steep slope wooded with almost impenetrable bamboo. We kept on calling, growing more excited and more for- lorn as the minutes passed. And the pigeon kept on calling, only its call sounded as if it was becoming a little fed up with the persiflage and very soon would cut it out altogether. It began to dawn on me that my gun, my hunting, in fact the cut of my whole figure was an immortal joke to all the crested pigeons in Bougain- ville. I grew slightly red in the face. I could bear it no longer. Ona and I started back on the trail for the place, sounding nearest to the pigeon, from which to cut down into the bush. It was farther away than we expected it to be, due, I suppose, to the distance sound carries in that altitude. The pigeon kept on answering our call at detached, disinterested intervals. But they were enough to lead us. We pushed, felt, scratched, and crashed our way down the side of the ridge. As I slipped and fell on my face over a log I remember think- ing that the pigeon's call was sounding closer. When I got up I saw a large bird flying over a distant tree and I was about to start in that direction when I heard the "s-s-s-s-t!" signal from Ona behind me. I turned around and saw him making all sorts of frantic wild gestures at the top of another tree closer to him. I became very excited immediately. A crested pigeon within grasp! After all this martydom! There was a slippery trunk of a fallen tree bridg- ing a gully between Ona and myself. The tree he pointed