My Tropic Isle

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usion betrayed itself. Close, as firmly as I could, my mental ear the sound persisted externally, softly but undeniably. Having overcome the first sensation of uneasiness, I studied the perfect prose without pausing to reflect on the origin of the petty disturbance. In a few minutes the annoyance - if the trivial distraction deserve

lacidly enjoyed. Frail excitement foreign to the tranquil pages could not be evaded. The most feeble

the eloquence of reason and honour. So the printed periods became more sonorous, the magic of the words more vivid. The purified meaning of the author, the exaltation he himself mu

ant yet provoking refrain? Not of the sea, for a glassy calm had prevailed all day; not of the rain which patter

ns - a blending of thousands of simultaneous "coo-hoos" with the rustling and beating of wings upon the thin, slack strings of casuarinas. The swaying and switching

he veranda condensed and concentrated it within a narrow area, beyond wh

the weight of the restless birds, became once more an idealistic accompaniment to the book. I read, or rather declaimed inarticulately, to

by a smart breeze. Pitched in a minor key sounds roll along with little friction and waste, whereas a louder, shriller stinging note may find in the still air a less pliant medium. The cooing of pigeons - a sound of low velocity - has a longer range than the shrieking of parrots. My pet echo responds to an undertone. A loud and prolonged yell jars on its sensitiveness - for it is a shy echo, little used to abrupt and boisterous disturbances. A boy boo-hooting into an empty barrel soon catches the key to which it responds.

hed me through three-quarters of a mile of vacant air. There was no competing noise. It

ive and proud, to overcome the space of a mile the unison of thousands is necessary. But when the whole community takes flight simultaneously the whirr and slapping of wings crea