280 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



nests, with similar fetish of sound vibrations, 

 which led to their discovery. From one small 

 nest, which fairly shook with the strength of their 

 beats, I extracted a single wasp and placed him 

 in a glass-topped, metal box. For three minutes 

 he kept up the rhythmic beat. Then I began a 

 more rapid tattoo on the bottom of the box, and 

 the changed tempo confused him, so that he 

 stopped at once, and would not tap again. 



A few little Mazaruni daisies survived here 

 and there, blossoming bravely, trying to believe 

 that the shade was lessening, and not daily be- 

 coming more dense. But their leaves were losing 

 heart, and paling in the scant light. Another six 

 months and dead leaves and moss would have 

 obliterated them, and the zone of brilliant flowers 

 and gorgeous butterflies and birds would shift 

 many feet into the air, with the tops of the trees 

 as a new level. 



As long as I remained by my stump my visi- 

 tors were of the jungle. A yellow-bellied trogon 

 came quite close, and sat as trogons do, very 

 straight and stiff like a poorly mounted bird, 

 watching passing flycatchers and me and the 

 glimpses of sky. At first he rolled his little 

 cuckoo-like notes, and his brown mate swooped 



