“Is there any point on which you differ from Spix in his account of the Chowchowtow, Mr. Mackaw?” “My dear sir, I don’t follow him at all. Dr. Spix is a most excellent man, a most accurate traveller, quite a name; but, to be sure, I’ve only read his work in our own tongue; and I fear from the passage you have just quoted, five feet seven inches high! in Brazil! it must be an imperfect version. I say, that four feet nine is the greatest height I know. I don’t speak without some foundation for my statement. The only bird I know above that height is the Paraguay cassowary; which, to be sure, is sometimes found in Brazil. But the description of your bird, Mr. Grey, does not answer that at all. I ought to know. I do not speak at random. The only living specimen of that extraordinary bird, the Paraguay cassowary, in this country, is in my possession. It was sent me by Bompland, and was given to him by the Dictator of Paraguay himself. I call it, in compliment, Doctor Francia. I arrived here so late last night, only saw his Lordship, or I would have had it on the lawn this morning.” “Oh, then, Mr. Mackaw,” said Vivian, “that was the bird which screamed last night!” “Oh, yes! oh, yes! Mr. Mackaw,” said Mrs. Felix Lorraine. “Lady Carabas!” continued Vivian, “it is found out. It is Mr. Mackaw’s particular friend, his family physician, whom he always travels with, that awoke us all last night.” “Is he a foreigner?” asked the Marchioness, looking up. “My dear Mr. Grey, impossible! the Doctor never screams.” “Oh! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw!” said Vivian. “Oh! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw!” said Mrs. Felix Lorraine. “I tell you he never screams,” reiterated the man of science; “I tell you he can’t scream; he’s muzzled.” “Oh, then, it must have been the Chowchowtow.” “Yes, I think it must have been the Chowchowtow.” “I should very much like to hear Spix’s description again,” said Mr. Mackaw, “only I fear it is troubling you too much, Mr. Grey.” “Read it yourself, my dear sir,” said Vivian, putting the book into his hand, which was the third volume of Tremaine. Mr. Mackaw looked at the volume, and turned it over, and sideways, and upside downwards: the brain of a man who has written three folios on parroquets is soon puzzled. At first, he thought the book was a novel; but then, an essay on predestination, under the title of Memoirs of a Man of Refinement, rather puzzled him; then he mistook it for an Oxford reprint of Pearson on the Creed; and then he stumbled on rather a warm scene in an old Château in the South of France. Before Mr. Mackaw could gain the power of speech the door opened, and entered, who? Dr. Francia. Mr. Mackaw’s travelling companion possessed the awkward accomplishment of opening doors, and now strutted in, in quest of his beloved master. Affection for Mr. Mackaw was not, however, the only cause which induced this entrance.