240 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE 
In the cool fragrance of early morning, with 
the sun low across the water, the leaves appeared 
like huge, milky-white platters, with now and 
then little dancing silhouettes running over them. 
In another slant of light they seemed atolls scat- 
tered thickly through a dark, quiet sea, with 
new-blown flowers filling the whole air with slow- 
drifting perfume. Best of all, in late afternoon, 
the true colors came to the eye—six-foot circles 
of smooth emerald, with up-turned hem of rich 
wine-color. Each had a tell-tale cable lying 
along the surface, a score of leaves radiating 
from one deep hidden root. 
Up through mud and black trench-water 
came the leaf, like a tiny fist of wrinkles, and 
day by day spread and uncurled, looking like the 
unwieldy paw of a kitten or cub. The keels and 
ribs covering the under-side increased in size and 
strength, and finally the great leaf was ironed 
out by the warm sun into a mighty sheet of 
smooth, emerald chlorophyll. Then, for a time, 
—no one has ever taken the trouble to find out 
how long,—it was at its best, swinging back and 
forth at its moorings with deep upright rim, a 
notch at one side revealing the almost invisible 
