Tropic Days | Page 3

clacking of nutmeg pigeons, but the
delicate and tender characteristics of the wing notes of the meeker
kinds of doves and the honey-eaters, and also the calculated flutterings

of the fly-catchers. In the whistling swoop of the grey goshawk there is
a note of ominous blood-thirstiness, silent though the destroyer has sat
awaiting the moment for swift and decisive action.
Seldom, even on the stillest evening, may the presence of the night-jar
be detected, except by its coarse call, while the sprightly little sun-bird
flits hither and thither, prodigal of its vivid colours and joying with
machine-like whirring. The sun-bird exemplifies the brightness of the
day. All its activities are bold and conspicuous. Aptly named, it has
nothing to hide, no deeds which will not withstand the scrutiny of the
vividest rays.
To work out its destiny the night-jar depends on secret doings and on
flight soft as a falling leaf. It is a bird of the twilight and night. Startled
from brooding over its eggs or yet dependent chicks, it is ghost-like in
its flittings and disappearances. In broad daylight it moves from its
resting-place as a leaf blown by an erratic and sudden puff, and
vanishes as it touches the sheltering bosom of Mother Earth. Mark the
spot of its vanishment and approach never so cautiously, and you see
naught. Peer about and from your very feet that which had been
deemed to be a shred of bark rises and is wafted away again by a
phantom zephyr.
The chick which the parent bird has hidden remains a puzzle. It moves
not, it may not blink. Its crafty parent has so nibbled and frayed the
edges of the decaying brown leaves among which it nestles that it has
become absorbed in the scene. There is nothing to distinguish between
the leaf-like feathers and the feather-like leaves. The instinct of the bird
has blotted itself out. It is there, but invisible, and to be discovered only
by the critical inspection of every inch of its environment. You have
found it; but not for minutes after its instinct has warned it to possess
its soul calmly and not to be afraid. So firm is its purpose that if
inadvertently you put your foot on its tender body it would not move or
utter cry. All its faculties are concentrated on impassiveness, and thus
does Nature guard its weakest and most helpless offspring.
While you ponder on the wonderful faith of the tiny creature which
suffers handling without resistance, the shred of bark, driven by the
imperceptible zephyr, falls a few yards away, and in an agony of
anxiety utters an imploring purr, or was it an imprecation? That half
purr, half hiss has been the only sound of the episode. It is a warning to

be gone and leave Nature to her secrets and silences.
A month's abstinence may not be a very severe penance for an island
on which the rainfall averages 124 inches per year; but when vegetation
suffers from the cruelty of four almost rainless months, promises and
slights amount to something more than mere discourtesy. How genuine
the thanksgiving to the soft skies after an incense-stimulating shower.
Insects whirl in the sunshine. Among the pomelo-trees is a cyclone of
scarcely visible things. Motes and specks of light dance in disorderly
figures, to be detected as animated objects only by gauzy wings
catching the light and reflecting it. Each insect, wakened but an hour
ago by the warmth of the moist soil, in an abandonment of the moment,
is a helioscope transmitting signals of pure pleasure. Drops still linger
on myriads of leaves, and glitter on the glorious gold of the Chinese
laburnum; the air is saturated with rich scents, and the frolicking crowd,
invisible but for the oblique light, does not dream of disaster. Their
crowded hour has attracted other eyes, appreciative in another sense.
Masked wood-swallows, swiftlets, spangled drongos, leaden fly-eaters,
barred-shouldered fly-eaters, hurry to the circus to desolate it with
hungry swoops. The assemblage is noisy, for two or three drongos
cannot meet without making a clatter on the subject of the moment.
They cannot sing, but clink and jangle with as much intensity and
individual satisfaction as if gifted with peerless note. It is the height of
the season, and a newly matched pair, satisfied with an ample meal, sit
side by side on a branch to tell of their love, and in language which,
though it may lack tunefulness, has the outstanding quality of
enthusiasm. But why waste clamorous love-notes on a world busy with
breakfast? The sportful, tail-flicking dandy flits and alights so that he
may address himself solely to his delighted and accepting spouse,
peering into her reddish eyes the while, and in ecstasy proclaiming, in
tones as loud and unmusical as