98 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
A little to the south along my beach is the 
Edge of the World. At least, it looks very much 
as I have always imagined that place must look, 
and I have never been beyond it; so that, after 
listening to many arguments in courts of law, 
and hearing the reasoning of bolsheviki, teeto-~ 
talers, and pacifists, I feel that I am quite rea< 
sonable as human beings go. And best of all, 
it hurts no one, and annoys only a few of my. 
scientific friends, who feel that one cannot in- 
dulge in such ideas at the wonderful hour of twi- 
light, and yet at eight o’clock the following morn- 
ing describe with impeccable accuracy the bron- 
chial semi-rings, and the intricate mosaic of carti- 
lage which characterizes and supports the mem- 
branis tympaniformis of Attila thamnophiloides; 
a dogma which halves life and its interests. 
The Edge of the World has always meant a 
place where usual things are different; and my 
southern stretch of beach was that, because 
of roots. Whenever in digging I have come 
across a root and seen its living flesh, per- 
haps pink or rose or pale green, so far under- 
ground, I have desired to know roots better; and 
now I found my opportunity. I walked along 
the proper trail, through right and usual trees, 
