By careful watching, I observed that many of the insects jerked the
abdomen sharply downward, butting the comb or shell of smooth paper a
forceful blow, and producing a very distinct noise. I could not at
first see the mass of wasps which were giving forth the major rhythm,
as they were hidden deep in the nest, but the fifty-odd wasps in
sight kept perfect time, or occasionally an individual skipped one or
two beats, coming in regularly on every alternate or every third beat.
Where they were two or three deep, the uppermost wasps struck the
insects below them with their abdomens in perfect rhythm with the nest
beat. For half an hour the sound continued, then died down and was not
heard again. The wasps dispersed during the night and the nest was
deserted.

It reminded me of the telegraphing ants which I have often heard in
Borneo, a remarkable sweeping roll, caused by the host of insects
striking the leaves with their heads, and produced only when they are
disturbed. It appeared to be of the nature of a warning signal, giving
me opportunity to back away from the stinging legions which filled the
thicket against which I pushed.

The rhythm of these wasps was very different. They were peaceable, not
even resenting the devastation of their home, but always and always
must the inexplicable beat, beat, beat, be kept up, serving some
purpose quite hidden from me. During succeeding months I found two
more nests, with similar fetish of sound vibrations, which led to
their discovery. From one small nest, which fairly shook with the
strength of their beats, I extracted a single wasp and placed him in a
glass-topped, metal box. For three minutes he kept up the rhythmic
beat. Then I began a more rapid tattoo on the bottom of the box, and
the changed tempo confused him, so that he stopped at once, and would
not tap again.

A few little Mazaruni daisies survived here and there, blossoming
bravely, trying to believe that the shade was lessening, and not daily
becoming more dense. But their leaves were losing heart, and paling in
the scant light. Another six months and dead leaves and moss would
have obliterated them, and the zone of brilliant flowers and gorgeous
butterflies and birds would shift many feet into the air, with the
tops of the trees as a new level.

As long as I remained by my stump my visitors were of the jungle. A
yellow-bellied trogon came quite close, and sat as trogons do, very
straight and stiff like a poorly