In the evening a few visitors come to the well to drink, having flown, perhaps, long distances from outlying feeding grounds. There are only three varieties: the Red-eyed Grey Dove, which I have come to call “the dove of the sand wastes,” because they are so often present in drear places, and a few tiny Red Waxbills and Grey Serin Finches. When there is not water spilled at the mouth of the well, the birds have learned, in their need to drink, to descend the dark funnel to the water-level; and it is not uncommon to find some unfortunate ones floating on the surface that have fallen in and been drowned. In country of this type birds live on the pickings of the sand or of withered leaf-blade; tiny grass seeds and seeds of plant blooms, grasshoppers, crickets, ants, spiders, flies, and all minute insects that gather about the hearts of plant life in a hot climate. Through the day they hide as best they can from the intense heat, huddled in little places of shade with open, panting beaks; and in the evenings and mornings feed when the sting of the sun is less formidable. A couple of Dorcas gazelle are sighted at sundown, and one is shot; and before the caravan departs next day, there is a Desert Raven at the remains of offal not claimed by my followers. That, with a few variations, is the sum total of bird life seen over a number of weeks of travel in drear country. Seldom, indeed, are they plentiful; and, should one chance upon flocks in a very attractive quarter, they are likely to be of only one or two species. Hence, collecting in the Sahara is a painstaking business, entailing long trying journeys of nomadic character, from one place of promise to another, much fruitless searching, and many disappointments. But enthusiasm is the life of the collector. So that rebuffs and blank days seldom evoke despair. In country of _Tassili_, which is wilderness of another type, the best places for birds are where the land is very rugged and cut up by chasms that run below the surface of the ground. There is often some shrub, weed-plants, and rough grass tufts in the gullies, which furnish some food for bird life, but the spot the collector particularly prizes is where a rare pool of permanent water lies in a rocky cleft. [Illustrations: A BIRD DISGUISE, USED FOR HUNTING GAME] Such a place is Tamengouit, two days north-west of the end of the Aïr Mountains. The approaches are very rough and full of rugged rifts. The country is bleak beyond description, and of black rock; with the frowning hills of Takaraft and Abarakam in the background. It is difficult to find passage for the camels, over rough country of this nature, and we descended at a snail’s-pace toward a sand waste in the distance; while camel-men reconnoitred in front to find a clear course unblocked by sudden chasm. After considerable loss of time, owing to set-backs that necessitated awkward detours, the caravan reached its destination, and camped.