114 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 



straw between his bare feet and the snow, probe 

 around the south edge of melting drifts until he 

 found brilliant little primroses to stick behind 

 his ears. I have been ushered into the little-used, 

 musty best-parlor of a New England farmhouse, 

 and seen fresh vases of homely, old-fashioned 

 flowers so recently placed for my edification, 

 that drops of water still glistened like dewdrops 

 on the dusty plush mat beneath. I have sat in 

 the seat of honor of a Dyak communal house, 

 looked up at the circle of all too recent heads, 

 and seen a gay flower in each hollow eye socket, 

 placed there for my approval. With a cluster 

 of colored petals swaying in the breeze, one may 

 at times bridge centuries or span the earth. 



And now as I sit writing these words in my 

 jungle laboratory, a small dusky hand steals 

 around an aquarium and deposits a beautiful 

 spray of orchids on my table. The little face 

 appears, and I can distinguish the high cheek 

 bones of Indian blood, the flattened nose and 

 slight kink of negro, and the faint trace of white 

 probably of some long forgotten Dutch sailor, 

 who came and went to Guiana, while New York 

 City was still a browsing ground for moose. 



So neither race nor age nor melange of blood 



