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 mélange of blood 
