116 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
Degas tells me that the world is gradually dark- 
ening for her. And she vainly begs me to clear 
the film which is slowly closing over her eyes. 
She labors in a true landscape garden—the small 
circle wrested with cutlass and fire from the great 
jungle, and kept free only by constant cutting 
of the vines and lianas which creep out almost 
in a night, like sinister octopus tentacles, to stran- 
gle the strange upstarts and rejungle the bit of 
sunlit glade. 
Although to the eye a mass of tangled vege- 
tation, an Indian’s garden may be resolved into 
several phases—all utterly practical, with color 
and flowers as mere by-products. First come the 
provisions, for if Degas were not hunting for me, 
and eating my rations, he would be out with bow 
and blowpipe, or fish-hooks, while the women 
worked all day in the cassava field. It is his part 
to clear and burn the forest, it is hers to grub up 
the rich mold, to plant and to weed. Plots and 
beds are unknown, for in every direction are 
fallen trees, too large to burn or be chopped up, 
and great sprawling roots. Between these, 
sprouts of cassava and banana are stuck, and the 
yams and melons which form the food of these 
primitive people. Cassava is as vital to these 
