Much farther down, about
two hundred yards from the bushes, a harrier hawk stood on the ground,
tearing at something it had captured, feeding in that savage, suspicious
manner usual with hawks, with long pauses between the bites. Over the
harrier hovered a brown milvago hawk, a vulture-like bird in its habits,
that lives by picking up unconsidered trifles. Envious at the other's
good fortune, or fearing, perhaps, that not even the crumbs or feathers
of the feast were going to be left, it was persecuting the harrier by
darting down at intervals with an angry cry and aiming a blow with its
wing. The harrier methodically ducked its head each time its tormentor
rushed down at it, after which it would tear its prey again in its
uncomfortable manner. Farther away, in the depression running along
at the foot of the hill, meandered a small stream so filled with aquatic
grasses and plants that the water was quite concealed, its course
appearing like a vivid green snake, miles long, lying there basking
in the sunshine. At the point of the stream nearest to me an old man
was seated on the ground, apparently washing himself, for he was
stooping over a little pool of water, while behind him stood his horse
with patient, drooping head, occasionally switching off the flies with
its tail. A mile farther on stood a dwelling, which looked to me like
an old _estancia_ house, surrounded by large shade trees growing
singly or in irregular clumps.
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