BLACK-BACKED KALEEGE 31 
encircled a little sombre glade, all leaning slightly toward one another as if met in some 
intimate solemn conclave. A checkering of twilight sifted through their green, swaying 
curtains, and now and then a shining drop of moisture fell from some moss stalactite, 
glistened for a moment as it passed through a ray of light, and silently vanished as it 
struck the sponge-like carpet of the glade. Just beneath me this carpet was variegated 
with tufts of graceful ferns, while tangled among the moss filaments of the boulder were 
masses of acorn conglomerates—a dozen great caps grown together, some still filled with 
fruit, others empty—gone to fulfill their destiny, whether it be in the fulness of time to 
bring into being an oak to replace these giants, or to be crunched by a passing bear or 
swallowed by pheasant or jay. In the interstices of the boulder’s steep sides, clinging to 
scanty bits of black mould, stood little jacks, much like the jacks-in-the-pulpit of our 
American woodlands, but gay with stripes of maroon and pink. 
As I lay among such surroundings, hoping for a view of some of the jungle inmates, 
the dim light occasionally grew more dim—still more diffuse. Then there reached my 
ears the indistinct murmur of wind through moss, and following a sudden shower of 
drops from the saturated foliage, there came through the glade billow after billow of 
cloud, faintly veiling the jungle vista with blue. It had come down the valley from the 
snows high overhead. From the glaciers it brought a cold, humid chill, but on its way 
thither it swept through the higher forests of magnolias, and from the great swaying 
blossoms on the mountain sides a mile or more above me, and many miles distant, it 
gleaned a burden of perfume, and now the air of the glade about me was saturated with 
the sweetness. 
As quickly as it came, the chill wind passed, the clouds sifted onward through the 
waving moss and the sun shone out, bringing a new wave of warmth from the valley 
below which penetrated even to my damp couch. 
A long, low mound in the furry carpet marked a tree, fallen years ago, and now, 
rotten and giving of its substance to nourish its children sprouting on all sides. 
Suddenly above this appeared the small, trim head of a hen pheasant. She reached up 
snatched an insect from a twig, scanned the glade for a moment and disappeared. The 
ferns closed over her, and once, a few feet farther along the log, a fern trembled for a 
moment as she brushed against it. In a few minutes I knew she must be safely 
ensconced on the seven eggs which I had already located close to the distant end of the 
fallen tree. There for the remainder of the afternoon she sat closely—patiently warming 
the chicks into life—her mottled plumage one with the browns of moss and sodden leaf. 
A dainty green-backed titmouse flew to a twig on a level with my eye and, filled 
with the joy of spring, burst into song. He raised his crest, threw back his head and 
shouted cheep-a! cheep-a! cheep-a! cheep-a! again and again. No answer came, but 
he did not lose heart. He had another song in his humble repertoire, and suddenly he 
changed to a high, metallic Leep-heep ! heep-heep ! heep-heep ! trembling with emotion 
the while. Surely if any lady titmouse was within hearing, she could not but be moved ! 
Far up among the foliage many small birds were twittering, and some distant note 
seemed to carry a meaning to him, for after a moment of listening he was off like a shot. 
Then two more Himalayan lives touched mine for a moment of time, to diverge 
for ever almost at once—and two as different as one could imagine. A yellow-backed 
sunbird appeared before me, as suddenly as if from the clear air, as beautiful as if from 
