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And as it dwelt on the last note of its phrase, a 

 cicada took it up on the exact tone, and blended 

 the two final notes into a slow vibration, begin- 

 ning gently and rising with the crescendo of 

 which only an insect, and especially a cicada, is 

 master. Here was the eternal, hypnotic tom-tom 

 rhythm of the East, grafted upon supreme West- 

 ern opera. For a time my changed clearing be- 

 came merely a sounding box for the most thrill- 

 ing of jungle songs. I called the wren as well as 

 I could, and he came nearer and nearer. The 

 music rang out only a few yards away. Then 

 he became suspicious, and after that each phrase 

 was prefaced by typical wren scolding. He 

 could not help but voice his emotions, and the 

 harsh notes told plainly what he thought of my 

 poor imitation. Then another feeling would 

 dominate, and out of the maelstrom of harshness, 

 of tumbled, volcanic vocalization would rise the 

 pure silver stream of single notes. 



The wren slipped away through the masses of 

 fragrant Davilla blossoms, but his songs re- 

 mained and are with me to this moment. And 

 now I leaned back, lost my balance, and grasp- 

 ing the old stump for support, loosened a big 

 piece of soft, mealy wood. In the hollow be- 



