122 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
their details into picturesque ruins. I remember 
one coolie dwelling which was dirtier and less 
habitable than the meanest stable, and all around 
it were hundreds upon hundreds of frangipanni 
blooms—the white and gold temple flowers of 
the East—giving forth of scent and color all that 
a flower is capable, to alleviate the miserable blot 
of human construction. Now and then a flam- 
boyant tree comes into view, and as, at night, the 
head-lights of an approaching car eclipse all else, 
so this tree of burning scarlet draws eye and 
mind from adjacent human-made squalor. In 
all the tropics of the world I scarcely remember 
to have seen more magnificent color than in these 
unattended, wilful-grown gardens. 
In tropical cities such as Georgetown, there 
are very beautiful private gardens, and the pub- 
lic one is second only to that of Java. But for 
the most part one is as conscious of the very 
dreadful borders of brick, or bottles, or conchs, as 
of the flowers themselves. Some one who is a 
master gardener will some day write of the pos- 
sibilities of a tropical garden, which will hold 
the reader as does desire to behold the gardens of 
Carcassonne itself, 
