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Updated: June 15, 2025
It fluttered on, as if one of its wings were hurt, and kept hopping and bobbing and flying along the grass at its swiftest, screaming all the time discordantly. "That must be old Mrs. Amerald's bird, that got away a week ago," said Sir Bale, stopping and looking after it. "Was not it a mackaw?"
Mackaw," said Vivian, "that was the bird which screamed last night!" "Oh, yes! oh, yes! Mr. Mackaw," said Mrs. Felix Lorraine. "Lady Carabas!" continued Vivian, "it is found out. It is Mr. Mackaw's particular friend, his family physician, whom he always travels with, that awoke us all last night." "Is he a foreigner?" asked the Marchioness, looking up. "My dear Mr.
At first, he thought the book was a novel; but then, an essay on predestination, under the title of Memoirs of a Man of Refinement, rather puzzled him; then he mistook it for an Oxford reprint of Pearson on the Creed; and then he stumbled on rather a warm scene in an old Chateau in the South of France. Before Mr. Mackaw could gain the power of speech the door opened, and entered, who? Dr. Francia.
The Marchioness looked astounded at any one presuming to ask her a question; and then she drawled, "Mr. Grey, you know everything; tell this gentleman what some bird is." Now this gentleman was Mr. Mackaw, the most celebrated ornithologist extant, and who had written a treatise on Brazilian parroquets, in three volumes folio.
Startled at their approach, a bird like a huge mackaw bounced from the boughs of the trees, and sped away, every now and then upon the ground, toward the shelter of the forest, fluttering and hopping close by the side of the little brook which, emerging from the forest, winds into the glen, and beside the course of which Sir Bale and Philip Feltram had ascended from the margin of the lake.
Grey, impossible! the Doctor never screams." "Oh! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw!" said Vivian. "Oh! Mr. Mackaw, Mr. Mackaw!" said Mrs. Felix Lorraine. "I tell you he never screams," reiterated the man of science; "I tell you he can't scream; he's muzzled." "Oh, then, it must Have been the Chowchowtow." "Yes, I think it must have been the Chowchowtow."
"Oh! we were talking of some South American bird given to the Marchioness by the famous Captain Tropic; you know him, perhaps; Bolivar's brother-in-law, or aide-de-camp, or something of that kind; and which screams so dreadfully at night that the whole family is disturbed. The Chowchowtow it is called; is not it, Mrs. Lorraine?" "The Chowchowtow!" said Mr. Mackaw; "I don't know it by that name."
"I should very much like to hear Spix's description again," said Mr. Mackaw, "only I fear it is troubling you too much, Mr. Grey." "Read it yourself, my dear sir," said Vivian, putting the book into his hand, which was the third volume of Tremaine. Mr.
He could not see it, but he fancied the scream was like that of the huge mackaw whose ill-poised flight he had watched. This conjecture was but founded on the odd cry he had heard. The flower was a curious one a stem fine as a hair supported a little bell, that looked like a drop of blood, and never ceased trembling.
Mackaw looked at the volume, and turned it over, and sideways, and upside downwards: the brain of a man who has written three folios on parroquets is soon puzzled.
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