BENEATH TROPIC SEAS 



I moved slowly away toward an open field of tube 

 sponges, — factory chimneys coming to mind with 

 unpleasant vividness — and others which to my 

 terrestrial eyesight, recalled vases, chalices, cups 

 and ewers. I was impelled to engage in my 

 favorite under-water sport of sponge stuffing. 



Before diving I had tucked a large wad of 

 absorbent cotton inside my belt and, with my 

 knife loosened in its sheath, I now pushed through 

 the water, leaning heavily as though against a 

 strong wind. Soon I saw the black gaping mouths 

 of a colony of sponges, and finding the leeward 

 side of the current, I crept up slowly and shifted 

 my helmet so that I looked out through one glass 

 only. When I pulled out the cotton I was held 

 for a moment by its beauty and the similes it 

 brought up. Cotton in the air is heavy and gross. 

 Tossed up, it drops to earth more directly than a 

 leaf, but in water it becomes a thing of marvellous 

 beauty. I involuntarily looked upward, but the 

 ceiling of the troubled surface barred my view, 

 and there was only the absurd keel of the motor 

 boat rolling slowly about. What I looked for was 

 a fleecy cloud, for that was the exact counterpart 

 of my handful of cotton. I found another new 

 characteristic of cotton in my watery element, — 

 cotton gravitation was almost suspended. I 

 launched it in mid-water and there it stayed. 



I tore off a bit and stuffed it into a finger-sized 

 sponge, then reached for another, but the whole 

 cloud had blown clear out of reach. Two seconds 



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