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 
