Now, although the Quezal or Resplendent Trogon is such a magnificent bird, he is not so very often seen. It is difficult to find him in the dense forest, and I wish it was still more difficult than it is, for when he _is_ found, he is always shot for those beautiful feathers of his. When the Indian who is looking for him sees him sitting in the way I have told you, he hides somewhere near and imitates the cry of the bird. When the poor Trogon hears it, he thinks it is another Trogon--a friend of his, perhaps--and so he comes flying to where the sound came from. Then this deceitful man--and I really think it is _very_ contemptible to deceive a bird in that way--shoots him, and there is one beautiful, happy bird less in the world. Is it not dreadful to think of, that in almost every part of the world there are some _very_ beautiful birds to be found, and everywhere they are being killed and killed and killed, so that they are getting scarcer and scarcer every year? If it were not for what your mother has promised you about the Lyre-bird, and what she is going to promise you about this Trogon, there would soon be no more beautiful Lyre-birds in Australia, and no more beautiful Trogons in Mexico. How terrible that would be! But we have saved the beautiful Lyre-bird, and now we are going to save the beautiful Trogon. Ask your mother--oh, _do_ ask her--to promise, most _faithfully_, never to have anything whatever to do with a hat that has any of the feathers--short or long, golden-green or vermilion--of a Quezal--a Resplendent Trogon--in it. Ah, now she has promised, and we have saved that beautiful bird as well as a great many others.