plentifully struck from
their sockets by its fall and the blows which it receives from the
branches as it comes to the ground.

Its eggs, of a pale bluish-green, were first procured by Mr. Robert
Owen. Its chief home is in the mountains near Coban in Vera Paz, but it
also inhabits forests in other parts of Guatemala at an elevation of
from 6,000 to 9,000 feet.

From Mr. Salvin's account of his shooting in Vera Paz we extract the
following hunting story:

"My companions are ahead and Filipe comes back to say that they have
heard a quesal (Resplendent Trogon). Of course, being anxious to watch
as well as to shoot one of these birds myself, I immediately hurry to
the spot. I have not to wait long. A distant clattering noise indicates
that the bird is on the wing. He settles--a splendid male--on the bough
of a tree not seventy yards from where we are hidden. It sits almost
motionless on its perch, the body remaining in the same position, the
head only moving from side to side. The tail does not hang quite
perpendicularly, the angle between the true tail and the vertical being
perhaps as much as fifteen or twenty degrees. The tail is occasionally
jerked open and closed again, and now and then slightly raised, causing
the long tail coverts to vibrate gracefully. I have not seen all. A ripe
fruit catches the quesal's eye and he darts from his perch, plucks the
berry, and returns to his former position. This is done with a degree of
elegance that defies description. A low whistle from Capriano calls the
bird near, and a moment afterward it is in my hand--the first quesal I
have seen and shot."

The above anecdote is very beautiful and graphic, but we read the last
sentence with pain. We wish to go on record with this our first number
as being unreconciled to the _ruthless_ killing of the birds. He who
said, not a sparrow "shall fall on the ground without your Father," did
not intend such birds to be killed, but to beautify the earth.

The cries of the quesal are various. They consist principally of a low
note, _whe-oo_, _whe-oo_, which the bird repeats, whistling it softly at
first, then gradually swelling it into a loud and not unmelodious cry.
This is often succeeded by a long note, which begins low and after
swelling dies away as it began. Other cries are harsh and discordant.
The flight of the Trogon is rapid and straight. The long tail feathers,
which never seem to be in the way, stream after him. The bird is never