124 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
must acknowledge the source to be a passing bug, 
—a giant bug,—related distantly to our malodor- 
ous northern squash-bug, but emitting a scent as 
different as orchids’ breath from grocery garlic. 
But I accept this delicate volatility as simply an- 
other pastel-soft sense-impression—as an ear- 
nest of the worthy, smelly things of old jungles. 
There is no breeze, no slightest shift of air-par- 
ticles; yet down the gorge comes this cloud,—a 
cloud unsensible except to nostrils,—eddying as 
if swirling around the edges of leaves, riding on 
the air as gently as the low, distant crooning of 
great, sleepy jungle doves. 
With two senses so perfectly occupied, sight 
becomes superfluous and I close my eyes. And 
straightway the scent and the murmur usurp my 
whole mind with a vivid memory. I am still 
squatting, but in a dark, fragrant room; and the 
murmur is still of doves; but the room is in the 
cool, still heart of the Queen’s Golden Monastery 
in northern Burma, within storm-sound of Tibet, 
and the doves are perched among the glitter and 
tinkling bells of the pagoda roofs. I am squat- 
ting very quietly, for I am tired, after photo- 
graphing carved peacocks and junglefowl in the 
marvelous fretwork of the outer balconies 
