100 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



to live the life of a root, resting quietly among 

 them, watching and feeling them, and moving 

 very slowly, with no thought of time, as roots 

 must. 



I liked to wait until the last ripple had lapped 

 against the sand beneath, and then slip quietly 

 in from the margin of the jungle and perch — 

 like a great tree-frog — on some convenient shelf. 

 Seumas and Brigid would have enjoyed it, in 

 spite of the fact that the Leprechauns seemed 

 to have just gone. I found myself usually in 

 a little room, walled with high-arched, thin sheets 

 of living roots, some of which would form solid 

 planks three feet wide and twelve long, and only 

 an inch or two in thickness. These were always 

 on edge, and might be smooth and sheer, or sud- 

 denly sprout five stubby, mittened fingers, or 

 pairs of curved and galloping legs — and this 

 thought gave substance to the simile which had 

 occurred again and again: these trees reminded 

 me of centaurs with proud, upright man torsos, 

 and great curved backs. In one, a root dropped 

 down and rested on the back, as a centaur who 

 turns might rest his hand on his withers. 



When I chanced upon an easy perch, and a 

 stray idea came to mind, I squatted or sat or 



