We frequently speak of our familiarity with the habits of the species we have long and carefully observed in a state of nature; yet the knowledge so gained must necessarily be exceedingly imperfect, for with many shy vigilant birds it is next to impossible to see them without being seen; and no bird, conscious of being watched, will act unconstrainedly any more than a human being with clouded reputation will comport himself naturally with the eyes of a detective on him. While we are observing the bird, the bird watches us: of all its curious doings when we are out of its sight and mind we see nothing. The only way to learn the habits of a species like the Ypecaha--wary, intelligent, and passing its life behind a screen of rushes--is to domesticate it; for although in this state some instincts are blunted and others remain in abeyance, they are not obliterated. It might surprise some that I speak of the Ypecaha as an intelligent bird, since it is a member of the "stupid family," as Professor Parker has called the Rails; but in spite of the very profound admiration I feel for that illustrious anatomist, I believe he is wrong about these birds: there is, to my mind, very much more stupidity in the Auserine and Limicoline families, while the Ypecaha has always seemed to me a singularly intelligent bird. Fortunately Azara was able to give an account of one of these birds in a domestic state, which shows that it makes a very sprightly and entertaining, although a mischievous pet. It was taken young and allowed to run about at liberty with the poultry at the house of a village doctor in Paraguay. When full-grown it was very domineering, and became the tyrant of the poultry-yard. Occasionally a cock had the courage to face it, and then a singular combat would ensue: the Ypecaha, moving with astonishing rapidity, putting its head low down, would charge, and, thrusting its head between the cock's legs, fling him instantly on his back, then rain a shower of blows on his breast before he could rise. It was fond of eggs, and always knew when a hen went off to lay, cautiously following her to the nest and then concealing itself at some distance to wait. As soon as the egg was dropped it would run, pick it up with its beak, and carry it away to a safe distance, and then, breaking a hole in the shell at one end, suck out the contents without spilling a drop. Sometimes, when the hen remained too long on the nest, it would lose its temper and, driving her off, pursue her with the greatest animosity about the grounds, administering correction with its sharp beak. Not satisfied with devouring all the eggs laid by the doctor's fowls, it visited all the neighbours' houses, doing so much damage that at length the poor doctor, afraid perhaps that his practice would suffer, had the troublesome bird put to death.