holding his bent bird-book in front of him , his face wet with drizzle , sweat , and tears , stan whispered in a husky monotone : `` chickenhawks ... grosbeaks ... hummingbirds ... albatrosses ... kiwis ... '' one of those hands turned over , showing a palm from which endless water had eroded all the lines , leaving something as idiot-smooth as the hand of a department-store dummy .