A MARCH ALONG THE COAST 



ridge. At the heat of noon a siesta, with a cool 

 coconut at my elbow. The view was beautiful 

 on all sides; our great tree full of birds; the rising and 

 dying winds in the palms like the gathering oncoming 

 rush of the rains. From mountain to mountain 

 sounded the wild, far-carrying ululations of the 

 natives, conveying news or messages across the wide 

 jungle. Toward sunset I wandered out in the 

 groves, enjoying the many bright flowers, the tall, 

 sweet grasses, and the coco palms against the sky. 

 Piles of coconuts lay on the ground, covered each 

 with a leaf plaited in a peculiarly individual manner 

 to indicate ownership. Small boys, like little black 

 imps, clung naked halfway up the slim trunks of 

 the palms, watching me bright-eyed above the 

 undergrowth. In all directions, crossing and re- 

 crossing, ran a maze of beaten paths. Each led 

 somewhere, but it would require the memory of 

 well, of a native, to keep all their destinations in 

 mind. 



I used to follow some of them to their ending in 

 little coco-leaf houses on the tops of knolls or beneath 

 mangoes; and would talk with the people. They 

 were very grave and very polite; and seemed to be 

 living out their lives quite correctly according to 

 their conceptions. Again, it was borne in on me 

 that these people are not stumbling along the course 



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