ntil very lately, have made war upon each other when
their food supply ran low, in order to secure prisoners, whom they
roasted and ate.

In these thick woods along the coast, curious nests of unfamiliar
birds also catch the eye, securely fixed among the pendulous orchids
and creeping ferns. All is so new to a northerner that he is on the
watch for every typical object which may present itself. He does not
fail to mark the nest of the tailor-bird, the little creature which
ingeniously sews leaves together to suit its purpose, and that of the
weaver-bird with its tunnel-like entrance; both are common in the
district which we are describing. The nest of the grosbeak is
remarkable, being two feet long, and composed of finely woven grass as
strong as the texture of common straw hats. It is shaped like an
elongated pear, and suspended at the extreme end of a branch, swinging
back and forth in the wind. The entrance is at the bottom, so as to
render the nest secure against the attacks of snakes, monkeys, and
other enemies. Sometimes a score of these nests are seen in the same
tree. There is also a species of wasp whose architectural proclivities
are displayed in the building of stout, pendant nests five feet in
length. Low down among the undergrowth, say five feet from the earth,
there are colonies of spiders, whose webs are nearly as strong as
pack-thread, absolutely barring the way in some places among the dense
wood. Coming upon an open glade, a wild peacock is seen. He exhibits
no fear of our presence, but flaunts his feathery splendors with all
the self-sufficiency of conscious beauty. Farther on, we see pretty
specimens of the bird of paradise. Now the land becomes low and
marshy, and a broad lake glistens in the sun. Here are plenty of
water-rail, blue kingfishes, and metallic dragon-flies, the latter
skimming over the still water, daintily touching the surface now and
again. Hereabouts the woods and open glades are crowded with bird
life. Storks, cranes, ibises, herons, pelicans, and flamingoes abound
in the low, wet grounds, marshaling themselves in long files, like
trained bodies of men, along the shore of the fresh-water ponds. The
flamingo is called the English soldier-bird by the natives because of
its habits, and its pink epaulets, which tip the body joints of its
otherwise snow-white wings.

The effect is indeed ludicrous when a dozen or more flamingoes, each
standing quietly upon one leg, with its head folde