A flock of teal skimmed the water and disappeared up-stream. The shot awakened parrots in the trees, where for a while there was clamor. Ken saw George wade out into the shoal and pick up three ducks. “Pot-shot!” exclaimed Hal, disgustedly. “Why couldn’t he be a sport and shoot them on the fly?” George crossed to the opposite shore and, climbing a bare place, stood looking before him. “Hey, George, don’t go far,” called Ken. “Fine place over here,” replied George, and, waving his hand, he passed into the bushes out of sight. Ken lay back upon his blanket with a blissful sense of rest and contentment. Many a time he had lain so, looking up through the broad leaves of a sycamore or the lacy foliage of a birch or the delicate crisscross of millions of pine needles. This overhead canopy, however, was different. Only here and there could he catch little slivers of blue sky. The graceful streamers of exquisite moss hung like tassels of silver. In the dead stillness of noonday they seemed to float curved in the shape in which the last soft breeze had left them. High upon a branch he saw a red-headed parrot hanging back downward, after the fashion of a monkey. Then there were two parrots asleep in the fork of a branch. It was the middle of the day, and all things seemed tired and sleepy. The deep channel murmured drowsily, and the wide expanse of river on the other side lapped lazily at the shore. The only other sound was the mourning of turtle-doves, one near and another far away. Again the full richness, the mellow sweetness of this song struck Ken forcibly. He remembered that all the way down the river he had heard that mournful note. It was beautiful but melancholy. Somehow it made him think that it had broken the dreamy stillness of the jungle noonday long, long ago. It was sweet but sad and old. He did not like to hear it. Ken yielded to the soothing influence of the hour and fell asleep. When he awoke there was George, standing partially undressed and very soberly popping ticks. He had enlisted the services of Pepe, and, to judge from the remarks of both, they needed still more assistance. “Say, Garrapato George, many ticks over there?” “Ticks!” shouted George, wildly, waving his cigarette. “Millions of ’em! And there’s--ouch! Kill that one, Pepe. Wow! he’s as big as a penny. There’s game over there. It’s a flat with some kind of berry bush. There’s lots of trails. I saw cat-tracks, and I scared up wild turkeys--” “Turkeys!” Ken exclaimed, eagerly. “You bet. I saw a dozen. How they can run! I didn’t flush them. Then I saw a flock of those black and white ducks, like the big fellow I shot. They were feeding. I believe they’re Muscovy ducks.” “I’m sure I don’t know, but we can call them that.” “Well, I’d got a shot, too, but I saw some gray things sneaking in the bushes. I thought they were pigs, so I got out of there quick.” “You mean javelin?”