282 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
most before the tone died away. Swallowing it 
with considerable difficulty, the harmony was 
taken up again, a bit throaty for a few notes, 
Then the pair talked together in the usual tro- 
gon fashion, and the sudden shadow of a passing 
vulture, drew forth discordant cat calls, as both 
birds swooped from sight to avoid the fancied 
hawk. 
A few minutes later the vocal seal of the jun- 
gle was uttered by a quadrille bird. When the 
notes of this wren are heard, I can never imagine 
open, blazing sunshine, or unobstructed blue sky. 
Like the call of the wood pewee, the wren’s radi- 
ates coolness and shadowy quiet. No matter 
how tropic or breathless the jungle, when the 
flute-like notes arise they bring a feeling of fresh- 
ness, they arouse a mental breeze, which cools 
one’s thoughts, and, although there may be no 
water for miles, yet we can fairly hear the drip 
of cool drops falling from thick moss to pools be- 
low. First an octave of two notes of purest sil- 
ver, then a varying strain of eight or ten notes, 
so sweet and powerful, so individual and mean- 
ingful that it might stand for some wonderful 
motif in a great opera. I shut my eyes, and I 
was deaf to all other sounds while the wren sang. 
