SEQUELS 283' 
And as it dwelt on the last note of its phrase, a 
cicada took it up on the exact tone, and blended 
the two final notes into a slow vibration, begin- 
ning gently and rising with the crescendo of 
which only an insect, and especially a cicada, is 
master. Here was the eternal, hypnotic tom-tom 
rhythm of the Kast, grafted upon supreme West- 
ern opera. For a time my changed clearing be- 
came merely a sounding box for the most thrill- 
ing of jungle songs. I called the wren as well as 
I could, and he came nearer and nearer. The 
music rang out only a few yards away. Then 
he became suspicious, and after that each phrase 
was prefaced by typical wren scolding. He 
could not help but voice his emotions, and the 
harsh notes told plainly what he thought of my 
poor imitation. Then another feeling would 
dominate, and out of the maelstrom of harshness, 
of tumbled, volcanic vocalization would rise the 
pure silver stream of single notes. 
The wren slipped away through the masses of 
fragrant Davilla blossoms, but his songs re- 
mained and are with me to this moment. And 
now I leaned back, lost my balance, and grasp- 
ing the old stump for support, loosened a big 
piece of soft, mealy wood. In the hollow be- 
