CAMP LIFE IN THE TROPICS. 



IO - 



It is while carefully balancing myself on my shak- 

 ing support of matted roots, that a sound comes to my 

 ear through the roar of a waterfall — a sound strange- 

 ly sweet, solemn, and impressive J a mellow, organ- 

 like note, clearer than any flute-tone, more thrilling 

 than the solemn chant of sacred song in groined cathe- 

 dral. It is repeated. I stand entranced, listening to 

 melody that had never fallen on my ears before. 

 The cause I cannot at first ascertain, for the notes 

 seem ventriloquial ; and indeed they are so, for I search 

 high and low, the leafy branches above my head, the 

 densely clustered ferns at my feet, and the shrubs 

 at my back, for many minutes, before I find the 

 source of this mysterious music. Balanced airily on 

 a lance-like bamboo that shot twenty feet beyond the 

 brink of the cliff, poised in mid-air, with half a thou- 

 sand feet of space between him and solid earth, is a 

 daintily-shaped bird, clad in sober drab, save a dash 

 of rouge beneath his throat, and of white here and 

 there. 



Unconscious of surrounding things, animate and 

 inanimate, he was devoting his powers to the pro- 

 duction of that wonderful music. In the short space 

 I here allot to myself I cannot describe the different 

 notes ; surely no flute ever produced such mellow, 

 liquid tones. It was music of unearthly sweetness, 

 that, once heard, would never be forgotten — between 

 the notes a long pause, that made them most im- 

 pressive. It was not a song — though I discovered 

 later that the little bird had a song — but simply the 

 utterance of a few notes. Soon it ceased, and the bird 

 flew into the near forest, where I soon discovered it 



