One came from the treetops, where it was perpetually wandering amid the foliage a low note, repeated at intervals of a few seconds, so thin and mournful and full of mystery that I half expected to hear that it proceeded from the restless ghost of some dead bird.
But no; he only said it was uttered by a "little bird"-- too little presumably to have a name.

From the foliage of a neighbouring tree came a few tinkling chirps, as of a small mandolin, two or three strings of which had been carelessly struck by the player.

He said that it came from a small green frog that lived in trees; and in this way my rude Indian--vexed perhaps at being asked such trivial questions--brushed away the pretty fantasies my mind had woven in the woodland solitude.
For I often listened to this tinkling music, and it had suggested the idea that the place was frequented by a tribe of fairy-like troubadour monkeys, and that if I could only be quick-sighted enough I might one day be able to detect the minstrel sitting, in a green tunic perhaps, cross-legged on some high, swaying bough, carelessly touching his mandolin, suspended from his neck by a yellow ribbon.
By and by a bird came with low, swift flight, its great tail spread open fan-wise, and perched itself on an exposed bough not thirty yards from us.

It was all of a chestnut-red colour, long-bodied, in size like a big pigeon.

Its actions showed that its curiosity had been greatly excited, for it jerked from side to side, eyeing us first with one eye, then the other, while its long tail rose and fell in a measured way.
"Look, Kua-ko," I said in a whisper, "there is a bird for you to kill." But he only shook his head, still watchful.
"Give me the blow-pipe, then," I said, with a laugh, putting out my hand to take it.