And In The Convenient Hollow Formed By The Circle
Of Branches The _Caranchos_ Had Built Their Huge Nest, Composed Of
Sticks, Lumps Of Turf, Dry Bones Of Sheep And Other Animals, Pieces
Of Rope And Raw Hide, And Any Other Object They Could Carry.
The nest
was their home; they roosted in it by night and visited it at odd
times during the day, usually bringing a bleached bone or thistle-
stalk or some such object to add to the pile.
Our birds never attacked the fowls, and were not offensive or
obtrusive, but kept to their own end of the plantation furthest away
from the buildings. They only came when an animal was killed for meat,
and would then hang about, keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings and
watching their chance. This would come when the carcass was dressed
and lights and other portions thrown to the dogs; then the _carancho_
would swoop down like a kite, and snatching up the meat with his beak
would rise to a height of twenty or thirty yards in the air, and
dropping his prize would deftly catch it again in his claws and soar
away to feed on it at leisure. I was never tired of admiring this feat
of the _carancho_, which is, I believe, unique in birds of prey.
The big nest in the old inverted-umbrella-shaped peach tree had a
great attraction for me; I used often to visit it and wonder if I
would ever have the power of getting up to it.
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