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 mountains, and I think it will be better to re-enter the forest.”

This was sensible advice, and was followed. After an hour’s walking, we reached a regular forest of sago- trees. Some harmless serpents fled at our approach. The birds of paradise disappeared, and I was beginning to despair of getting a specimen, when Conseil, who was ahead, stooped suddenly, uttered a triumphant cry, and came back to me carrying a magnificent bird of paradise.

“Bravo, Conseil!” I cried.

“Monsieur is very good,” replied Conseil.

“Not at all, my lad. You have made a master-stroke, to catch one of those birds alive in your hand!”

“If Monsieur will examine it more nearly, he will see that there is nothing very wonderful in it after all.”

“Why, Conseil?”

“Because the bird is as drunk as an owl!”

“Drunk!”

“Yes, sir: intoxicated with the nutmegs under the tree, where I took him. Just see, friend Ned, the terrible effects of intemperance!”

“A thousand devils!” exclaimed the Canadian, “it is rather hard to reproach me with intemperance—I, who have not tasted spirits for two months!”

Meanwhile I was examining this curious bird. Conseil was right. The bird of paradise, intoxicated by the “heady” juice, had become helpless. It could not fly, scarcely walk. But that did not trouble me at all, and I let it “get over it.”

This bird belongs to the most beautiful of the eight