100 JUNGLE PEACE 



Fuji itself, makes no manner of difference. 

 The miracle of color never fails. 



Trees were so rare that one was compelled to 

 take notice of them. High above the bamboos, 

 high above even those arboreal towers of Pisa, 

 the cocoanut palms, rose the majestic silk-cotton 

 trees, bare of leaves at this season, with great 

 branches shooting out at breathless heights. 

 Like strange gourd-like fruit, three sizes of 

 nests hung pendant from these lofty boughs: 

 short, scattered purses of yellow orioles, colonied 

 clusters of the long pouches of yellow-backed 

 bunyahs, and, finally, the great, graceful, woven 

 trumpets of the giant black caciques, rarely 

 beautiful, and, like the trees, scarce enough to 

 catch and hold the eye. The groves of cocoanut 

 palms, like a hundred enormous green rockets 

 ever bursting in mid-air, checkered the sunlight, 

 which sifted through and was made rosy by a 

 host of lotus blooms beneath. Then the scene 

 changed in a few yards, and low, untropical 

 shrubs filled the background, while at our feet 

 rose rank upon rank of cat-tails, and we might 

 be passing across the Jersey meadows. 



Each little station was the focus of a world 

 of its own. Coolies and blacks excitedly hus- 



