A JUNGLE BEACH 101 



sprawled, and wrote, and strange things often 

 happened to me. Once, while writing rapidly 

 Qn a small sheet of paper, I found my lines grow- 

 ing closer and closer together until my fingers 

 cramped, and the consciousness of the change 

 overlaid the thoughts that were driving hand and 

 pen. I then realized that, without thinking, I 

 had been following a succession of faint lines^ 

 cross-ruled on my white paper, and looking up, 

 I saw that a leaf -filtered opening had reflected 

 strands of a spider-web just above my head, and 

 I had been adapting my lines to the narrow 

 spaces, my chirography controlled by cobweb 

 Shaduws. 



The first unreality of the roots was their rigid- 

 ity. I stepped from one slender tendon of wood 

 to the next, expecting a bending which never 

 occurred. They might have been turned to stone, 

 and even little twigs resting on the bark often 

 proved to have grown fast. And this was the 

 more unexpected because of the grace of curve 

 and line, fold upon fold, with no sharp angles, 

 but as full of charm of contour as their grays and 

 olives were harmonious in color. Photographs 

 showed a little of this; sketches revealed more; 

 but the great splendid things themselves, devoid 



