BENEATH TROPIC SEAS 



were occasionally to be found tiny trees, an inch 

 or two in height, of the exquisite and rare pink 

 coral. I do not remember anything in my under- 

 sea experience which gave me more sheer aesthetic 

 joy than spying out these beautiful bits of color — 

 looking like the diminutive wind-blown pines of 

 Fujiyama. 



Again and again on these reefs, although the 

 general effects are all on a big scale, as I sit on a 

 bit of sand between great animal forests, I see 

 Japanese gardens. When I walk through terres- 

 trial gardens, whether old-fashioned or over- 

 landscaped, it is man's height masses of color 

 which form the character of the garden and the 

 pride of the owner. Has no one, I wonder, ever 

 cared to have literally a squatter's garden, one 

 which has to be knelt to, in order to discern the 

 tiny blossoms, or detect the evanescent odors? 

 My pink coral trees made such a thing real and 

 very desirable. 



When clouds prevented photography, and a 

 swell made, climbing too hazardous and blood- 

 letting an enjoyment, I would break off and send 

 up great branches and heads of half-dead coral 

 from the debris of the reef floor. From where I 

 sat, where there was not sufficient nourish- 

 ment or protection for the coral to grow luxur- 

 iantly, the aspect would be characterized by som- 

 breness — browns, dull purples, sage greens. 



But when we began to break open the coral 

 debris sent up to the boat, Aladdin's caves were 



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