3IO OUR SEARCH FOR A WILDERNESS. 



Birds with scale-like songs are far from uncommon: in 

 tlie nortlr the Field Sparrow; in Mexico the Canyon Wren; 

 here the Woodhewcrs, but this was wholly new, phrase after 

 phrase each differing from the preceding. How I longed 

 for a phonograph! I scrawled a staff on a bit of paper and 

 pin-pricked the notes where they seemed to come and repro- 

 duce them here. But what a parody they are, be they 

 whistled or played! 



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The Necklaced Jungle Wren,"' or Quadrille-bird as the 

 natives know it, is a true Wren barely four inches in length, 

 brown above, with a black collar spangled with white. The 

 face, throat and breast are rich rufous, with the lower parts 

 pale brown. This is the singer. The song no man may 

 describe! 



A small deer sprang up at my left, and I had walked some 

 distance in that direction when I suddenly realized that I had 

 missed the trail, and had been following an imaginary open- 

 ing through the jungle. On closer examination this proved 

 to be a deer trail leading to a small spring of clear water. I 

 will never forget the first thought of terror at being lost in 

 this endless forest. In one direction a few miles away lay 

 the bungalow; in the opposite direction one might wander 

 for weeks without meeting even an Indian. As this thought 

 came I espied a little scarab beetle resting in the hollow of 

 a leaf, who, as I looked, climbed slowly to the rim, wriggled 

 his antennte and took to wing. What a wonderful power of 



