BENEATH TROPIC SEAS 



with the pure culture of sponge, we were successful. 

 After it had been in the boat for two hours, and 

 all the superjfluous water had drained off, its weight 

 was a little over one hundred and fifty pounds. 



On every reef there are from two to six of these 

 giant black sponges, growing at depths varying 

 from twenty to thirty feet, and in the history of 

 their inception and growth is concealed a marvel- 

 lous tale. The adventures of the tiny swimming 

 embryo, favored by some inconceivably slight 

 chance over the uncounted host of its fellows; its 

 random selection of just the right bit of coral 

 upon which to grow; the accidents which did not 

 quite come off to blot out its existence; its ultimate 

 victory over the myriad dangers of the undersea, — 

 all this would make an aquatic epic. I feel as if 

 I had only handled the uncut, untranslated vol- 

 umes of such a tale, in my discovery of the sponge 

 in its native haunts, my intimacy with it as it 

 still rested quietly in position on the sea bottom, 

 and my subsequent excited search among the heart 

 of its canals for whatever secrets might be vouch- 

 safed. I can only guess at its age, but many 

 years, perhaps centuries must have passed since 

 the all but invisible young sponge settled down, 

 exchanging its winged frill for an everlasting, grasp- 

 ing root. 



There was some superficial thing, some animal 

 nettle, on my sponge which fought for its host by 

 shooting a myriad harpoons into the hands of the 

 first of my men to touch it. But the sting soon 



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