"Good God, what else did you get? Did you get any thrushes?" "Yes, I got three thrushes." We asked no more questions. It seemed too ridiculous to ask questions. He had shot twenty-four birds. He hauled out of his shooting coat and unwrapped two crested pigeons, three thrushes, two green paraqueets, three yellow-bibbed doves, three dun-colored fantails, a mountain thickhead, two warblers, three white-eyes, a red-bellied flycatcher and two long-tailed pigeons. He had also shot (as though to thumb his nose, professionally speaking) a crow. The pickanniny who carried it tied by its legs to a stick heaved it on the counter and grinned. January 24th. Marks the third act in my tragedy of the crested pigeons. It was a very fair day and the yellow-bibbed dove shooting had been good going up the mountain. We had also taken a thrush, and Ona and I, quite at peace with the world, had rambled pretty far down the trail to Kokere. We got another and last dove, I resolved never to go barefoot again, and we turned around, all in the space of two minutes. This was at a quarter past three. About half past four as we were very near the summit going back we heard the call of a crested pigeon. I looked at Ona and Ona looked at me. We sat down on the trail and commenced to call back. Each time we called we received an answer, but the pigeon, which seemed to be a long way off, came no closer. It was very discouraging. The bird's location was in a direction at right angles to the trail off and down a