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 Or the weird, melancholy howl Of famished packs of Wolves a-prowl. Long centuries have since passed by But still these instincts will not die.

And even men in Cities pent, Who never slept beneath a tent, Have said that they at twilight feel The same strange fear across them steal.

Hid in our being, dim and deep, The terrors of past perils sleep, A heritage obscure and vast From Man's unfathomable past.

Each twilight, when the sun burns down In desert waste, or crowded town, When shadows fall and night draws near The dusk brings back the Jungle Fear. 143