When we come to Birds, however, beauty is not the exception, but the rule. The form of a bird is almost always graceful; the rounded swellings and undulations of outline, and the smoothness of the plumage give pleasure to the eye, even when there is no attractiveness of hue. One has almost a difficulty in naming an inelegant bird. But when, as in a thousand instances, brilliancy of colouring is combined with elegance of shape and smoothness of plumage, we must be charmed. Is not our own little goldfinch, is not the pert chaffinch that comes up to our very feet for a grain or a crumb, a pretty object? But the tropical birds,--we must look at them if we wish to know what nature can do in the way of adornment. We should go to the flats on the embouchure of the Amazon, and see the rosy spoonbills, in their delicate carnation dress, set off by the lustrous crimson of their shoulders and breast-tufts, feeding by hundreds on the green mud, or watch the gorgeous ibises, all clad in glowing scarlet with black-tipped wings, when, in serried ranks, a mile in length, like the vermillion cloud of morning, they come to their breeding-place,--a truly magnificent sight.[204] The first of the Parrot tribe that I ever had an opportunity of seeing in its native freedom was the beautiful Parrakeet of the Southern States. Eighty or a hundred birds in one compact flock passed me flying low, and all nearly on the same plane; and, as they swept by, screaming as they went, I fancied that they looked like an immense shawl of green satin, on which an irregular pattern was worked in scarlet and gold and azure. The sun's rays were brilliantly reflected from the gorgeous surface, which rapidly sped past like a splendid vision. The Cock of the Rock is a fine South American bird of the richest orange colour, crowned with a double crest of feathers edged with purple. Mr Wallace describes his search for it on the Rio Negro, and his admiration of its beauty. Some time he sought in vain, for it is a rare bird, till the old Indian who was his guide suddenly caught him by the arm, and, pointing to a dense thicket, whispered in a low tone, "Gallo!" Peering through the foliage, the naturalist caught a glimpse of the magnificent bird, sitting amidst the gloom, and shining out like a mass of brilliant flame. As it is easily alarmed and very wary, it required some following and perseverance before he shot it. One of his Indians descended into the deep rocky glen into which it fell, and brought it to him. "I was lost," he says, "in admiration of the dazzling beauty of its soft downy feathers; not a spot of blood was visible, not a feather was ruffled, and the soft, warm, flexible body set off the fresh swelling plumage in a manner which no stuffed specimen can approach."[205]