_Ortygometra minuta._
_Rallus minutus, var._ β, +Lath.+
_Ortygometra minuta_, +Leach+.
[116] Length 6 inches, expanse 8⁶⁄₁₀, flexure 2⁷⁄₁₀, tail 1²⁄₁₀,
rictus ⁷⁄₁₀, bare portion of tibia ³⁄₁₀, tarsus 1, middle toe
1⁷⁄₂₀. Irides brick-red; beak dark olive, edges at base paler
green; legs and feet clay-colour. Forehead, crown, and occiput
black, softening at the sides and nape; a black band from rictus
passes through the eye, above which is a band of white, interrupted
by black immediately over the eye. Sides of head and neck,
yellowish-ash, blending with the black. Back, shoulders, scapulars,
and loins yellowish-umber, each feather deepening in the centre to
dark brown, with a conspicuous stripe of pure white running through
the middle of the terminal half. Wing-coverts yellowish-brown; the
greater coverts and the tertiaries have dark centres, and terminal
white spots. Primaries and secondaries greyish black. Tail coverts
black, with broad spots and tips of white; tail as the tertiaries.
Chin, throat, and whole under parts white, slightly tinged on the
breast with buff. Sides, flanks, under-tail-coverts, and outer part
of thighs, marked with transverse bands of black and white.
In travelling from Bluefields to Savannah le Mar, we save about two
miles by taking what is called the Short Cut, a bridle-path through
the deep matted woods. The trees are largely sweet-wood, tangled, near
the edges of the broad morass, which occupies so much of this plain,
by spreading bushes of black-withe and cockspur. Two streams are to be
forded, the one a sluggish water that crosses the path immediately on
our entering the woods, the other is the deep and rapid Sweet River.
After pursuing for more than a mile the track through the bush,
which here and there opens on each side into secluded grassy glades,
adorned with many flowers, and haunted by gay butterflies, the gradual
predominance of marsh plants, _sagittaria_, ginger-fern, bulrush, and
black-withe, to the exclusion at length, of every thing else, warns us
of our approach to the river, and at length we come suddenly upon it
in all its beauty. Emerging darkly into view from beneath overhanging
trees on the right, upon which is spread a thick drapery of convolvuli,
whose lovely festoons, gemmed with purple and green, depend to the very
surface of the water, the stream gurgles along a pebbly bed, or here
and there glides with treacherous smoothness over quicksands hidden by
the waving tresses of the dark green _equisetum_; and is presently lost
again in the meandering of its tortuous course through the bushes.
Many sorts of water-fowl haunt this darkling stream: scarlet-fronted
Gallinules, that were feeding at the edge, alarmed at our approach,
flutter along the surface with much splashing of the water and
laborious flapping of their wings, to seek concealment; while the
less timid, but more beautiful Sultana bridles its purple neck, and
peeps at us from the shadow of the overarching withes, or walks calmly
away over the shallows. The harsh scream of the Little Bittern comes
fitfully from the reedy morass, and the cry of the Clucking-hen from
its watch-post above; the little Squat-ducks are diving in the eddies
of the stream, the Blue Kingfisher darts across with his rattling
call, while the snowy form of the White Gaulin is seen in the distance,
relieved against the dark bushes, as it drags its heavy flight across
the swamp. All the while gushes of rich melody are pouring from the
throats of a dozen Mocking-birds around, soothing us as we recline on
the soft beds of thyme that profusely cover the bank and fill the air
with delicious fragrance.
It was in this situation that Sam found the little Crake before us, on
the 30th of March. It was at first standing at the edge of the stream,
whence it ran up the large marsh-fern, vulgarly known as Wild-ginger,
and peeped from among the fronds, until the lad shot it. It was a
male. I found in its stomach, which was not very muscular, merely
a little yellowish mucus, and some small gravel. We never met with
the species again. I suspect, however, it is a permanent inhabitant
of the morasses; but the impenetrable character of these sombre and
fœtid recesses, renders an acquaintance with their inhabitants very
difficult. The swiftness of foot, and the retiring habits of most of
these birds, as well as their nocturnal rather than diurnal activity,
add to this difficulty. The naturalist is often indebted for his
knowledge of a species to “the fortune of the hour,” more than to his
own efforts. Hence, I have no doubt, many birds of this tribe, unknown
to me, exist in Jamaica.