124 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



must acknowledge the source to be a passing bug, 

 — a giant bug, — related distantly to our malodor- 

 ous northern squash-bug, but emitting a scent as 

 different as orchids' breath from grocery garlic. 

 But I accept this delicate volatility as simply an- 

 other pastel-soft sense-impression — as an ear- 

 nest of the worthy, smelly things of old jungles. 

 There is no breeze, no slightest shift of air-par- 

 ticles; yet down the gorge comes this cloud, — a 

 cloud unsensible except to nostrils, — eddying as 

 if swirling around the edges of leaves, riding on 

 the air as gently as the low, distant crooning of 

 great, sleepy jungle doves. 



With two senses so perfectly occupied, sight 

 becomes superfluous and I close my eyes. And 

 straightway the scent and the murmur usurp my 

 whole mind with a vivid memory. I am still 

 squatting, but in a dark, fragrant room; and the 

 murmur is still of doves ; but the room is in the 

 cool, still heart of the Queen's Golden Monastery 

 in northern Burma, within storm-sound of Tibet, 

 and the doves are perched among the glitter and 

 tinkling bells of the pagoda roofs. I am squat- 

 ting very quietly, for I am tiredj after photo- 

 graphing carved peacocks and junglefowl in the 

 marvelous fretwork of the outer balconies. 



