I did not see him actually
hit a bird, but his precision was amazing, for almost invariably the
missile, thrown from such a distance at so minute an object, appeared
to graze the feathers and to miss killing by but a fraction of an
inch.
I followed him for some distance, my wonder and curiosity growing
every minute to see such a superior-looking person engaged in such a
pastime. For it is a fact that the natives do not persecute small
birds. On the contrary, they despise the aliens in the land who shoot
and trap them. Besides, if he wanted small birds for any purpose, why
did he try to get them by throwing pebbles at them? As he did not
order me off, but looked in a kindly way at me every little while,
with a slight smile on his face, I at length ventured to tell him that
he would never get a bird that way--that it would be impossible at
that distance to hit one with a small pebble. "Oh, no, not
impossible," he returned, smiling and walking on, still with an eye
on the rocks. "Well, you haven't hit one yet," I was bold enough to
say, and at that he stopped, and putting his finger and thumb in his
waistcoat pocket he pulled out a dead male siskin and put it in my
hands.
This was the bird called "goldfinch" by the English resident in La
Plata, and to the Spanish it is also goldfinch; it is, however, a
siskin, _Chrysomitris magellanica,_ and has a velvet-black head, the
rest of its plumage being black, green, and shining yellow.
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