240 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



In the cool fragrance of early morning, with 

 the sun low across the water, the leaves appeared 

 like huge, milky-white platters, with now and 

 then little dancing silhouettes running over them. 

 In another slant of light they seemed atolls scat- 

 tered thickly through a dark, quiet sea, with 

 new-blown flowers filling the whole air with slow- 

 drifting perfume. Best of all, in late afternoon, 

 the true colors came to the eye — six-foot circles 

 of smooth emerald, with up-turned hem of rich 

 wine-color. Each had a tell-tale cable lying 

 along the surface, a score of leaves radiating 

 from one deep hidden root. 



Up through mud and black trench-water 

 came the leaf, like a tiny fist of wrinkles, and 

 day by day spread and uncurled, looking like the 

 unwieldy paw of a kitten or cub. The keels and 

 ribs covering the under-side increased in size and 

 strength, and finally the great leaf was ironed 

 out by the warm sun into a mighty sheet of 

 smooth, emerald chlorophyll. Then, for a time, 

 — no one has ever taken the trouble to find out 

 how long, — it was at its best, swinging back and 

 forth at its moorings with deep upright rim, a 

 notch at one side revealing the almost invisible 



