts; and, by her commerce, she has the means of enjoying those of all other countries. We have not your brilliant flowers and birds, but you will find that we have many which are more useful, and which will interest you, who love natural history. Our birds have no pendent nests, because they are in no danger from such depredators as your monkeys and snakes, and therefore their instinct does not lead them to contrive such means of defence; but you will see, amongst both our birds and insects, many whose habits are equally curious.”
I said that I believed, as you, Mamma, have often told me, that there is no country which does not possess much to attach its inhabitants to it, and to interest an observant mind.
“And it is in the mind,” she replied, “that our real happiness will always be found. It rests on our own disposition and thoughts, much more than on those outward circumstances which appear coloured by our feelings; just as objects appear the colour of the glass through which you look at them. But,” added she, “I came not to moralise, but to beg of you to come out and walk.”