220 Today the dank unearthly places were a little less dank and unearthly, for the sun had penetrated the thick vegetation and imposed a few dry and half warm oases on the dark wilderness of the place. There was no wind and the quiescence seemed more overpowerful than ever. When I took off my shooting coat and threw it on one side of the trail I could hear my watch ticking very plainly from where I lay on the other. Of all the rare birds Ona and I were in search of we were most desperately in search of a crested pigeon. The mess we had made in respect to crested pigeons on Friday had been hard for us to bear. The bird has a low whistling call which is almost an inversion of the call of the long-tail dove with a longer pause between the two notes. It is an easy call for a man to imitate and both of us had bayed it out against the sky hope- fully, like Irish wolves after attaining the first look- out. We had sent it out all along the ascending ridge and dropped it into the valley below. When we had mounted to the summit we sent down into the ravines on the other side. But always there was no answer. I had heard the call off the trail and passed on not know- ing what it was. Although the birds are uncommon their call, which I had heard, sounds as though it was being made from a great distance even when the bird is near. Before I knew anything about the crested pigeon I must have lost one or two through this illusion. There seemed to be no birds left in Bougainville.