The Cliff Climbers<br />A Sequel to "The Plant Hunters" by Mayne Reid (beach read book TXT) 📕

It was not upon that occasion that Karl communicated to his companions all these interesting facts in relation to the great lily. Many of them he had made known long before—especially that the seeds of the plant were eatable; and both Caspar and Ossaroo had often proved to their own satisfaction that they were something more than eatable—in short, a great delicacy.

It was from a knowledge of this fact that the thoughts of all three were now turned upon the lilies—whose huge roseate corollas, no longer seen glistening above the surface of the water, proclaimed that the “beans” were ripe, and ready for “shelling.”

The three were about starting from the hut to reap this aquatic harvest—which, judging from the quantity of seed-pods that appeared above the surface, promised to be abundant.

Each had provided himself with a rush basket—which the shikaree had woven, during the long winter nights, for other purposes; but as they were of just the size and shape to hold the Pythagorean beans they were now to be employed in that capacity.

Both Karl and Caspar had rolled up their trowsers to mid-thigh; so as not to wet them while wading among the lilies; but Ossaroo, not being provided with any nether garment entitled to the name of trowsers, had simply tucked up the skirt of his cotton tunic, making it fast under his girdle.

In this guise all three proceeded round the shore of the lake, to that side where they would be nearest the bed of lilies. The water-hens, seeing them make their approach, rose from their perch upon the leaves, and fluttered off to seek a more secure shelter among the sedge.

The aquatic gleaners at once waded in; and commenced picking off the pods, and shelling them into their rush baskets. They had been there before, and knew there was no danger in the depth of the water.

They had nearly filled their respective sacks with the Pythagorean beans, and were meditating a return to dry land, when a dark shadow passing over the tranquil surface of the lake—closely followed by another of similar size and shape—attracted their attention.

All three saw the shadows at the same instant of time; and all simultaneously looked up to ascertain what sort of creatures were casting them. In the sky above they beheld a spectacle, calculated to inspire them with feelings of a strange interest.

Right above the lake, and also over their heads, a brace of large birds was circling in the air. Each was borne up by a pair of huge wings full five yards from tip to tip; while from the body, between, a neck of enormous length was extended horizontally—prolonged into a tapering-pointed beak, in shape like the seed-pistil of a pelargonium.

Their beaks might well have been compared to the pistil of a pelargonium; or rather the latter should be assimilated to them; since it is from this species of birds, the flower has derived its botanical cognomen.

The birds were storks. Not the ordinary Ciconia, that makes its home among the Hollanders—or finds a still more welcome hospitality on the roof-tree of the Hungarian by the plains of the Puszta—but a stork of far grander dimensions; in short, a stork that is the tallest of his tribe—the Adjutant.

On looking up, Karl recognised the species; so did Caspar, and at a glance. It required no lengthened scrutiny—no profound knowledge of natural history, to identify the noted adjutant. It only needed to have seen him before either in propria persona, or in a picture; but both brothers had seen specimens of the bird, in full flesh and feather, on the plains of India—in the environs of Calcutta itself.

As to the shikaree, was it likely he should be mistaken about the character of those winged giants—those tall scavengers he had seen thousands of times stalking pompously along the sandy shores of the sacred Ganges? It was not possible for him, to have a doubt about the identity of the birds, who were now throwing their shadows over that lone lake of the Himalayas. He had no doubt. The very certainty that the birds above him were the gigantic cranes of the Ganges—the sacred birds of Brahma—caused him to utter a sort of frenzied shout, and at the same time, dropping his “sack of beans” into the water!

He needed not to look at the colour of the birds, to note that they were brown black above, and white underneath. The naked vulture neck with its pouch-like appendage of brick-red hue; the silken feathers of bluish white under the tail—those precious plumes well-known and worn by the ladies of many lands under the appellation of marabout feathers—all were recognised at a glance.

Even quicker than either of his youthful comrades had the Hindoo identified the birds. A single glance sufficed, and simultaneously with that glance had the cry fallen from his lips, and the sack of Pythagorean beans from his grasp.

The birds were flying slowly, and to all appearance laboriously: as if wearied of wing. They appeared to be in search of some roost on which to repose themselves.

That they had entered the valley with this intention was made evident a few moments after: for having made a circuit round the little lake, both at the same instant ceased to ply their long pinions, and drawing their wings suddenly in to their bodies, they settled down upon the shore.

The spot upon which they had chosen to alight was the prominence terminating a little peninsula that protruded out almost to the bed of lilies, and from which the three waders had themselves descended into the water. As the latter now stood knee-deep among the aquatic plants, they were distant not more than twenty paces from the point of this peninsula.

The storks, after alighting, stood upon the shore in erect attitudes—apparently as unconcerned about the presence of our three adventurers, as if the latter were only overgrown stalks of the Pythagorean bean—utterly incapable of doing them an injury.