JUNGLE PEACE 



of woodpeckers, the soft greens and buffs of fly- 

 catchers, all these paled when a flock of mana- 

 kins or tanagers or honeycreepers came to the 

 tree. Every precious stone found its counter- 

 part in the metallic hues of these exquisite 

 feathered folk. 



The glory of all was the opal-crowned mana- 

 kin, a midget in green coat and sulphur waist- 

 coat, with a cap of scaly, iridescent, silvery 

 mother-of-pearl plates, in no way akin to 

 feathers. Until now the life of this Hop o' my 

 Thumb, like those of all his ancestors, had gone 

 smoothly on, with never a human to admire, to 

 wonder, and vainly to echo the question of the 

 great black frog, Wh y? 



On the last day of my stay I walked slowly 

 up the trail toward the canella do matto. For 

 the last time I strained upward at the well- 

 known branches, and with the very movement 

 there came the voice of the swamp. Its tone 

 was insistent, with a tinge of accusation, a note 

 of censure. Wh y? and after a little time, 

 Wh y? 



I looked about me despairingly. What had 

 I learned after all? Was there any clearing up 

 of the mystery of the jungle? Had my week 



