JUNGLE LIFE AT AREMU. 309 



opened journal, bag, hat and gun, rather than change to a 

 new path along another tree trunk a few feet farther along 

 the trail. 



We mortals sometimes have faint hints of coming events, 

 and as I was leaving the clearing I instinctively kept all my 

 senses on the alert. I had proceeded only a few yards into 

 the jungle when some of the sweetest flute-like notes I have 

 ever heard came from a patch of underbrush ahead. What 

 could it be! I knew that no human being could whistle 

 like that, and when they were repeated I realized how coarse 

 any flute would sound in comparison. Nothing in this world 

 but a bird could utter such wonderful notes. My memory 

 recalled descriptions of the Quadrille-bird 125 and I knew 1 

 was at last listening to it. 



Our northern ravines have their Hermit Thrush; the can- 

 yons of Mexico are transfigured by the melody of the Solitaire 

 and here in the deepest, darkest jungles in the world arises 

 the spirit of the forest in song the hymn of the Necklaced 

 Jungle Wren. Dropping everything which would impede 

 my progress, I crawled slowly and silently over the soft mould 

 until I was close to the patch of thick brush. Then I wailed 

 and prayed, and the gods of the Naturalist were good, and a 

 little brown form flitted up to a low branch and from the 

 feathered throat came the incomparable tones of the fairy 

 flute. The bird sang a phrase (T) of six to ten notes at a time. 

 This was repeated several times, when an entirely new theme 

 (II) was begun, which was given only once, then a third (III) 

 and fourth were tried. Each note was distinct, and of the 

 sweetest, most silvery character imaginable. In all but two 

 phrases the invariable end consisted of two notes exactly an 

 octave apart, the last like an ethereal harmonic. Twice the 

 tones were loud and penetrating, twice they came so faintly 

 that one's ear could hardly disentangle them from the silence. 



