Our first tramp was in a general south or southeast direction, passing over a succession of hills, five in all, three of which were high and quite steep, but all of about the same diameter with regular slopes and flat, narrow valleys. These were mostly swampy, or if dry had a stream flowing slowly along the middle. Agoutis were abundant in such places and we could always depend on obtaining them when desired. As we left the bungalow I had laughingly asked Mrs. Wilshire what meat she desired for dinner and she said “Venison.” So when I told Francis, in the broken English which we must use in talking to these Indians, that we must get deer, he nodded and disdained the agoutis. If I had said, “Francis, we must be sure to get deer to-day in preference to other game,” he would have understood not a word. But “Shoot-um deer, eh? no accourie, no labba, no maipurie,” outlined the day’s work perfectly in his mind. I was rather reluctant to use this _um! ugh!_ language at first; it savored too much of theatrical Indian dialect or of “penny dreadful” wild-west jargon, but it soon became perfectly natural and was really necessary. After a half-hour’s walk Francis motioned me to take the greatest care, and pressed my shoulder lower until I was almost on my knees while we slowly crept around a great mora trunk. He pointed steadily ahead, but after a three-minute scrutiny I could discern not a sign of life. Then he raised his gun and fired, and set loose a half dozen feathered bombs, or so it sounded as a flock of nearly full-grown Guiana Crested Tinamou[2] arose with a roar. I secured one with a quick snap shot and we tied up the brace of birds with a slender tough bush-thread. Fastening head, feet and wings together, the Indian tied them ingeniously around his waist, the birds hanging down behind out of the way. At the sound of the guns three tiny male Purple-throated Euphonias[138] clad in purple jackets, yellow caps and waistcoats, came down to see what the noise was about. They were ridiculously tame and sang their simple chattering song in our very faces. In the fourth valley we found a perfect maze of agouti tracks mingled with the fresh imprint of a tapir’s feet. Francis showed me the spot where he had shot one of these “bush-cows” the week before. A few yards beyond we found a deer’s track and in some way the Indian seemed to know that the animal was close at hand. We crawled silently for twenty or thirty yards through a shallow creek, then separated and crept along the slope, one on each side. A sudden rustling of vines came from a bend in the stream and we both caught sight of the bright rufous flanks of a deer. We secured it and then for some reason Francis remained perfectly quiet for five minutes while a delightful bit of wilderness life appeared close to me.