A YARD OF JUNGLE ^47 



offered no temptation to taste. One tree dan- 

 gled hideous purple cups filled with vermilion 

 fruits, and not far away the color sequence was 

 reversed. A low-growing, pleasant-leaved plant 

 lifted bursting masses of purple-black, all drip- 

 ping like wounds upon the foliage below. Many- 

 flowers were unrecognizable save by their fra- 

 grance and naked stamens, advertised neither by 

 color nor form of blossom. I despaired of flow- 

 ers worthy of the name, until close by my foot I 

 saw a tiny plant with a comely, sweet-scented 

 blossom, grateful to the eye and beautiful as 

 our northern blooms are beautiful. The leaf 

 was like scores lying about, and I realized that 

 this was a sproutling of the giant tree. Nothing 

 but the death of this monster could give the 

 light and air which the little plant needed. It 

 was doomed, but it had performed its destiny. 

 It had hinted that much of the beauty of the 

 jungle lay far above the mold and stagnant 

 water. And then I remembered the orchids 

 high overhead. And the realization came that 

 the low-growing blooms needed their glaring 

 colors to outshine the dim, shadowy under- 

 jungle, and their nauseous fumes to outscent 

 the musky vapors of decay. 



