126 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
jade, not factory-hewn baubles, but age-mel- 
lowed signets, fashioned by lovers of their craft, 
and seasoned by the toying yellow fingers of gen- 
erations of forgotten Chinese emperors—jade, 
as Dunsany would say, of the exact shade of the 
right color. I think too, of dainty emerald 
scarves that are seen and lost in a flash at a dance; 
of the air-cooled, living green of curling break- 
ers; of a lonely light that gleams to starboard of 
an unknown passing vessel, and of the transpar- 
ent green of northern lights that flicker and play 
on winter nights high over the garish glare of 
Broadway. 
Now, in late afternoon, when I opened my eyes 
in the little gorge, the soft green vibrations 
merged insensibly with the longer waves of the 
doves’ voices and with the dying odor. Soon the 
green alone was dominant; and when I had fin- 
ished thinking of pleasant, far-off green things, 
the wonderful emerald of my great tree-frog of 
last year came to mind,—Gawain the mysterious, 
—and I wondered if I should ever solve his life. 
In front of me was a little jungle rainpool. 
At the base of the miniature precipice of 
the gorge, this pool was a thing of clay. It 
was milky in consistence, from the roiling of 
