6 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
would rise, the voice of the leader quavering with 
that wild rhythm which had come down to him, 
a vocal heritage, through centuries of tom-toms 
and generations of savages striving for emotional 
expression. But the words were laughable or 
pathetic. I was adjured to 
“Blow de mon down with a bottle of rum, 
Oh, de mon—mon—blow de mon down.” 
Or the jungle reéchoed the edifying reitera- 
tion of 
“Sardines—and bread—OH ! 
Sardines—and bread, 
Sardines—and bread—-AND! 
Sardines—and bread.” 
The thrill that a whole-lunged chanty gives is 
difficult to describe. It arouses some deep emo-( 
tional response, as surely as a military band, or 
the reverberating cadence of an organ, or a sud- 
denly remembered theme of opera. 
As my aquatic van drew up to the sandy 
landing-beach, I looked at the motley array of 
paddlers, and my mind went back hundreds of 
years to the first Spanish crew which landed 
here, and I wondered whether these pirates of 
