200 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
Perhaps it is atavistic—this desire to rest and 
swing in a hamaca. For these are not unlike 
the treetop couches of our arboreal ancestors, 
such a one as I have seen an orang-utan weave 
in a few minutes in the swaying crotch of a tree. 
At any rate, the hammock is not dependent upon 
four walls, upon rooms and houses, and it par- 
takes altogether of the wilderness. Its move- 
ment is xolian—yielding to every breath of air. 
It has even its own weird harmony—for I have 
often heard a low, whistling hum as the air rushed 
through the cordage mesh. In a sudden tropical 
gale every taut strand of my hamaca has seemed 
a separate, melodious, orchestral note, while I 
was buffeted to and fro, marking time to some 
rhythmic and reckless tune of the wind playing 
fortissimo on the woven strings about me. The 
climax of this musical outburst was not without 
a mild element of danger—sufficient to create 
that enviable state of mind wherein the sense of 
security and the knowledge that a minor catas- 
trophe may perhaps be brought about are 
weighed one against the other. 
Special, unexpected, and interesting minor 
dangers are also the province of the hamaca. 
Once, in the tropics, a great fruit fell on the 
