JUNGLE NIGHT 275 



of the night. If an Indian had appeared down 

 the trail, hopping endlessly and gripping the 

 trunks, gazing upward with staring eyes, I 

 should not have thought it more strange than 

 the next thing that really happened. 



We had settled on our toes in another squat- 

 ting-place — a dark aisle with only scattered 

 flecks of light. The silence and breathlessness 

 of the mooncraters could have been no more com- 

 plete than that which enveloped us. My eye 

 wandered from spot to spot, when suddenly I 

 began to think of that great owl-like goatsucker, 

 the " poor-me-one." We had shot one at Kala- 

 coon a month before and no others had called 

 since, and I had not thought of the species 

 again. Quite without reason I began to think 

 of the bird, of its wonderful markings, of the 

 eyes which years ago in Trinidad I had made 

 to glow like iridescent globes in the light of a 

 flash, and then — a poor-me-one called behind 

 us, not fifty feet away. Even this did not seem 

 strange among these surroundings. It was an 

 interesting happening, one which I have experi- 

 enced many times in my life. It may have been 

 just another coincidence. I am quite certain it 

 was not. In any event it was a Dantesque 



