Our men were in great despair. The charm which would have brought luck to our camp was broken; but the parent birds, in spite of the loss of their little ones, evidently determined to act as our talisman to the end of our stay, for they continued to fly round and round our tamarind, and to talk together of an evening, though sadly. It was not until a few days before we left that they flew away towards the north. Thanks to them, perhaps, we had a run of good luck to the last.
The tornado freshened the atmosphere very considerably, and the sudden change could only be fully realized by consulting the thermometer. In five minutes the glass would sometimes fall from forty-five to thirty degrees. A corresponding and sympathetic change would take place in the state of our nerves; we could sleep a little if only the mosquitoes would let us, but, alas! their droning never ceased. Oh, that horrible music, which went on for ever without mercy, causing us more anguish even than the bites, and against which no curtain could protect.
The frogs, too, added to the droning of the mosquitoes what we may call their peculiar Plain Songs or Gregorian chants. They were very tame, showing no fear of us, but took up their abode here, there, and everywhere: out in the open air, or in the huts, in our books, under our tins, and in our water-vessels, and their ceaseless singing in full solemn tones, echoed that of the distant choirs of their wilder brethren chattering together amongst the grass by the river-side. Although not composed on the spot, I cannot refrain from quoting the following sonnet, produced by a member of our expedition, and which forms a kind of sequel to the others I have transcribed above—
LOVE-SONG.
When evening falls upon the land asleep,
When mute the singers of the tropic plain,
When winds die down, and every bird’s refrain
Or insect’s cry is hush’d in silence deep;
Then from the lotus beds triumphant leap
Frantic crescendoes of a rhythmic strain,