“All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— The desert and illimitable air— Lone wandering—but not lost. Thou art gone—the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form.” In those pure fields of ether, unvisited even by the thunder-cloud, regions which may be regarded as his own exclusive domain, the Condor delights to sail, and with piercing glance survey the surface of the earth, toward which he never stoops but at the call of hunger. Surely this power to waft and to sustain himself in the loftiest regions of the air—the ability to endure, uninjured, the exceeding cold attendant upon such remoteness from the earth, and to breathe with ease in an atmosphere of such extreme rarity—together with the keenness of sight that, from such vast heights can minutely scan the objects beneath, as well as the formidable powers of this bird, when the herds are scattered before him; were sufficiently admirable to entitle the Condor to our attention, and to give us promise of goodly sport in the approaching Condor or Lasso Hunt. A large landed proprietor, a descendant of one of the early Spanish patentees, to whom we had been indebted for abundant supplies of fruit and provisions, as well as for numberless civilities, conveyed to us at length the welcome tidings that the Condor, numerous as the sands of the shore had stooped from his sublime domain, to the base of the mountain, and that the hunt would commence in the morning. The sun had scarcely risen in the heavens, when our party of from twenty-five to thirty, sprang from the boats to the beach. The plain before us ran in a gently ascending slope to the base of the hill about one mile distant. The hunt was up—and the field in the distance was dotted with scampering herds of cattle and groups of horsemen, mingled in one dusty mêlée, the sight of which lent wings to our speed, as vaulting into the deep Spanish saddles, prepared by our worthy host, we sprang onward to the field of blood. Impelled by the cravings of resistless appetite, the Condor, regardless of danger, pressed forward to assail the herds of the plain; while the watchmen, having sounded the alarm, the numerous population turned out, as well to protect their cattle, as to hunt the mountain-bird—the Chilian’s manly pastime.