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 

 i»to indicate ownership. Small boys, like little black 

 t^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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