Once, under the
broad daylight, on that open stony hillside, where the baby pines
were growing, scarcely tall enough to be a badge for a MacGregor's
bonnet, I came suddenly upon his innocent body, lying mummified by
the dry air and sun: a pigmy kangaroo. I am ingloriously ignorant
of these subjects; had never heard of such a beast; thought myself
face to face with some incomparable sport of nature; and began to
cherish hopes of immortality in science. Rarely have I been
conscious of a stranger thrill than when I raised that singular
creature from the stones, dry as a board, his innocent heart long
quiet, and all warm with sunshine. His long hind legs were stiff,
his tiny forepaws clutched upon his breast, as if to leap; his poor
life cut short upon that mountain by some unknown accident. But
the kangaroo rat, it proved, was no such unknown animal; and my
discovery was nothing.
Crickets were not wanting. I thought I could make out exactly four
of them, each with a corner of his own, who used to make night
musical at Silverado. In the matter of voice, they far excelled
the birds, and their ringing whistle sounded from rock to rock,
calling and replying the same thing, as in a meaningless opera.
Thus, children in full health and spirits shout together, to the
dismay of neighbours; and their idle, happy, deafening
vociferations rise and fall, like the song of the crickets.
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