science' sake, obtained special dispensation. One morning we went out
and found in our compound several huge, blue-uniformed policemen, who
saluted and with real black magic, produced twenty convicts--negroes and
coolies--armed with cutlasses. So began the second phase of what we now
named the Convict Trail. We had already fought our painful way through a
half-mile of the terrible maze, and now we heartily welcomed this new
aid, whether good-natured murderers, and burglars, or like Sippy, Slorg
and Slith, mere thieves. We watched them strip to their black skins and
begin a real assault. On a front of ten to fifteen feet, the tangle
fairly dissolved before our eyes, and their great tough palms and soles
made little moment of the razor-grass and thorns. In one of the
slight-bodied coolies, whose task was to clear away the cut debris, I
recognized Ram Narine, whose trial had been the cause of my traveling
another trail.
With my friend, Hope, an honest forger, I went on far ahead and laid the
course for the jungle. In especially dense parts we climbed to the
summit of great jungle stumps and stretched a white sheet to guide the
oncoming trail cutters.
Day after day the score of convicts returned with their guards and at
last we saw the path unite with an old game and Indian trail in the cool
shade of the jungle, and Kalacoon was in direct contact with the great
tropical forest itself. I have passed lightly over the really frightful
pain and exhaustion which we experienced in the initial part of this
work, and which emphasized the tremendous difference between the age-old
jungle untouched by man, and the terrible tangle which springs after he
has destroyed the primeval vegetation.
After this came our reward, and never a day passed but the trail yielded
many wonderful facts. The creatures of the wilderness soon found this
wide swath, and used it by day and night, making it an exciting thing
for us to peer around a corner, to see what strange beings were sitting
or feeding in our little street.
Before the trail was quite completed, it yielded one of the most
exciting hunts of our trip--the noosing of a giant bushmaster--the most
deadly serpent of the tropics. Nupee--my Akawai Indian hunter, two
nestling trogons and Easter eve--these things led to the capture of the
Master of the Bush: For nothing in the tropics is direct, premeditated.
My thoughts were far from poisonous serpents when Nupee came into our
Kalacoon laboratory late on a Saturday afternoon. Outdoors he had
deposited the coarser game intended for the mess, consisting, today, of
a small deer, a tinamou or maam and two agoutis. But now with his quiet
smile, he held out his lesser booty, which he always brought in to me,
offering in his slender, effeminate hands his contribution to science.
Usually this was a bird of brilliant plumage, or a nestful of maam's
eggs with shells like great spheres of burnished emeralds. These he
would carry in a basket so cunningly woven from a single palm frond that
it shared our interest in its contents. Today, he presented two nestling
trogons, and this was against rules. For we desired only to know where
such nests were, there to go and study and photograph.
"Nupee,--listen! You sabe we no want bird here. Must go and show nest,
eh?"
"Me sabe."
Accompanied by one of us, off he started again, without a murmur. In
the slanting rays of the sun he walked lightly down the trail from
Kalacoon as if he had not been hunting since early dawn. An hour passed
and the sun swung still lower when a panting voice gasped out:
"Huge labaria, yards long! Big as leg!"
The flight of queen bees and their swarms, the call to arms in a
sleeping camp creates somewhat the commotion that the news of the
bushmaster aroused with us. For he is really what his name implies. What
the elephant is to the African jungles and the buffalo to Malaysia, this
serpent is to the Guiana wilderness. He fears nothing--save one thing,
hunting ants, before which all the world flees. And this was the first
bushmaster of the rainy season.
Nupee had been left to mount guard over the serpent which had been found
near the trogon tree. Already the light was failing; so we walked
rapidly with gun, snake-pole and canvas bag. Parrakeets hurtled
bamboowards to roost; doves scurried off and small rails flew from our
path and flopped into the reeds. Our route led from the open compound of
Kalacoon, through the freshly cut Convict Trail, toward the edge of the
high bush, and we did not slacken speed until we were in the dim light
which filtered through the western branches.
At the top of the slope we heard a yell--a veritable Red Indian
yell--and there our Akawai hunter was dancing excitedly about, shouting
to us to come on. "Snake, he move! Snake, he move!" We arrived panting,
and he tremblingly led me along a fallen tree and pointed to the dead
leaves. I well knew the color and pattern of the bushmaster. I had had
them brought to me dead and had killed them myself, and I had seen them
in their cage behind glass. But now, though I was thinking bushmaster
and looking bushmaster, my eyes insisted on registering dead leaves.
Eager as I was to begin operations before darkness closed down, it was a
full three minutes before I could honestly say, "This is leaf; that is
snake."
The pattern and pigment of the cunningly arranged coils were that of the
jungle floor, anywhere; a design of dead leaves, reddish-yellow,
pinkish, dark-brown, etched with mold, fungus and decay, and with all
the shadows and high lights which the heaped-up plant tissues throw upon
one another. In the center of this dread plaque, this reptilian mirage,
silent and motionless, rested the head. I knew it was triangular and
flattened, because I had dissected such heads in times past, but now my
senses revealed to me only an irregularity in the contour, a central
focus in this jungle mat, the unraveling of which spelt death.
It was a big snake, seven or eight feet long, and heavy bodied--by no
means a one-man job. Again we carefully examined the screw-eyes on the
pole, and each looked behind for a possible line of escape.
I quickly formed my method of attack. Nupee was sent to cut forked
sticks, but his enthusiasm at having work to do away from the scene of
immediate conflict was so sincere that he vanished altogether and
returned with the sticks only when our shouts announced the end of the
struggle. An Indian will smilingly undergo any physical hardship, and he
will face any creature in the jungle, except the bushmaster.
We approached from three sides, bringing snake-pole, free noose and gun
to bear. Slowly the noose on the pole pushed nearer and nearer. I had no
idea how he would react at the attack, whether he would receive it
quietly, or, as I have seen the king cobra in Burma, become enraged and
attack in turn.
The cord touched his nose, and he drew back close to some bushy stems.
Again it dangled against his head, and his tongue played like lightning.
And now he sent forth the warning of his mastership--a sharp _whirrrrr!_
and the tip of his tail became a blur, the rough scales rasping and
vibrating against the dead leaves, and giving out a sound not less sharp
and sinister than the instrumental rattling of his near relatives.
For a moment the head hung motionless, then the noose-man made a lunge
and pulled his cord. The great serpent drew back like a flash, and
turning, undulated slowly away toward the darker depths of the forest.
There was no panic, no fear of pursuit in his movements. He had
encountered something quite new to his experience, and the knowledge of
his own power made it easy for him to gauge that of an opponent. He
feared neither deer nor tapir, yet at their approach he would sound his
warning as a reciprocal precaution, poison against hoofs. And now, when
his warning had no effect on this new disturbing thing, he chose
dignifiedly to withdraw.
I crept quickly along on one side and with the gun-barrel slightly
deflected his course so that he was headed toward an open space, free
from brush and bush-ropes. Here the pole-man awaited him, the noose
spread and swaying a few inches from the leaves. Steadily the snake held
to his course, and without sensing any danger pushed his head cleanly
into the circle of cord. A sudden snap of the taut line and pandemonium
began. The snake lashed and curled and whipped up a whirlpool of debris,
while one of us held grimly on to the noose and the rest tried to
disentangle the whirling coils and make certain of a tight grip close
behind the head, praying for the screw-eyes to hold fast. Even with the
scant inch of neck ahead of the noose, the head had such play that I had
to pin it down with the gun-barrel before we dared seize it. When our
fingers gained their safe hold and pressed, the great mouth opened wide,
a gaping expanse of snowy white tissue, and the inch-long fangs appeared
erect, each draped under the folds of its sheath like a rapier outlined
beneath a courtier's cloak.
When once the serpent felt himself conquered, he ceased to struggle; and
this was fortunate, for in the dim light we stumbled more than once as
we sidled and backed through the maze of lianas and over fallen logs.
Nupee now appeared, unashamed and wide-eyed with excitement. He followed
and picked up the wreck of battle--gun, hats and bags which had been
thrown aside or knocked off in the struggle. With locked step, so as not
to wrench the long body, we marched back to Kalacoon. Now and then a
great shudder would pass through the hanging loops and a spasm of
muscular stress that tested our strength. It was no easy matter to hold
the snake, for the scales on its back were as rough and hard as a file,
and a sudden twist fairly took the skin off one's hand.
I cleaned his mouth of all dirt and debris, and then we laid him upon
the ground and, without stretching, found that he measured a good eight
feet and a half. With no relaxing of care we slid him into the wired box
which would be his home until he was liberated in his roomier quarters
in the Zooelogical Park in New York.
Close to the very entrance of the Convict Trail behind Kalacoon stood
four sentinel trees. Every day we passed and repassed them on the way to
and from the jungle. For many days we paid very little attention to
them, except to be grateful for the shade cast by their dense foliage of
glossy leaves. Their trunks were their most striking feature, the bark
almost concealed by a maze of beautifully colored lichens, different
forms overlapping one another in many places, forming a palimpsest of
gray, white, pink, mauve and lilac. One day a streaked flycatcher chose
the top of a branch for her nest, and this we watched and photographed
and robbed for science' sake, and again we thought no more of the four
trees.
Late in April, however, a change came over the trees. The leaves had
been shed some time in January and the fallen foliage formed a dry mass
on the ground which crackled under foot. Now each branch and twig began
to send out clusters of small buds, and one day,--a week after
Easter,--these burst into indescribable glory. Every lichened bough and
branch and twig was lined with a soft mass of bloom, clear, bright
cerise, which reflected its brilliance on the foliage itself. After two
days a rain of stamens began and soon the ground beneath the trees was
solid cerise, a carpet of tens of thousands of fallen stamens, and
within the length of a foot on one small branch were often a score of
blooms. This feast of color was wonderful enough, and it made us want to
know more of these trees. But all the information we could glean was
that they were called French cashew. Yet they had not nearly finished
with the surprises they had in store. A hummingbird or two was not an
uncommon sight along the trail at any time, but now we began to notice
an increase in numbers. Then it was observed that the tiny birds seemed
to focus their flight upon one part of the clearing, and this proved to
be the four cashew trees.
The next few days made the trees ever memorable: they were the Mecca of
all the hummingbirds in the jungle. In early morning the air for many
yards resounded with a dull droning, as of a swarming of giant bees.
Standing or sitting under the tree we could detect the units of this
host and then the individuals forced themselves on our notice. Back and
forth the hummers swooped and swung, now poising in front of a mass of
blossom and probing deeply among the stamens, now dashing off at a
tangent, squeaking or chattering their loudest. The magnitude of the
total sound made by these feathered atoms was astounding; piercing
squeaks, shrill insect-like tones, and now and then a real song,
diminutive trills and warbles as if from a flock of song birds a long
distance away. Combats and encounters were frequent, some mere sparring
bouts, while, when two would go at it in earnest, their humming and
squeaks and throb of wings were audible above the general noise.
This being an effect, I looked for the cause. The massed cerise bloom
gave forth comparatively little perfume, but at the base of each flower,
hidden and protected by the twenty score densely ranked stamens, was a
cup of honey; not a nectary with one or two delicately distilled drops,
but a good thimbleful, a veritable stein of liquor. No creature without
a long proboscis or bill could penetrate the chevaux-de-frise of
stamens, and to reach the honey the hummingbirds had to probe to their
eyes. They came out with forehead well dusted with pollen and carried it
to the next blossom. The destiny of the flower was now fulfilled, the
pot of honey might dry up, the stamens rain to the earth and the glory
of Tyrian rose pass into the dull hues of decay.
Day after day as we watched this kaleidoscope of vegetable and avian
hues, we came to know more intimately the units which formed the mass.
There were at least fifteen species and all had peculiarities of flight
and plumage so marked that they soon became recognizable at sight.
After our eyes had become accustomed to specific differences in these
atoms of birds we began to notice the eccentricities of individuals.
This was made easy by the persistence with which certain birds usurped
and clung to favorite perches. One glowing hermit clad in resplendent
emerald armor selected a bare twig on a nearby shrub and from there
challenged every hummer that came in sight; whether larger, smaller or
of his own kind made no difference. He considered the cashew trees as
his own special property and as far as his side of them went he made
good his claim. I have never seen such a concentration of virile
combative force in so condensed a form.
In some such way as vultures concentrate upon carrion, so news of the
cashew sweets had passed through the jungle. Not by any altruistic
agency we may be certain, as we watch the selfish, irritable little
beings, but by subtile scent, or as with the vultures, by the jealous
watching of each other's actions. I observed closely for one hour and
counted one hundred and forty-six hummingbirds coming to the tree.
During the day at least one thousand must visit it.
They did not have a monopoly of the cashew manna, for now and then a
honey-creeper or flower-pecker flew into the tree and took toll of the
sweets. But they were scarcely noticeable. We had almost a pure culture
of hummingbirds to watch and vainly to attempt to study, for more
elusive creatures do not exist. Convict Trail revealed no more beautiful
a sight than this concentration of the smallest, most active and the
most gorgeous birds in the world.
Such treats--floral and avian--were all that might be expected of any
tree, but the cashews had still more treasures in store. The weeks
passed and we had almost forgotten the flowers and hummingbirds, when a
new odor greeted us, the sweet, intense smell of overripe fruit. We
noticed a scattering of soft yellow cashews fallen here and there, and
simultaneously there arrived the hosts of fruit-eating birds. From the
most delicate turquoise honey-creepers to great red and black grosbeaks,
they thronged the trees. All day a perfect stream of tanagers--green,
azure and wine-colored--flew in and about the manna, callistes and
silver-beaks, dacnis and palm tanagers. And for a whole week we gloried
in this new feast of color, before the last riddled cashew dropped, to
be henceforth the prize of great wasps and gauze-winged flies, who
guzzled its fermented juice and helped in the general redistribution of
its flesh--back to the elements of the tropic mold, to await the swarms
of fingering rootlets, a renewed synthesis--to rise again for a time
high in air, again to become part of blossom and bird and insect.
It was along this Convict Trail that I sank the series of pits which
trapped unwary walkers of the night, and halfway out at pit number five,
the army ants waged their wonderful warfare.
In fact it was while watching operations in another sector of this same
battle-front that I found myself all unintentionally in the sleeping
chamber of the heliconias.
Tired from a long day's work in the laboratory, I wandered slowly along
the Convict Trail, aimlessly, in that wholly relaxed state which always
seems to invite small adventures. It is a mental condition wholly
desirable, but not to be achieved consciously. One cannot say, "Lo, I
will now be relaxed, receptive." It must come subconsciously, unnoticed,
induced by a certain wearied content of body or mind--and then--many
secret doors stand ajar, any one of which may be opened and passed if
the gods approve. My stroll was marked at first, however, by only one
quaint happening. For several weeks the jolly little trail-lizards had
been carrying on most enthusiastic courtships, marked with much bowing
and posing, and a terrific amount of scrambling about. The previous
day--that of the first rains--numbers of lizardlets appeared, and at the
same time the brown tree-lizards initiated their season of love-making.
I had often watched them battle with one another--combats wholly futile
as far as any damage was concerned. But the vanquished invariably gave
up to his conqueror the last thing he had swallowed, the victor
receiving it in a gluttonly rather than a gracious spirit, but allowing
his captive to escape. I surprised one of these dark-brown chaps in the
trail and seized him well up toward the head, to preserve his tail
intact. Hardly had I lifted him from the ground, when he turned his
head, considered me calmly with his bright little eyes, and forthwith
solemnly spat out a still living ant in my direction. The inquiring look
he then gave me, was exceedingly embarrassing. Who was I not to be bound
in chivalry by the accredited customs of his race?
With dignity and certainty of acceptance he had surrendered, calmly and
without doubt he had proffered his little substitute of sword. It was, I
felt, infinitely preferable to any guttural and cowardly "kamerad!"
Feeling rather shamefaced I accepted the weakly struggling ant, gently
lowered the small saurian to the ground and opened my fingers. He went
as he had surrendered, with steadiness and without terror. From the
summit of a fallen log he turned and watched me walk slowly out of
sight, and I at least felt the better for the encounter.
Of all tropical butterflies, heliconias seem the most casual and
irresponsible. The background of the wings of many is jet-black, and on
this sable canvas are splashed the boldest of yellow streaks and the
most conspicuous of scarlet spots. Unquestionably protected by nauseous
body fluids, they flaunt their glaring colors in measured, impudent
flight, weaving their way slowly through the jungle, in the face of
lizard and bird. Warningly colored they assuredly are. One cannot think
of them except as flitting aimlessly on their way, usually threading the
densest part of the undergrowth. No butterflies are more conspicuous or
easier to capture. They must feed, they must pay court and mate, and
they must stop long enough in their aimless wanderings to deposit their
eggs on particular plants by an instinct which we have never fathomed.
But these are consummations hidden from the casual observer.
Now, however, I am prepared for any unexpected meaningful trait, for I
have surprised them in a habit, which presupposes memory, sociability
and caution, manifested at least subconsciously.
The afternoon had worn on, and after leaving my lizard, I had squatted
at the edge of a small glade. This glade was my private property, and
the way by which one reached it from the nearby Convict Trail was a
pressure trail, not a cut one. One pushed one's way through the reeds,
which flew back into place and revealed nothing. Lifting my eyes from
the tragedies of a hastening column of army ants, I saw that an unusual
number of heliconias were flitting about the glade, both species, the
Reds and the Yellows. All were fluttering slowly about and as I watched,
one by one they alighted on the very tips of bare twigs, upside down
with closed wings. In this position they were almost invisible, even a
side view showing only the subdued under-wing pigments which blended
with the pastel colors of twilight in the glade, reflected from
variegated leaves and from the opening blossoms of the scarlet passion
vine. Perhaps the most significant fact of this sleeping posture, was
the very evident protection it afforded to butterflies which in motion
during their waking hours are undoubtedly warningly colored and
advertised to the world as inedible. Hanging perpendicularly beneath the
twig, although they were almost in the open with little or no foliage
overhead, yet they presented no surface to the rain of the night, and
all faced northeast--the certain direction of both rain and wind.
The first one or two roosting butterflies I thought must be due to
accidental association, but I soon saw my error. I counted twelve of the
Red-spots and eight Yellows on two small bushes and a few minutes'
search revealed forty-three more. All were swung invariably from the
tips of bare twigs, and there was very evident segregation of the two
kinds, one on each side of the glade.
When I disturbed them, they flew up in a colorful flurry, flapped about
for a minute or less and returned, each to its particular perch. After
two or three gentle waves of the wings and a momentary shifting of feet
they settled again to perfect rest. This persistent choice of position
was invariably the case, as I observed in a number of butterflies which
had recognizable tears in their wings. No matter how often they were
disturbed they never made a mistake in the number of their cabin. A
certain section of a particular twig on a definite branch was the
resting place of some one heliconia, and he always claimed it.
Several were bright and fresh, newly emerged, but the remainder were
somewhat faded and chipped at the edges. The delicate little beings
slept soundly. I waited until dusk began finally to settle down and
crept gently toward a Red-spot. I brought my face close and aroused no
sign of life. Then I reached up and slowly detached the butterfly from
its resting place. It moved its feet slightly, but soon became quiet.
Then I gently replaced it, and at the touch of the twig, its feet took
new hold. When I released its wings it did not fly but sank back into
the same position as before. I wondered if I was the first scientist to
pluck a sleepy butterfly from a jungle tree and replace it unawakened.
At the time I was more impressed by the romantic beauty of it all than
by its psychological significance. I wondered if heliconias ever
dreamed, I compared the peacefulness of this little company with the
fierce ants which even now were just disappearing from view. These were
my thoughts rather than later meditations on whether this might not be a
sort of atavistic social instinct, faintly reminiscent of the
gregariousness of their caterpillar youth.
From any point of view I shall think better of all butterflies for this
discovery; their desire for company, the instinctive wisdom of place
and posture, the gentleness and silence of the little foregathering in
the jungle. As I walked back along the trail several late comers passed
me, vibrating softly through the twilight, headed for their glade of
dreams.