348 JUNGLE SILENCE. 



fingers, waves lazily ; wild flowers, of varied tints, 

 peep out from their hiding-places, enjoying to 

 the last the lingering summer. 



I had been for some time sitting on a log, 

 admiring the sublime beauty of the scene, spread 

 out before me like a gorgeous picture; the sun 

 was fast receding behind the hilltops, the 

 lengthening shadows were fading and growing 

 dimly indistinct, the birds had settled down to 

 sleep, and the busy hum of insect life was 

 hushed. A deathlike quiet steals over every- 

 thing in the wilderness as night comes on 

 a stillness that is painful from its intensity. 

 The sound of your own breathing, the crack of 

 a branch, a stone suddenly rattling down the 

 hillside, the howl of the coyote, or the whoop 

 of the night-owl, seem all intensified to an un- 

 natural loudness. I know of nothing more ap- 

 palling to the lonely wanderer camping by himself 

 than this 'jungle silence,' that reigns through the 

 weary hours of night. 



This silence was suddenly broken, as was my 

 reverie, by a sharp ringing whistle ; it was so 

 piercing and clear, that I could not believe it 

 was produced by an animal. Hardly had it died 

 away, when another whistler took it up, then a 

 third, and so on, until at least a dozen had joined 



