at was hidden from several hundred others from where I was. It was necessary for me to come back over the trunk of the tree. While I struggled to execute a quiet reverse passage Ona advanced towards me, always keeping his eyes fixed on the bird. We met on the trunk of the tree. He pointed out the bird. It was a crested pig- eon. It was walking and turning about on six inches of a high limb. One branch of a large fern in front of me covered the aim from where I was. I moved further along the trunk, squatting and shoving myself down to get a clear shot at the pigeon. I was becoming more and more excited, my footing was becoming more slippery, and the pigeon was becoming more intensely desirable. Finally I got an aim. Squatting with my left hand_ on Ona's shoulder I raised the gun in a wobbly sort of way, sighted as best I could, and fired. As both Ona_ and I slipped off the trunk and crashed to the ground_ we could also hear the pigeon crash in the distance. I looked at Ona and Ona looked at me. Suddenly_ we both let out a whoop, I threw my gun in the air and yelled and yelled. Ona screamed out all sorts of mar- velous native exclamations and dashed off in the jungle. We never found the bird. Two and a half hours later when it was almost dark, I discovered one gray feather resting on the leaf of a small ground plant. We were still on the top of the mountain. Ah! Those crested pigeons!