One spring day an immense number of doves appeared and settled in the
plantation. It was a species common in the country and bred in our
trees, and in fact in every grove or orchard in the land--a pretty
dove-coloured bird with a pretty sorrowful song, about a third less in
size than the domestic pigeon, and belongs to the American genus
_Zenaida._ This dove was a resident with us all the year round, but
occasionally in spring and autumn they were to be seen travelling
in immense flocks, and these were evidently strangers in the land and
came from some sub-tropical country in the north where they had no
fear of the human form. At all events, on going out into the
plantation I found them all about on the ground, diligently searching
for seeds, and so tame and heedless of my presence that I actually
attempted to capture them with my hands. But they wouldn't be caught:
the bird when I stooped and put out my hands slipped away, and flying
a yard or two would settle down in front of me and go on looking for
and picking up invisible seeds.
My attempts failing I rushed back to the house, wildly excited, to
look for an old gentleman who lived with us and took an interest in me
and my passion for birds, and finding him I told him the whole place
was swarming with doves and they were perfectly tame but wouldn't let
me catch them--could he tell me how to catch them? He laughed and said
I must be a little fool not to know how to catch a bird.
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