280 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
nests, with similar fetish of sound vibrations, 
which led to their discovery. From one small 
nest, which fairly shook with the strength of their 
beats, I extracted a single wasp and placed him 
in a glass-topped, metal box. For three minutes 
he kept up the rhythmic beat. Then I began a 
more rapid tattoo on the bottom of the box, and 
the changed tempo confused him, so that he 
stopped at once, and would not tap again. 
A few little Mazaruni daisies survived here 
and there, blossoming bravely, trying to believe 
that the shade was lessening, and not daily be- 
coming more dense. But their leaves were losing 
heart, and paling in the scant light. Another six 
months and dead leaves and moss would have 
obliterated them, and the zone of brilliant flowers 
and gorgeous butterflies and birds would shift 
many feet into the air, with the tops of the trees 
as a new level. 
As long as I remained by my stump my visi- . 
tors were of the jungle. A yellow-bellied trogon 
came quite close, and sat as trogons do, very 
straight and stiff like a poorly mounted bird, 
watching passing flycatchers and me and the 
glimpses of sky. At first he rolled his little 
cuckoo-like notes, and his brown mate swooped 
