A JUNGLE BEACH 101 
sprawled, and wrote, and strange things often 
happened to me. Once, while writing rapidly 
qn a small sheet of paper, I found my lines grow- 
ing closer and closer together until my fingers 
cramped, and the consciousness of the change 
overlaid the thoughts that were driving hand and 
pen. I then realized that, without thinking, I 
had been following a succession of faint lines, 
cross-ruled on my white paper, and looking up, 
I saw that a leaf-filtered opening had reflected 
strands of a spider-web just above my head, and 
I had been adapting my lines to the narrow 
spaces, my chirography controlled by cobweb 
shadows. 
The first unreality of the roots was their rigid- 
ity. I stepped from one slender tendon of wood 
to the next, expecting a bending which never 
occurred. They might have been turned to stone, 
and even little twigs resting on the bark often 
proved to have grown fast. And this was the 
more unexpected because of the grace of curve 
and line, fold upon fold, with no sharp angles, 
but as full of charm of contour as their grays and 
olives were harmonious in color. Photographs 
showed a little of this; sketches revealed more; 
but the great splendid things themselves, devoid 
