every where. Although they do no harm, they excite in man a feeling
of loathing. Perhaps our appearance produces a similar feeling in the
elephant and other large animals. Where they have been much disturbed,
they certainly look upon us with great distrust, as the horrid biped
that ruins their peace. In the quietest parts of the forest there is
heard a faint but distinct hum, which tells of insect joy. One may see
many whisking about in the clear sunshine in patches among the
green glancing leaves; but there are invisible myriads working with
never-tiring mandibles on leaves, and stalks, and beneath the soil. They
are all brimful of enjoyment. Indeed, the universality of organic life
may be called a mantle of happy existence encircling the world, and
imparts the idea of its being caused by the consciousness of our
benignant Father's smile on all the works of His hands.

The birds of the tropics have been described as generally wanting in
power of song. I was decidedly of opinion that this was not applicable
to many parts in Londa, though birds there are remarkably scarce. Here
the chorus, or body of song, was not much smaller in volume than it is
in England. It was not so harmonious, and sounded always as if the birds
were singing in a foreign tongue. Some resemble the lark, and, indeed,
there are several of that family; two have notes not unlike those of the
thrush. One brought the chaffinch to my mind, and another the robin; but
their songs are intermixed with several curious abrupt notes unlike any
thing English. One utters deliberately "peek, pak, pok"; another has a
single note like a stroke on a violin-string. The mokwa reza gives
forth a screaming set of notes like our blackbird when disturbed, then
concludes with what the natives say is "pula, pula" (rain, rain), but
more like "weep, weep, weep". Then we have the loud cry of francolins,
the "pumpuru, pumpuru" of turtle-doves, and the "chiken, chiken, chik,
churr, churr" of the honey-guide. Occasionally, near villages, we have
a kind of mocking-bird, imitating the calls of domestic fowls. These
African birds have not been wanting in song; they have only lacked poets
to sing their praises, which ours have had from the time of Aristophanes
downward. Ours have both a classic and a modern interest to enhance
their fame. In hot, dry weather, or at midday when the sun is fierce,
all are still: let, however, a good shower fall, and all burst forth at
once into merry lays