or he knows no sin." See
how the nocturnal flies are tormenting the herd, and with what dexterity
he springs up and catches them, as fast as they alight on the belly,
legs, and udder of the animals. Observe how quiet they stand, and how
sensible they seem of his good offices, for they neither strike at him,
nor hit him with their tail, nor tread on him, nor try to drive him away
as an uncivil intruder. Were you to dissect him, and inspect his
stomach, you would find no milk there. It is full of the flies which
have been annoying the herd.

The prettily-mottled plumage of the goatsucker, like that of the owl,
wants the lustre which is observed in the feathers of the birds of day.
This at once marks him as a lover of the pale moon's nightly beams.
There are nine species here. The largest appears nearly the size of the
English wood-owl. Its cry is so remarkable that, having once heard it,
you will never forget it. When night reigns over these immeasurable
wilds, whilst lying in your hammock, you will hear this goatsucker
lamenting like one in deep distress. A stranger would never conceive it
to be the cry of a bird. He would say it was the departing voice of a
midnight-murdered victim, or the last wailing of Niobe for her poor
children, before she was turned into stone. Suppose yourself in hopeless
sorrow, begin with a high loud note, and pronounce, "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha," each note lower and lower, till the last is scarcely heard,
pausing a moment or two betwixt every note, and you will have some idea
of the moaning of the largest goatsucker in Demerara.

Four other species of the goatsucker articulate some words so distinctly,
that they have received their names from the sentences they utter, and
absolutely bewilder the stranger on his arrival in these parts. The most
common one sits down close by your door, and flies and alights three or
four yards before yon, as you walk along the road, crying, "Who-are-you,
who-who-who-are-you?" Another bids you, "Work-away,
work--work-work-away." A third cries mournfully, "Willy-come-go.
Willy-Willy-Willy-come-go." And high up in the country, a fourth tells
you to "Whip-poor-Will. Whip-whip-whip-poor-Will."

You will never persuade the negro to destroy these birds, or get the
Indian to let fly his arrow at them. They are birds of omen and
reverential dread. Jumbo, the demon of Africa, has them under his
command; and they equally obey the Yabahou, or Demerara