The Naturalist in La Plata | Page 4

afterglow.
The last occasion on which I saw the pampa grass in its full beauty was
at the close of a bright day in March, ending in one of those perfect
sunsets seen only in the wilderness, where no lines of house or hedge
mar the enchanting disorder of nature, and the earth and sky tints are in
harmony. I had been travelling all day with one companion, and for two
hours we had ridden through the matchless grass, which spread away
for miles on every side, the myriads of white spears, touched with
varied colour, blending in the distance and appearing almost like the
surface of a cloud. Hearing a swishing sound behind us, we turned
sharply round, and saw, not forty yards away in our rear, a party of five
mounted Indians, coming swiftly towards us: but at the very moment
we saw them their animals came to a dead halt, and at the same instant
the five riders leaped up, and stood erect on their horses' backs.
Satisfied that they had no intention of attacking us, and were only
looking out for strayed horses, we continued watching them for some
time, as they stood gazing away over the plain in different directions,
motionless and silent, like bronze men on strange horse-shaped
pedestals of dark stone; so dark in their copper skins and long black
hair, against the far-off ethereal sky, flushed with amber light; and at
their feet, and all around, the cloud of white and faintly-blushing
plumes. That farewell scene was printed very vividly on my memory,
but cannot be shown to another, nor could it be even if a Ruskin's pen
or a Turner's pencil were mine; for the flight of the sea-mew is not

more impossible to us than the power to picture forth the image of
Nature in our souls, when she reveals herself in one of those "special
moments" which have "special grace" in situations where her wild
beauty has never been spoiled by man.
At other hours and seasons the general aspect of the plain is
monotonous, and in spite of the unobstructed view, and the unfailing
verdure and sunshine, somewhat melancholy, although never sombre:
and doubtless the depressed and melancholy feeling the pampa inspires
in those who are unfamiliar with it is due in a great measure to the
paucity of life, and to the profound silence. The wind, as may well be
imagined on that extensive level area, is seldom at rest; there, as in the
forest, it is a "bard of many breathings," and the strings it breathes upon
give out an endless variety of sorrowful sounds, from the sharp fitful
sibilations of the dry wiry grasses on the barren places, to the long
mysterious moans that swell and die in the tall polished rushes of the
marsh. It is also curious to note that with a few exceptions the resident
birds are comparatively very silent, even those belonging to groups
which elsewhere are highly loquacious. The reason of this is not far to
seek. In woods and thickets, where birds abound most, they are
continually losing sight of each other, and are only prevented from
scattering by calling often; while the muffling effect on sound of the
close foliage, to' which may be added a spirit of emulation where many
voices are heard, incites most species, especially those that are social,
to exert their voices to the utmost pitch in singing, calling, and
screaming. On the open pampas, birds, which are not compelled to live
concealed on the surface, can see each other at long distances, and
perpetual calling is not needful: moreover, in that still atmosphere
sound travels far. As a rule their voices are strangely subdued; nature's
silence has infected them, and they have become silent by habit. This is
not the case with aquatic species, which are nearly all migrants from
noisier regions, and mass themselves in lagoons and marshes, where
they are all loquacious together. It is also noteworthy that the subdued
bird-voices, some of which are exceedingly sweet and expressive, and
the notes of many of the insects and batrachians have a great
resemblance, and seem to be in accord with the aeolian tones of the
wind in reeds and grasses: a stranger to the pampas, even a naturalist

accustomed to a different fauna, will often find it hard to distinguish
between bird, frog, and insect voices.
The mammalia is poor in species, and with the single exception of the
well-known vizcacha (Lagostomus trichodactylus), there is not one of
which it can truly be said that it is in any special way the product of the
pampas, or, in other words, that its instincts are better suited to the
conditions of the pampas than to those of other districts. As a fact, this
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