CAMP LIFE IN THE TROPICS. 19 
It is while carefully balancing myself on my shak- 
ing support of matted roots, that a sound comes to my 
ear through the roar of a waterfall — a sound strange- 
ly sweet, solemn, and impressive; a mellow, organ- 
like note, clearer than any flute-tone, more thrilling 
than the solemn chant of sacred song in groined cathe- 
dral. Itis repeated. I stand entranced, listening to 
melody that had never fallen on my ears before. 
The cause I cannot at first ascertain, for the notes 
seem ventriloquial ; and indeed they are so, for I search 
high and low, the leafy branches above my head, the 
densely clustered ferns at my feet, and the shrubs 
at my back, for many minutes, before I find the 
source of this mysterious music. Balanced airily on 
a lance-like bamboo that shot twenty feet beyond the 
brink of the cliff, poised in mid-air, with half a thou- 
sand feet of space between him and solid earth, is a 
daintily-shaped bird, clad in sober drab, save a dash 
of rouge beneath his throat, and of white here and 
there. 
Unconscious of surrounding things, animate and 
inanimate, he was devoting his powers to the pro- 
duction of that wonderful music. In the short space 
I here allot to myself I cannot describe the different 
notes; surely no flute ever produced such mellow, 
liquid tones. It was music of unearthly sweetness, 
that, once heard, would never be forgotten — between 
the notes a long pause, that made them most im- 
pressive. It was not a song—though I discovered 
later that the little bird had a song— but simply the 
utterance of a few notes. Soon it ceased, and the bird 
flew into the near forest, where I soon discovered it 
