THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 
9 
In the deepest gloom, where the trees shut 
out the sun, myriads of lights flit about, and 
twinkle like little stars. They flash here and 
there, and you might fancy that troops of 
fairies were carrying torches in their hands ; 
but there are no fairies in the case, — the lights 
are only the torches of the fireflies that live 
in the recesses of the wood, and every night 
make a kind of illumination amongst the trees. 
Then, there are troops of monkeys, that run 
along the vegetable cables from one tree to 
the other, or swing from the branches by their 
tails, making a noise all the time as if they 
were talking to each other. When night comes 
they roll themselves into a ball, all huddled 
together as close as may be, to keep themselves 
warm. Sometimes it happens that a few little 
monkeys have not been alert enough to get 
into the ball, and are left shivering outside. 
They keep up a pitiful howling the whole 
night through, telling the rest how cold and 
miserable they are, and begging to be let in. 
But the others are very hard-hearted ; they 
pay no attention, and go quietly ofl* to sleep. 
Then, there are all sorts of birds, such as we 
never see in England ; or if we do, only in 
