It is five o'clock, and the shadows are beginning to deepen in the forest. I see two little grey monkeys playing in the top of a very tall tree. The birds are tiresome and monotonous. Yonder is a small snake twined around the limb of a bushy tree. He is doubtless hunting for a nest of young birds. The low, muttering sound of distant thunder is heard, but little by little it grows louder. It is the familiar voice of the tornado. I must prepare for it. The stove is now lighted, and a pie-pan of water set on it. In it is stirred an ounce of desiccated soup. It is heated to the boiling-point, and then set on the swinging table. Then a can of mutton is emptied into another pan of the same kind, and a few crackers broken and stirred in. The soup is eaten while the meat is being cooked. When it is ready, the flame of the stove is turned off, and the second course of dinner is served, consisting of canned mutton, crackers and water. The dishes, consisting usually of three tin pie-pans and a cup, are thrust out into the adjacent bush, for the ants and other insects to clean during the night. In the meantime Moses has had his supper, and gone to his own little cage, to find shelter from the approaching storm. The curtains are hung up on the side of the cage, from which the tornado is coming. Now the leaves begin to rustle. It is the first cool breath of the day, but it is only the herald of the furious wind that is rapidly advancing. The tree-tops begin to sway. Now they are lashing each other as if in anger; the strong trees are bending from the wind; the lightning is so vivid that it is blinding; the thunder is terrific. One shaft after another, the burning bolts are hurled through the moaning forest. The roar of thunder is unceasing. I hear the dull thud of a falling tree, while the crackling boughs are falling all around me. The rain is pouring in torrents, and all nature is in a rage. Every bird and beast has sought a place of refuge from the warring elements. No sign of life is visible, no sound is audible, save the voice of the storm. How unspeakably desolate the jungle is at such an hour, no fancy can depict. How utterly helpless a human being is against the wrath of nature, no one can realise, except to live through such an hour in such a place. [Illustration: PREPARING FOR THE NIGHT]