PEARLS
WHAT IS A PEARL?
A PEARL IN THE MAKING
STRANGE PEARLS
PEARLS AND HIGH TRAGEDY
SNAKE AND FROG PRATTLE
THE BUSH TRACK
THE LITTLE BROWN MAN
UP AND AWAY
“PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING”
TIME'S FINGER
THE SOUL WITHIN THE STONE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
AT HOME ON THE TROPIC STRAND
“DEBIL-DEBIL”
NATURE'S PUZZLE: FIND THE BIRD
ORCHID (PHAIUS GRANDIFOLIUS)
ORCHID (BULBOPHYLLUM BAILEYI)
A SPIDER CRAB
A SPIDER CRAB DISGUISED
CASUARINAS
TOURNEFORTIA ARGENTA
MACARANGA TANARIUS
UMBRELLA TREE SHADOWS
SUN-SALUTED TREE FERNS
“THE LOWING HERD”
PERFECT HAPPINESS
GIGANTIC OYSTER (OSTREA CRISTA GALLI)
SANDSPIT SWIRL
GLOOM AND GLEAM
COWRIES
“SOOSIE'S” TYPE
TAPES
LEAF VARIATIONS (FICUS OPPOSITA) TYPICAL FORM RIGHT HAND TOP CORNER
TELLINA
A SHELL COLLECTION
TRITON
DOMESTIC DUTIES
PEARL-ENTOMBED FISH AND RACEMOSE PEARL
CATTIERS
PEARL-IMPRISONED CHITON
TWO STRANGE PEARLS
TWO BUBBLE SHELLS
PEARL JOSSES
WHITE APPLE (EUGENIA CORMIFLORA)
CYCADS
DESERTED
CYCAD AND PALMS
WIND-TORMENTED FIG-TREE
THE IDLE OCEAN
PART I--SUN DAYS
IN IDLE MOMENT
“'Are you not frequently idle?' 'Never, brother. When we are not engaged
in our traffic we are engaged in our relaxations.'”--BORROW.
On the smooth beaches and in the silent bush, where time is not
regulated by formalities or shackled by conventions, there delicious
lapses--fag-ends of the day to be utilised in a dreamy mood which
observes and accepts the happenings of Nature without disturbing the
shyest of her manifestations or permitting 'the-mind to dwell on any but
the vaguest speculations.
Such idle moments are mine. Let these pages tell of their occupation.
As the years pass it is proved that the administration of the affairs of
an island, the settled population of which is limited to three, involves
pleasant though exacting duties. It is a gainful government--not
gainful in the accepted sense, but in all that vitally matters--personal
freedom, absence of irksome regulations remindful of the street, liberty
to enjoy the mood of the moment and to commune with Nature in her most
fascinating aspects. Those who are out of touch with great and dusty
events may, by way of compensation, be the more sensitive to the
processes of the universe, which, though incessantly repeated, are
blessed with recurrent freshness.
The sun rises, travels across a cloudless sky, gleams on a sailless sea,
disappears behind purple mountains gilding their outline, and the day is
done. Not a single dust-speck has soiled sky or earth; not the faintest
echo of noisy labours disturbed the silences; not an alien sight has
intruded. What can there be in such a scene to exhilarate? Must not
the inhabitants vegetate dully after the style of their own bananas?
Actually the day has been all too brief for the accomplishment of
inevitable duties and to the complete enjoyment of all too alluring
relaxations.
Here is opportunity to patronise the sun, to revel in the companionship
of the sea, to confirm the usage of beaches, to admonish winds to
seemliness and secrecy, to approve good-tempered trees, to exchange
confidences with flowering plants, to claim the perfumed air, to rejoice
in the silence--
“Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach,
Which pries not to th' interior.”
How oft is the confession that the fullest moments of life are achieved
when I roam the beaches with little more in the way of raiment than
sunburn and naught in hand save the leaves of some strange, sand-loving
plant? Then is it that the individual is magnified. The sun salutes. The
wind fans. The sea sighs a love melody. The caressing sand takes print
of my foot alone. All the world might be mine, for none is present to
dispute possession. The sailless sea smiles in ripples, and strews its
verge with treasures for my acceptance. The sky's purity enriches my
soul. Shall I not joy therein?
Though he may be unable to attain those moments of irresistible
intuition which came to Amiel, when a man feels himself great like the
universe and calm like a god, one may thrill with love and admiration
for Nature without resigning sense of superiority over all other of her
works or abating one jot of justifiable pride.
Even in tropical Queensland there is a sense of revivification during
the last half of August and first of September, and the soul of man
responds thereto, as do plants and birds, in lawful manner. Perhaps it
is that the alien dweller in lands of the sun, when he frisks mentally
and physically at this sprightly season, is merely obeying an imperative
characteristic bred into him during untold generations when the winter
was cruelly real and spring a joyful release from cold and distress. The
cause may be slight, but there is none to doubt the actual awakening,
for it is persuasive and irresistible.
The lemon-trees are discarding the burden of superfluous fruit with
almost immoderate haste, for the gentle flowers must have their day.
Pomeloes have put forth new growth a yard long in less than a fortnight,
and are preparing a bridal array of blooms such as will make birds
and butterflies frantic with admiration and perfume the scene for the
compass of a mile. The buff-and-yellow sprays of the mango attract
millions of humming insects, great and small. Most of the orchids are
in full flower, the coral-trees glow, the castanospermum is full of
bud, loose bunches of white fruit decorate the creeping palms, and
the sunflower-tree is blotched with gold in masses. The birds make
declaration of attachment for the season.
Great trees, amorous birds, frail insects, perceive the subtle influence
of the season, and shall not coarse-fibred man rejoice, though there
be little or nothing to which he may point as special evidence of
inspiration? He may feel the indefinable without comprehending any
material reason why. He may confess, although there is but a trifle more
sunshine than a month ago--and what influence a trifle where there is
so much--and scarcely any difference of temperature, that Nature is
insisting on obedience to one of her mighty laws--the law of heredity.
Why, therefore, refrain from justifying the allusion? Why persist in
declining the invitations of the hour? Far be it from me to do so. Is
sufferance the cognizance of this Free Isle?
All my days are Days of the Sun. All my days are holy. Duty may suggest
the propriety of contentment within four walls. Inclination and the
thrill of the season lure me to gloat over the more manifest of its
magic. Be sure that, unabashed and impenitent, shall I riot over
sordid industry during the most gracious time of year to hearken to the
eloquence and accept the teachings of unpeopled spaces.
Such is the silence of the bush that the silken rustle of the
butterflies becomes audible and the distinctive flight of birds is
recognised--not alone such exaggerated differences as the whirr of
quail, the bustle of scrub fowl, and the whistle and clacking of nutmeg
pigeons, but the delicate and tender characteristics of the wing
notes of the meeker kinds of doves and the honey-eaters, and also the
calculated flutterings of the fly-catchers. In the whistling swoop of
the grey goshawk there is a note of ominous blood-thirstiness, silent
though the destroyer has sat awaiting the moment for swift and decisive
action.
Seldom, even on the stillest evening, may the presence of the night-jar
be detected, except by its coarse call, while the sprightly little
sun-bird flits hither and thither, prodigal of its vivid colours
and joying with machine-like whirring. The sun-bird exemplifies the
brightness of the day. All its activities are bold and conspicuous.
Aptly named, it has nothing to hide, no deeds which will not withstand
the scrutiny of the vividest rays.
To work out its destiny the night-jar depends on secret doings and on
flight soft as a falling leaf. It is a bird of the twilight and night.
Startled from brooding over its eggs or yet dependent chicks, it is
ghost-like in its flittings and disappearances. In broad daylight it
moves from its resting-place as a leaf blown by an erratic and sudden
puff, and vanishes as it touches the sheltering bosom of Mother Earth.
Mark the spot of its vanishment and approach never so cautiously, and
you see naught. Peer about and from your very feet that which had been
deemed to be a shred of bark rises and is wafted away again by a phantom
zephyr.
The chick which the parent bird has hidden remains a puzzle. It moves
not, it may not blink. Its crafty parent has so nibbled and frayed the
edges of the decaying brown leaves among which it nestles that it has
become absorbed in the scene. There is nothing to distinguish between
the leaf-like feathers and the feather-like leaves. The instinct of
the bird has blotted itself out. It is there, but invisible, and to
be discovered only by the critical inspection of every inch of its
environment. You have found it; but not for minutes after its instinct
has warned it to possess its soul calmly and not to be afraid. So firm
is its purpose that if inadvertently you put your foot on its tender
body it would not move or utter cry. All its faculties are concentrated
on impassiveness, and thus does Nature guard its weakest and most
helpless offspring.
While you ponder on the wonderful faith of the tiny creature which
suffers handling without resistance, the shred of bark, driven by the
imperceptible zephyr, falls a few yards away, and in an agony of anxiety
utters an imploring purr, or was it an imprecation? That half purr, half
hiss has been the only sound of the episode. It is a warning to be gone
and leave Nature to her secrets and silences.
A month's abstinence may not be a very severe penance for an island on
which the rainfall averages 124 inches per year; but when vegetation
suffers from the cruelty of four almost rainless months, promises and
slights amount to something more than mere discourtesy. How genuine
the thanksgiving to the soft skies after an incense-stimulating shower.
Insects whirl in the sunshine. Among the pomelo-trees is a cyclone of
scarcely visible things. Motes and specks of light dance in disorderly
figures, to be detected as animated objects only by gauzy wings catching
the light and reflecting it. Each insect, wakened but an hour ago by
the warmth of the moist soil, in an abandonment of the moment, is a
helioscope transmitting signals of pure pleasure. Drops still linger
on myriads of leaves, and glitter on the glorious gold of the Chinese
laburnum; the air is saturated with rich scents, and the frolicking
crowd, invisible but for the oblique light, does not dream of disaster.
Their crowded hour has attracted other eyes, appreciative in another
sense. Masked wood-swallows, swiftlets, spangled drongos, leaden
fly-eaters, barred-shouldered fly-eaters, hurry to the circus to
desolate it with hungry swoops. The assemblage is noisy, for two or
three drongos cannot meet without making a clatter on the subject of the
moment. They cannot sing, but clink and jangle with as much intensity
and individual satisfaction as if gifted with peerless note. It is the
height of the season, and a newly matched pair, satisfied with an
ample meal, sit side by side on a branch to tell of their love, and
in language which, though it may lack tunefulness, has the outstanding
quality of enthusiasm. But why waste clamorous love-notes on a world
busy with breakfast? The sportful, tail-flicking dandy flits and alights
so that he may address himself solely to his delighted and accepting
spouse, peering into her reddish eyes the while, and in ecstasy
proclaiming, in tones as loud and unmusical as her own, that life
overflows with joy when mutual admiration surcharges the breast.
The noise stays a company of metallic starlings in headlong flight from
the nest-laden tree in the forest to the many-fruited jungle. Though
they most conscientiously search the fronds of coco-nut palms for
insignificant grubs and caterpillars, starlings do not hawk for insects.
Held up by the excitement--for by this time other birds have darted
to the feast--the starlings alight among the plumes of the laburnum,
interrogating in acidulous tones, their black, burnished, iridescent
feathers and flame-hued eyes making a picture of rare vividness and
beauty.
How thin becomes the throng! Last night's shower, the morning warmth of
the soil, have brought forth a gush of life that wheels and sparkles in
the sun and becomes bait for birds. Are droughts designed by Nature to
test endurance on the part of animal and vegetable life? Leaves fall
from evergreen trees almost as completely as from the deciduous, and
even the jungle is thickly strewn, while every slight hollow is filled
with brittle debris where usually leaves are limp with dampness and
mould. The jungle has lost, too, its rich, moist odours. Whiffs of the
pleasant earthy smell, telling of the decay of clean vegetable refuse,
do issue in the early morning and after sundown; but while the sun is
searching out all the privacies of the once dim area, the wholesome
fragrance does not exist.
Drought proves that certain species of exotic plants are hardier than
natives. Wattles suffer more than mangoes, and citrus fruits have powers
of endurance equal to eucalyptus. Whence does the banana obtain the
liquid which flows from severed stem and drips from the cut bunch? Dig
into the soil and no trace of even dampness is there; but rather parched
soil and unnatural warmth, almost heat. Heat and moisture are the
elements which enable one of the most succulent of plants to bear a
bunch of fruit luscious and refreshing, and when heat alone prevails,
the wonder is that the whole patch of luxuriant greenness does not
collapse and wither. But the broad leaves woo the cool night airs, and
while the thin, harsh, tough foliage of the wattles becomes languid and
droops and falls, the banana grove retains its verdancy, each plant a
reservoir of sap.
A noteworthy feature of the botany of the coast of tropical Queensland
is its alliance with the Malayan Archipelago and India. Most of the
related plants do not occur in those parts closest to other equatorial
regions in the geographical sense, but in localities in which climate
and physical conditions are similar. Probably there are more affinities
in the coastal strip of which this isle is typical than in all the
rest of the continent of Australia. One prominent example may be
mentioned-viz., “the marking-nut tree.” When the distinctiveness of
the botany of the southern portions of Australia from that of the old
country began to impress itself on the earliest settlers, the miscalled
native cherry was the very first on the list of reversals. The good
folks at home were told that the seeds of the Australian cherry “grow
on the outside.” The fruit of the cashew or marking-nut tree betrays
a similar feature in more pronounced fashion. The fruit is really the
thickened, succulent stalk of the kidney-shaped nut. The tint of the
fruit being attractive, unsophisticated children eat of it and earn
scalded lips and swollen tongues, while their clothing is stained
indelibly by the juice. Botanists know the handsome tree as SEMECARPUS
AUSTRALIENSIS, but by the indignant parent of the child with tearful
and distorted features and ruined raiment it is offensively called the
“tar-tree,” and is subject to shrill denunciations. The fleshy stalk
beneath the fruit is, however, quite wholesome either raw or cooked, but
the oily pericarp contains a caustic principle actually poisonous, so
that unwary children would of a certainty eat the worst part. The tree,
which belongs to the same order as the mango, has a limited range, and
there are those who would like to see it exterminated, forgetful that in
other parts of the world the edible parts are enjoyed, and also that a
valuable means to the identification of linen is manufactured from it.
A tree that is ornamental, that provides dense shade, that bears pretty
and strange fruit, an edible part, and provides an economic principle,
is not to be condemned off-hand because of one blot on its character.
An Indian representative of the genera produces a nut which when
roasted is highly relished, though dubiously known as the coffin-nail
or promotion nut, but there is no reason to believe that it is specially
indigestible unless eaten in immoderate quantity.
One of the many bewilderments of botany is that plants of one family
exhibit characteristics and habits so divergent that the casual observer
fails to recognise the least signs of relationship. Similar confusion
arises in the case of plants of the same species producing foliage of
varied form. One of the figs (FICUS OPPOSITA) displays such remarkable
inconsistency that until reassured by many examples it is difficult to
credit an undoubted fact. The typical leaf is oblong elliptical, while
individual plants produce lanceolate leaves with two short lateral
lobes, with many intermediate forms. As the plant develops, the abnormal
forms tend to disappear, though mature plants occasionally retain them.
There seems to exist correlation between foliage and fruit, for branches
exhibiting leaves with never so slight a variation from the type are,
according to local observation, invariably barren. The leaves, which,
when young, are densely hairy on the underside, on maturity become so
rough and coarse that they are used by the blacks as a substitute for
sandpaper in the smoothing of weapons. The fruit is small, dark purple
when ripe, sweet, but rough to the palate.
During the fulness of the wet season, a diminutive orchid, the roots,
tuber, leaf, and flower of which may be easily covered by the glass of a
lady's watch, springs upon exposed shoulders of the hills. So far it
has not been recorded for any other part of Australia, or, indeed, the
world. Science has bestowed upon it the title of CORYSANTHES FIMBRIATA,
for it is all too retiring of disposition to demand of man a familiar
name. Probably it may be quite common in similar localities, but its
size, its brief periodicity, and inconspicuousness, contribute to make
it, at present, one of the rarities of botany. Beneath a kidney-shaped
leaf a tiny, solitary, hooded, purple flower shelters with becoming
modesty, the art of concealment being so delicately employed that it
seems to preserve its virginal purity. There is proof, however, that the
flower does possess some “secret virtue,” for if the plant be immersed
in glycerine the preservative takes the hue of the flower. Nature having
ordained that the plants should be elusive, they appear in remote spots
and unlikely situations with foothold among loose and gritty fragments
of rock, and with cessation of the sustaining rains disappear, each
having borne but a single leaf and produced but a solitary flower.
The leaf does not seem to be attractive to insects, nor is the flower
despoiled or the tuber interfered with. The first dry day sears the
plants, and succeeding days shrivel them to dust and they vanish. What
part in the great scheme of Nature does the humble flower fulfil? Or is
it merely a lowly decoration, not designed to court the ardent gaze of
the sun, but to brighten an otherwise bare space of Mother Earth with a
spot of fugitive purple?
Widely different are the ant-house plants, of which North Queensland has
two genera. One is purely an epiphyte, growing attached to a tree
like many of the orchids. In both genera the gouty stems are hollow, a
feature of which ants take advantage; they are merely occupiers, not the
makers of their homes. Few, if any, of the plants are uninhabited by
a resentful swarm, ready to attack whomsoever may presume to interfere
with it. It is discomposing to the uninitiated to find the curious
“orchid,” laboriously wrenched from a tree, overflowing with stinging
and pungent ants, nor is he likely to reflect that the association
between the plant and the insect may be more than accidental.
Some of the commonest wattles exhibit singularity of foliage well
worth notice. Upon the germination of the seeds the primary leaves are
pinnate. After a brief period this pretty foliage is succeeded by a
boomerang-shaped growth, which prevails during life. Botanists do not
speak of such trees as possessing leaves, but “leaf-stalks dilated into
the form of a blade and usually with vertical edges, as in Australian
acacias.” If one of these wattles is burnt to the ground, but yet
retains sufficient life to enable it to shoot from the charred stem, the
new growth will be of pinnate leaves, shortly to be abandoned for the
substitutes, which are of a form which checks transpiration and fits
the plant to survive in specially dry localities. Several of the species
thus equipped to withstand drought are extremely robust in districts
where the rainfall is prolific. There are no data available to support
the theory that such species in a wet district are more vigorous and
attain larger dimensions than representatives in drier and hotter
localities. In her distribution of the Australian national flower,
Nature seems to be “careless of the type,” or rather regardless in
respect of conditions of climate.
Human beings, and occasionally animals lower in the scale, deviate
distressingly in their conduct from the general. Plants, too, though
lacking the organ of brain, are subject to aberrations of foliage almost
as fantastical as the mental bent which in man is displayed by the
sticking of straws in the hair. “Phyllomania” is the recognised term for
this waywardness. One of the trees of this locality, the raroo (CAREYA
AUSTRALIS), seems singularly prone to the infirmity, for without
apparent cause it abandons habitual ways and clothes its trunk and
branches with huge rosettes of small, slight, and ineffective leaves,
evidence, probably, of vital degeneration.
Among the beautiful trees of this Island there is one, PITHECOLOBIUM
PRUINOSUM, possessing features of attraction during successive phases of
growth. The young branches, foliage, and inflorescence, are coated with
minute silky hair, as if dusted with bronze of golden tint. The dense,
light, semi-drooping foliage produces a cloud-like effect, to which the
great masses of buff flowers add a delightful fleeciness, while the ripe
pods, much twisted and involved (to carry similitude as far as it
may), might be likened to dull lightning in thunderous vapour. The tree
flourishes in almost pure sand within a few yards of salt water, and,
being hardy and of clean habit, might well be used decoratively.
Standing with its feet awash at high tide, the huge fig-tree began life
as a parasite, the seed planted by a beak-cleaning bird in a crevice of
the bark of its forerunner. In time the host disappeared, embraced and
absorbed. Now the tree is a sturdy host. Another fig envelops some
of its branches, two umbrella-trees cling stubbornly to its sides, a
pandanus palm grows comfortably at the base of a limb, tons of staghorn,
bird's-nest, polypodium, and other epiphytal ferns, have licence
to flourish, orchids hang decoratively, and several shrubs spring
aspiringly among its roots. But the big tree still asserts its
individuality. It is the host, the others merely dependents or tenants.
Most of the functions of the tree are associated with the sea. Twice a
year it studs its branches with pink fruit, food for many weeks for a
carnival of birds, the relics of the feast dully carpeting the sand.
Before the first fruiting the old leaves fall, and for a brief interval
the shadows of branches and twigs, intricate, involved, erratic, might
be likened to unschooled scribblings, with here a flourish and there
a blot and many a boisterous smudge. Soon--it is merely a question of
days--the swelling buds displace millions of leaf-sheaves, pale green
and fragile, which fall and, curling in on themselves, redden, and again
the yellow sand is littered, while overhead fresh foliage, changing
rapidly from golden, glistening brown to rich dark green, makes one
compact blotch. And when the wind torments sea and forest, and branches
bend and sway, and creepers drift before it, the white blooms of the
orchids, so light and delicate that a sigh agitates them, might be “foam
flakes torn from the fringe of spray” and tossed aloft.
The technical description of a fairly common tree--IXORA TIMORENSIS--is
silent on a quality that appeals to the unversed admirer almost as
strongly as the handsome flowers, which occur in large, loose panicles
at the terminals of the branches. Boldly exposed, the white flowers as
they lose primal freshness change to cream, but last for several weeks.
The omitted compliment from formal records is the singular fragrance
of the flowers--strong, sweet, and enticing, though with a drug-like
savour, as if rather an artificial addition than a provision of Nature.
During December the perfume hangs heavily about the trees, being
specially virile in the cool of evening and morning. Being confined to
the tropical coast, away from the centres of population, and flowering
at a season when visitors avoid the north, the scented Ixora has so far
remained uncommended. Those who are familiar with it in its native scene
dwell on its unique excellence, and are proud to reflect that when
a comprehensive catalogue of the flowering and perfumed plants of
Australia comes to be compiled it will stand high in order of merit,
being unique and characteristic of the richness of that part of the
continent in which it exists naturally.
Twice during lengthy intervals have I been perturbed by the conduct of
the sea-swallows (terns) which breed in this neighbourhood. They select
for their nurseries coral banks, depositing large numbers of eggs beyond
the limit of high tides. In obedience to some law, the joyful white
birds began to lay in September, five or six weeks earlier than usual.
It seemed to be a half-hearted effort to maintain the strength of the
colony, the unanimous and general purpose being postponed for three
months, when numerous clutches and marvellously variegated eggs
embellished the coral. But that which was a perfectly safe and wise
undertaking in September was a foolish and dangerous experiment in
December. The tides then approach their maximum, flooding areas denied
three months previously. Wholesale tragedy was inevitable. The full
moon brought bereavement to many parents, for the sea overwhelmed the
nurseries, or the best part of them. Many wise birds had laid their eggs
above the limit of the highest tide. Others screamed in protest against
the cruelty of the sea, for eggs and fluffy chicks do not surely
represent legitimate tribute to Neptune. Several fledglings were found
half buried in sand and coral chips, some with merely the head with
bright and apprehensive eyes obtruding. Why were not the whole of
the parents of the colony prudent when in default the penalty was
inevitable? Five score were wise, five hundred were foolish, and
the natural increase from the second brood must have been seriously
diminished. Several of the parent birds had brooded over their eggs
until overwhelmed by the surges and drowned. Some on the tide limit
squatted buried to the eyes in sand and seaweed. Of one the tip of a
wing only protruded. It was alive, fostering unbroken eggs.
The metallic starlings have again built on a favourite tree--not massive
and tough, but a slim though tall Moreton Bay ash, the branchlets of
which are not notoriously brittle. They withstand a certain weight,
beyond which they snap. Why do these otherwise highly intelligent birds
so overstrain branches with groups of nests that “regrettable incidents”
cannot be averted? First there came to the ground a group of four, and
then twenty nests, all containing eggs or helpless young. By these and
similar mishaps during the season the colony suffered loss to the extent
of at least a hundred.
“But, like the martlet,
Builds in the weather on the outward wall
Even in the force and road of casualty.”
How often, too, do we find nests in places absurdly wrong? Wonderfully
and skilfully constructed nests are attached to supports obviously
weak, and eggs are laid on the ground right in the track of man and less
considerate animals. Some birds seem to lay eggs and rear young solely
that snakes may not lack and suffer hunger, while how large a proportion
of beautiful and innocent creatures are destined to become prey to
hawks?
Years ago scientific visitors to a coral islet found almost innumerable
sea birds and eggs. The multitude of birds and their prodigious
fecundity inspired the thought that the “rookery” for the whole breadth
of the Indian Ocean had been discovered. Investigations showed that the
islet was also the abiding-place of a certain species of lizard which
subsisted entirely on eggs. It was calculated that not one egg in
several hundred was hatched out; yet in spite of such an extraordinary
natural check the islet was enormously overpopulated. Thousands of birds
every year laid eggs for the maintenance of fat and pompous reptiles,
without reflecting that there were other and lizardless isles on which
the vital function of incubation might be performed without loss.
Years after other men of science sought the isle. Birds seemed to be as
numerous as ever, but the lizards had disappeared. Had the birds been
wise enough to perceive that the plague of lizards had been sent as
reproof for overcrowding, or did the lizards become victims to physical
deterioration incident upon gluttony and sloth?
“Into every instinctive act there is an intrusion of reasoned act.”
No doubt; but in the case of the terns--sea-frequenting and
sea-loving--which had not the wit to lay their eggs beyond the reach of
spring tides, the reasoning is the merest intrusion. Yet an instance of
what seems to be the reasoned act of a wasp may be cited. The insect had
selected a dead log of soft wood as a site for its egg-shaft. It was at
a spot to which the occupations of the season took me daily, so that the
boring operations were watched from beginning to end. The work was done
rapidly and neatly, and when all was ready for the deposit of the eggs
the insect constructed from papier-mache-like material a disc-shaped lid
exactly fitting the mouth of the excavation, to which it was attached on
its upper edge by a hinge. Then round and about the disc similar stuff
was plastered, so as to form an irregular splash, imitative of a bird's
droppings to the-degree of perfect deception. In the centre was the lid
with the hinge, and whensoever the insect visited its nursery the lid
swung up, closing behind it. On departure it fell into position. Unless
the insect by its presence betrayed its secret, the shrewdest observer
at close quarters would have been misled.
There are reasons for the belief that green tree-ants understand and
respect the laws of neutrality. There are several communities in the
mango-trees, and since some of the trees overhang the fence, the top
wire is used as a highway. When a gate is opened traffic is suspended.
In a minute or two of a busy day there will be considerable gatherings
on the latch-style, and if the intervening space is narrowed by the
swing of the gate the impatient insects begin to make a living bridge
across the perilous gap. At one particular gate, which is opened and
shut many times a day, it has been noticed that the ants never seem to
resent interruptions or to be vexed by them. If they happen to get on
the hands or fingers, they submit to be restored to the gate; but go
to the formicary on the mango-tree half a dozen yards away and offer
a friendly finger, and you will find dozens of pugnacious individuals
ready to defend their home. Do they recognise that they are but pilgrims
of the fence, enjoying certain rights on sufferance, that it is a path
of peace on which belligerents must not intrude, a neutral tract under
the custody of the law of nations, which ants, as well as men, must
respect? Whatsoever the reason, the deportment of the truculent ant on
the highway is that of an upholder of peace at any price. It is to be
doubted if the animal world holds more illustrious examples of heroism
than a green tree-ants' nest. Two or three individuals may be despised
as long as their assaults are confined to the less sensitive parts of
the body; but let a huge colony up among the branches of an orange-tree
be disturbed, and the first army corps instantly mobilised, and it
will not be cowardly hastily to retreat. So eager for the fray are
the warriors, so well organised, so completely devoted to the
self-sacrificing duty of protecting the community, that two distinct
methods of advance and attack are exercised forthwith in the midst of
what appears to be calamitous confusion. Swarming on the extremity of
the branches among which the formicary is constructed, the defenders,
projecting their terminal segments as far into space as possible, eject
formic acid in the direction of the enemy. Like shrapnel from machine
guns, the liquid missile sweeps a considerable area. Against the
sunlight it appears as a continuous spray, and should one infinitesimal
drop descend into the eye the stoutest mortal will blink. Attacks are
made singly and in detachments. Heroes actually hurl themselves from
the branches, and, failing to reach the enemy, run along the ground and,
scaling his legs, inflict punishment on the first convenient patch of
unprotected skin. Detachments muster in blobs, fall in a mass to
the ground, and charge. If one of these forlorn hopes happens to be
successful, the observant man will retire with little of his dignity
remaining.
It is interesting to note how readily birds acquire tastes for the sweet
fruits which man cultivates. One of the honey-eaters, the diet of which
ranges from nectar to the juice of one of the native cucumbers, as
bitter as colocynth, has become an ardent advocate for the thorough
ripening of bananas. While on the plant the fruit is not appreciated,
but after the bunch has been hung for a week or so and the first fruits
are changing colour the bird is enthusiastic. Formerly bunches were
ripened in a thatched building for the the most part open, and the bird
got the very best of the bunch. Now the process takes place where the
bird has to venture through wire-netting. It has no fear, entering
without ceremony, loudly complaining when inadvertently disturbed, and
flying to other parts of the house to express remonstrance when the
supply is exhausted.
Scarcity of surface-water sharpens the powers of observation of some
birds and increases the trustfulness of certain species towards human
beings in a region wherein they are held to have rights on equality with
those of their superiors in the animal world. For years, during the few
weeks which generally intervene between the disappearance of
accustomed water reserves and the beginning of the wet season, with
its super-abundance, the metallic starlings have been wont to obtain
refreshment from a hollow far up a huge tea-tree, the supply in which
seemed to be inexhaustible. The tyrant's plea, necessity, ordained the
destruction of the never-failing tree, and now the starlings descend by
the hundred into the deep and shady ravine whence water is pumped,
and drink also from the cattle-trough and bathe therein with noise and
excitement of happy children on the beach. It is quite within the mark
to compute the starlings by the hundred. The trough is edged nearly all
day long by thirsty or dirty birds, while scores sit round among the
shrubs waiting turn and commenting on the frolics and splashings of
others in excitable tones. When, perhaps, there are but a poor dozen or
so round the trough, you may chance to see the birds in attitudes more
varied than those of Pliny's doves, and catch the shadows of burnished
necks darkening the water, as in that famous mosaic, and even the
glistening reflection of the red, jewel-like eyes. Other birds, with far
less assurance and shrill clamour than the lovely starlings, visit
the trough regularly and by the score. Two species of honey-eaters are
seldom unrepresented. The barred-shouldered dove, the spangled drongo,
the noisy pitta, the red-crowned fruit pigeon, the pheasant-tailed
pigeon, are less frequent visitors; and though the purple-breasted
fruit pigeon--the most magnificent of all--talks to his mate in coarse
gutturals from the trees above, he has not been seen actually drinking.
So shy and furtive a bird would choose his time for refreshment when
there is little likelihood of interruption. In the ravine there are
often metallic starlings by the dozen, and little green pigeons--for
those domiciled come and go at all hours of the day. Occasionally a
sulphur-crested cockatoo comes sailing down to the diminishing pool
through interwoven leafage noiselessly as a butterfly; but scrub
fowls, scared by the apparition in white, scamper off with a clatter,
scattering the dead leaves. In such narrow quarters, birds are under
restraint, and show anxiety and apprehension. There is no sport or
play. They drink quickly and with faculties strained, and flutter off
excitedly on the least alarm. Well may they be suspicious, for is
not the cool spot attractive to the sly enemy, the green snake, which
conceals its presence by faithful resemblance to the creepers among
which it glides? Here, too, come millions of industrious bees, and in
the dusk the big pencil-tailed water-rat, which the masterful dog kills
with as little ceremony as he does the bird-scaring snakes.
It was late for cockatoos to start on their daily flight to the mainland
from the big tree close to the twin palms half-way up the hill, and
as they flew hastily and in close company they scolded each other in
unmannerly terms. The language must have been vexing, for as they sped
along far above the passionless sea one jostled the other. It was just
the sort of action to provoke hungry, peevish birds to vindictiveness.
That which had been jostled turned on the offender with angry
shrieking, and instantly a clamorous fight was in progress. Claws became
interlocked, and they fell each with distended crest, like a gilt-edged
cloudlet following the setting sun. Shadow and substance met with a
splash. The sea momentarily swallowed the combatants. Then a yellow note
of exclamation appeared, and with laboured flutterings, using his
enemy as a base, one rose and struggled to the beach oaks. Frantic
wing-beating showed that the other bird was in serious difficulties.
It was a hundred yards out, but the enjoyment of a sunbath after a sea
frolic enabled one to proceed to the rescue without preliminaries. Half
drowned and completely cowed, the bird was now confronted by a more
awful peril than that of the sea. A bedraggled crest indicated horror
at the steady approach of the enemy man, whose presence stimulated the
sodden bird to such extraordinary efforts that it succeeded in rising
and in making slow, low flight to the beach.
At dawn a bat flew into a spider's web spun during the night, the
extremities of the wings being so entangled that struggling was almost
impossible. A big spider pounced on it. Not a minute elapsed from the
entanglement until the bat was released, but the venom of the spider had
done its work. There was not a sign of life. The spider is dark grey
in colour, bloated of body, slothful, and of most retiring disposition.
Huddled up into almost spherical form, it lurks in dark places, which it
soon makes insanitary. In the open it crouches among dead leaves which
have gathered in the fork of a tree, and will construct a web which
spans the coconut avenue with its stays. From one aspect its rotund body
invites a good-humoured smile, for the marking exactly simulates the
features of a tabby cat, well fed, sleepy, and in placid mood. Venom
of virulence to kill a bat almost instantly would be severe enough to a
human being. This dirty, obese spider deserves little consideration at
the hand of man.
A moonless, cloudless night. The little praam takes the ground in the
bay a few yards from the beach, and in the midst of a constellation of
“jelly-fishes” spherical in form and varying in size. The larger are so
many pale blue orbs floating lazily in a luminous mist, the only visible
manifestation of life being a delicate but rhythmical deepening of the
central hue. The wash of my wading seems not to affect them. I become
conscious of the sudden appearance and swift disappearance of lesser
spheres of startling brilliance. They emerge from nothingness, pause
for a moment, and shoot towards me with extraordinary impulse. Each is
a mere globule, resplendently blue. The tint intensifies as with
accelerated velocity the atom flies until of its own excessive energy
it explodes with a shell-like flash, leaving a sinuous trail of
golden light. To burst into sight, gather force, to flash and slowly
vanish--such is the sum of life of a speck of sea-jelly. To be the
centre towards which scores of the watery meteors gravitate, to
witness their apparently spontaneous beginning, their swift, brief, but
ineffectual career and lingering end, delights this night of darkness.
How many of the race of man are there whose post-mortem glory outshines
life tenfold?
Beneath a slab of dead coral on the reef there was revealed one of those
primitive and curious marine animals which has no common name, but
which science recognises as SYNAPTA BESELLI. It is a relation of the
béche-de-mer, of snake-like form, with a group of gills differentiating
the head. Playing about it were three or four little fish which
immediately took advantage of the only remaining cover, the body of the
Synapta, snoodling beside it so artfully that they were quite concealed.
The protector did not appear to resent the close company of the fish,
which remained perfectly motionless. In a few seconds the Synapta
began to extrude its feathery gills, which had been partly retracted on
disturbance. I counted the gills, and while my forefinger indicated the
sixth, a little fish, not previously noticed, appeared at the focus
and edged off to the margin of the pool, now and again making decided
efforts to regain its sanctuary. It was about an inch long and a third
deep, ruby red, with pink undersides and pink, transparent fins. Three
narrow bands of silver edged with lavender extended across the shoulder.
Life gave it jewel-like lustre. The companionship between the slow
and feeble Synapta, one of the most primitive of sea things, and the
brilliant, agile fish may be another instance of commensalism.
No one who parades a coral reef can fail to be impressed by the various
means adopted by its weaker denizens to evade the consequences of
conspicuousness. Among the vast multitude of creatures, mostly hostile
to each other, few are more remarkable than the crabs, not only on
account of form and habit, but for care of themselves during the
periodic casting of their shells. They therefore represent an
entertaining study and a never-ending source of pleasure to the
observer, who, as he happens on some fantastic member of the family,
wonders, remembering his Shakespeare, what impossible matter will Nature
make easy next. Dreamy little ripples were laying on the strands sprays
of seaweed, torn from the reef which was not quite out of the influence
of the easterly swell. The conditions were ordinary, but one fragment
made itself noticeable by slight, almost undiscernible, but still
distinctive efforts to regain the water, whence it was separated by a
few inches. Seaweed alone was visible as it rested on the palm of the
hand. Presently it moved hesitatingly and with infinite slowness,
and, being reversed, revealed itself as a “watery” crab under living
disguise. The specimen was sent to the Australian Museum, Sydney, where
it came under the hands of my friend Mr. Allan R. McCulloch, who devotes
himself to the phenomena of the sea; and since his references to it
are explicit and authoritative, they will be more acceptable than
generalities from an uninformed pen: “The crab you sent is the second
specimen known of ZEWA BANFIELDI, which I described from a dried
specimen received from you some years ago. Not only the species, but the
genus also, was unknown until you gave me the opportunity of describing
this interesting beast. It is one of the spider crabs, or Oxyrhynchus,
most of which have long horns projecting from the rostrum, and are more
or less thickly covered with stiff curled setae, to which seaweeds,
sponges, and other marine growths--selected according to the taste of
the bearer--are attached. When these crabs shed their shells, which they
must do periodically to allow of growth, they retire to a dark corner
and draw themselves out of a slit between the back and the abdomen,
legs and all, which must, I imagine, be a delicate and somewhat painful
proceeding. After emerging, they are, of course, quite soft, and the
setae on the carapace and legs are flexible. The crab then selects
choice bits of weed from its old shell and fastens them to itself by the
setae, which soon curl at the tips like the tendrils of a vine, and so
hold them firmly. The weeds and sponges, requiring no roots, but merely
a secure base, readily grow in their new position, and so cover their
host with a sheltering disguise, enabling it to sally forth in quest
of fresh loves and other adventures. I am sending the reprint with the
original description and figure, also a sketch of the crab with its
weedy garments. Much of the weed had become detached on its arrival
here, which is, perhaps, fortunate, since the sketch would otherwise
have shown merely a cluster of weeds.” It could be well wished that the
specimen had retained the whole of its floral cloak, for then the sketch
would have shown its deceptive qualities in perfection. Masquerading as
a spray of seaweed, the crab eludes its enemies, the mask being of such
high order that even man, with his perceptions, does not penetrate it
unless he exercises his reasoning faculties. Because he knows that a
spray of seaweed is not endowed with independent movement, when it does
walk about he, at first, is as incredulous as was Macbeth when told of
that “moving grove” of Birman.
ETERNAL SUNSHINE
“North Queensland is my country. I love it. I live in it. I would die
for it.”--DODD S. CLARKE.
To those who earnestly believe that a country exercises dominance over
its inhabitants, mental as well as physical, the present state of North
Queensland offers interesting problems. Save for a fast-disappearing
remnant, gone are the original occupiers of the land. The most
listless, the least thrifty of the old peoples, have given place to
representatives of the most adventurous, the most successful--men and
women of British blood, of progressive ideas, vaunting and independent
spirit, but with slight respect for the traditions of their race. Apt
to regard their own land as all-sufficient, to resent the incoming of
strangers (especially those of dark complexion), determined to exclude
coloured labour from tropical fields, while demanding higher and yet
higher recompense for work which in other equatorial regions is deemed
to be servile, on what grounds do they base the hope of adapting
themselves to their environment, of becoming children of the soil?
The genius of the race forbids degeneracy. Marked and sudden improvement
may be expected if examples drawn from the lower animals and certain
plants are applicable. Huxley laid it down that “the animals and plants
of the Northern Hemisphere are not only as well adapted to live in
the Southern Hemisphere as its own autochones, but are in many cases
absolutely better adapted, and so overrun and extirpate the aborigines.
Clearly, therefore, the species which naturally inhabits a country is
not necessarily the best adapted to its climate and other conditions.”
Australian aboriginals having given way before a race better fitted
to flourish, what will the future of the new race be? What ideal is at
present pursued?
To one who firmly upholds the theory of the evolution of Australian
types, and who thinks he perceives convincing evidence in support of his
belief, it seems likely that on the tropical coast, where the influence
of the sun is all-powerful, rainfall abundant, and vegetation prolific,
the type will not only be more rapidly developed, but that it will be
pronounced in bodily form, in tongue, and in temperament. One of the
reasons compelling towards such conclusion is the decided desire--nay,
the ambition--on the part of native-born Australians to do glad and
seemly homage to the sun.
If a traveller from distant and friendly lands were to accept as germs
of a type those who sport in the surf at fashionable watering-places, he
might infer from the display of brown backs and shoulders that Australia
had not escaped a smudge of aboriginal blood. But this ardently
cultivated tint is notoriously impermanent. Contradictory as it may be,
the most earnest advocates of the “White Australia” principle use more
than the average quantity of oil, which makes the skin to shine
and embrown under the influence of the much-loved sun. Do not their
shoulders bear testimony to the sun's wholesome salutations, and does
not the too fair and thin-skinned individual smart under his peeling
and display envy against the favoured ones who burn to the tint of
old copper? Naturally, those who have the most intense longing for a
coloured skin, who persistently seek to acquire it by exposure to
the sun seconded by anointings, will prevail. In the course of a few
generations--it would be idle to say how many--the type will be fixed
and the unguent superfluous; in the meantime the use of coco-nut oil
has become one of the confirmed customs of the country, as in Fiji and
elsewhere in the Pacific.
If “beauty born of murmuring sound” may enhance the charms of
maidenhood, is it too much to expect that sunburn, fervently desired,
may not only permanently darken the complexion, but affect the mien of
the race? And thus in years to come the white Australian may be of
the past--transformed physically by the supremacy of soil and sun,
and improved in disposition and character by economic observances as
irrefutable as the laws of Nature. The horses of out dry, stony uplands
have already developed hoofs in shape and texture well adapted to the
country over which they roam, and have become surer-footed and more
active and durable. Conditions and circumstances which in a few
generations effect desirable changes in horses will assuredly be
influential in respect of the physique and stamina and moralities of
man. North Queensland will establish a type, just as Tierra del Fuego
did many centuries since, and the type will be that which is best fitted
to maintain itself. It will be brown of complexion, hardy and alert.
North Queensland is expansive and varied. It comprises a marvellous
range of geological phenomena, from which may be expected remarkable
variants. The sheep-grower of the treeless downs will differ from the
denizen of the steamy coast who supplies him with sugar and bananas. The
man from among the limestone bluffs may be in temperament strange to the
dweller on the black soil plains and to the individual who lives among
barren hills seamed with copper. Readers of English books and magazines
are familiar with the little prominence given to matters which stand for
good and worthiness and the stress laid on the seeming disadvantages of
life in tropical Australia. A favourite magazine may contain a series
of articles, sumptuously illustrated, conveying information concerning
country life in Canada. It is impossible not to visualise the miles
of wheat-fields, the imposing elevators, the railways cutting across
endless prairies or winding among wonderful mountains, snowcapped as a
stage effect merely. The pictures of chubby children and buxom girls and
sturdy boys tell of the healthfulness and invigorating qualities of the
climate. Is it not always spring or summer in Canada? Would not the man
who whispered of snow and ice be a renegade, a dastard, a rebel? North
Queenslanders do not attempt to belittle the reputation of Canada as a
field for the activities of the surplus population of the old country.
We are of the same blood and breed, and merely ask for a proper
understanding of our own good land. The comfort given to Canada is all
in the family, and an Empire which extends from pole to pole must needs
embrace differences of climate and productions.
Do not we all take upon our shoulders the burden of Empire? Here we bear
our share stripped to the buff, while Canada bustles under an equally
honourable but heavier load. Occasionally, no doubt, the most patriotic
son of our Lady of Snows would joy in the heat of North Queensland noon;
while the sweatful North Queenslander may often pant for the superfluous
ice of his far-away cousin.
The denizens of the different parts of the Empire quite understand
one another, and realise that to be great the Empire must disregard
temperatures as it does prickly heat and chilblains. Only the casual
visitor fails in this.
Sun Days are essential to the production of sugar and bananas and
mangoes, to say nothing of pineapples and other fruits of the tropics.
When we are called upon to endure extraordinary heat, we tell one
another of the penance and find excuse for extra drinks. But neither
the heat nor the comparison of personal experiences is of the injurious
nature of some of the refreshments. The weather is not compounded of
excesses, but of means. Is it not true that few countries in the wide
world would be considered fit for habitation by human beings if the
character of the climate was estimated by its extremes?
No North Queenslander will resent records of high temperatures. He will
be quite content to be shown enjoying and flourishing in the heat in
which sugar-cane thrives, for thereby is to be proved a fact theorists
seem unable to grasp--viz., that such is the soundness and virtue of the
British race that it adapts itself with equal success to the long, dark,
cold winter of Canada and the perpetual summer of North Queensland.
Who is to say that the Canadian in his thick woollens and furs is
a healthier subject, a worthier type, than the North Queenslander,
stripped to the waist in the full blaze of the sun, glorying in his own
vigour, proud of his magnificent heritage, and scornful of the
opinions of those who have never experienced that supreme zest of life
unpurchasable outside the tropic zone?
With intent to picturesquely demonstrate that soil will tell, some are
ready to assert that we owe Christianity to the horizontal limestone
formation of Palestine. Accepting the theory with whole-hearted
enthusiasm, and admitting that North Queensland comprehends tracts of
country not dissimilar from the Holy Land, mark what the future may have
in store for the race. Do you want old age?--Methuselah, Noah, Isaac.
Strong men?--Gosselin, Samson, Saul. Beautiful women?--Ruth, Rebecca,
Esther. Does not David, the man after God's own heart, appeal? Was not
Solomon, the wise, the glorious, the prolific, a superior type? And,
with all reverence be it said, was not the Founder of the Christian
religion a solar product?
Hotter lands beyond the bounds of Palestine gave to the world men and
women whose deeds and influence still astound and stimulate millions
of mankind--the Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra, Pharaoh the Great, Moses the
leader, whom the Lord knew face to face, Joseph the organiser, Mahomet,
the benign Buddha, and all the sages, the poets, the historians, the
architects of the gorgeous East. May not those who elect to live in
lands of high temperature and who are strong in their faith cite apt
and illustrious precedents, and make bold to say that none has exercised
more influence on the minds and destinies of mankind than those born in
the lands of the Sun?
FRAGRANCE AND FRUIT
“The woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant
to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise.”--Holy Writ.
While the remnant of the crop of citrus fruits still hangs on the trees,
after providing refreshing food for six months and more, the blooms
which promise next year's supplies decorate the branches. Is it not
pleasing to have such graceful promises before the burden of the passing
season has disposed of all its sweetness? Possibly these early flowers
are destined to produce fruit for the admiration of living things
upon which the gardener bestows anything but a welcome. It may come
to maturity just after the wet season, when flies and moths feast and
corrupt in riot which provokes to wrath. Inconsequent feeders, they
probe the fruit and flit away after a sip which does not absorb a
thousandth part of its keen juices, or they use a comely specimen in
which to deposit eggs, which in the course of Nature become grubs. All
such infected fruit the trees abandon until the ground is strewn with
waste. Such disaster happens when the air is favourable to the breeding
of quivering gauze wings; but there comes a time when the fruit suffers
little or no ill, and then the heart of the orchardist rejoices as does
that of the fisher when the wind comes up from the sea. Then does he
accept fine promises in good faith, for it has come to be the fashion
for certain varieties of citrus fruits to provide two crops, and the
second, which ripens about the beginning of August, the superior in
size, appearances generally, and distinctly in flavour. The fruit is
just as juicy as that which ripens when the air is saturated with the
moisture of the wet season, while its fragrance almost equals that
of the snowy flowers whence it sprang. These facts hasten to this
conclusion--that the orange-grower has something beyond mere money in
compensation for his toil. Can it be called toil? Does he not for the
most part, after the first and essential preliminaries are of the past,
permit Nature to have her own wayward will with his dutiful trees? Does
he always and invariably cut out the dead wood which tells of much too
strenuous efforts on their part to justify their existence and his care?
Does he attempt to exterminate the pretty flies which send to the ground
a certain percentage, while yet the fruit is immature and bitter? Does
he let the light of the caressing sun into the hearts of his pet trees
by removing superfluous twigs? Well does he know that if he tended them
as he should their bounty to him would be much magnified. Yet does
he dream on, accepting that which comes, admiring leafage, bloom, and
fragrant fruit, and always postponing the day when substantial aid and
credit should be given. There is something to be said in favour of this
happy attitude towards good-natured trees. Should it not suffice to
have given them monopoly and choice? Many others, and some of far
nobler proportions, have been exterminated for their special benefit and
advantage. They have been grown from seed of most highly complimented
fruit; their infancy and youth have been nurtured and protected; each
has been assigned its proper place with due regard to the welfare of
neighbours; less promising vegetation has been summarily checked; the
first flowers have been sniffed with high delight, the first fruits
sampled with extravagant praise. Having bestowed upon trees care and
attention, while they were yet mere sprouts of tender green, and admired
their sturdy development, and approved their best efforts, is it not
yours to accept whatsoever they offer as reward and recompense for past
labour and present appreciation?
From the artistic standpoint the most admirable of all the citrus-trees
is the pomelo, which, however, lacks merit from the commercial side.
The tree grows more sedately than the orange or the mandarin, but on
a grander scale. The leaves are bigger, tougher, and the appendages
on either side of the stalk (which botanists call the stipules) more
developed. The blooms are greater, and endowed with a much richer
perfume than the orange; the fruit is huge and fragrant, though somewhat
disappointing to the individual who expects the sweetness of the
mandarin; while, if the views of the learned in such attributes are
trustworthy it possesses medicinal qualities which are foreign to its
dainty, diminutive relative. It would be mere affectation to refrain
from these compliments to the pomelo when the atmosphere is saturated
with the perfume from lusty trees. Certainly one has to wait patiently
for many a long year ere his trees greet him with white flowers which
pour out perfume of rare density and enrich him with golden fruit
almost as big as footballs. From nine to twelve years must elapse, but
expectancy is not wholly measurable by the arbitrariness of time. The
true standard is the desire, tempered by the patience of the custodian
of the trees.
In August the pomeloes put on their most attractive appearances. The
young leaves of lively tint contrast with the almost sombre green of the
older foliage, and flowers in clusters give a most becoming adornment.
Big and beautiful as they are, scent is their most conspicuous feature.
Even in the open air it is rich almost to cloyness. It hangs about the
tree while the wind is still, and the slightest movement of the air
wafts it hither and thither. It stings sensitive folk with its intensity
at close quarters, but when diffused is fragrance of ethereal delight.
All day long birds frolic in the trees, some to cull the nectar, some
to search for insects attracted for like purpose, some to nibble and
discard white petals. All the moist soil beneath is strewn with snowy
flakes, for at night flying foxes blunder among the branches, destroying
more blooms than they eat. But why grumble? Birds which nip off petals
and musty foxes which brush down whole posies in their clumsiness are
but positive checks to overproduction. Do they not avert the unthankful
task of carting away dozens of barrow loads of superfluous fruit? Last
night at dusk there was a sensation of the coming of rain, though the
air was still and the sky clear. I paused under the trees to expand my
lungs with their scented breathings. A semi-intoxicated bird twittered
drowsily among the branches,
“His happy good-night air,
Some blessed hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.”
Dozens of sphinx moths--big torpedo-shaped bodies carried by wings of
soft brown and dull red--floated about, sipping where and when and as
long as they liked. Sometimes the sphinx has almost an aggressive tone
In his flight--hasty, important, brooking no interference. Last night's
note was of supreme content. A rich and overflowing feast was spread
and the insects hovered over the posies and sipped and fluted like
merry roysterers, without a care or thought of the morrow. It was a
love-feast, for the still night seemed to invite the trees to give of
their richest and best; the psalm of the insects was audible, not to the
distance whence the perfume was dissipated, but for many a scented yard.
The trees seemed sanctified, and I stood bare-headed among them and gave
my silent praise for a delightsome experience. Expectancy and patience
had been overpaid.
THE SCENE-SHIFTER
“We are all going to the play or coming from it.”--DICKENS.
In a few hours came “the season's difference.” The scene-shifter worked
with almost magical haste, with silence, and with supreme effect. The
gloomy days and nights of misty hill-tops and damp hollows, where the
grass was sodden and the air dull and irresponsive to sound, gave way
to bright sunshine, cloudless skies, calm seas, echoing hills, and the
tinge of that which for lack of the ideal word we call “spring.” Spring
does not visit the tropical coast, where vegetation does not tolerate
any period of rest. When plants are not actually romping with excess of
vital force, as during the height of the wet season, they grow with the
haste of summer. And yet immediately on the dispersal of the mists of
July the least observance could not fail to recognise that a certain and
elaborate change had taken place. The mango-trees had been flowering for
several weeks in a trivial, half-hearted way, but when the sun sent
its thrills down into the moist soil the lemons and pomeloes began to
sweeten the air; the sunflower-tree displayed its golden crowns among
huge soft leaves, and the last blooms of belated wattles fell, showing
that it is possible for tributes representative of May and September to
be paid on one and the same date.
The scene-shifter came softly “as the small rain upon the tender herb,”
but with an orchestra of his own. Years of observation have shown that
the weather does control the habits of some birds--birds of distinct and
regular methods of life. Two such are common--the nutmeg pigeon and the
metallic starling. Both species leave this part of the North during the
third week of March, flying in flocks to regions nearer the equator.
For several weeks the starlings train themselves for the long Northern
flight and its perils, dashing with impetuous speed through the forest
and wheeling up into the sky until they disappear, to become visible
again as black dots hurtling through space when the sunlight plays on
their glossy feathers as the course of the flock is changed. With the
rush of a wind of small measure but immense velocity, the flock descends
earthwards, among and over the trees, perfecting itself by trials of
endurance and intricate alertness. The birds return during the first
week in August, in small and silent companies, to reoccupy favourite
resorts in common. The nutmeg pigeons are also of exact habit, the time
for their return generally coinciding with that of the starlings. This
year (1916) both birds were noticed just after the scene-shifter had
swept the hills of mists, and now other birds seem to have awakened to
the conditions which the starlings and the nutmegs brought with them
from hotter lands. The swamp pheasants are whooping and gurgling, and
that semi-migratory fellow, the spangled drongo--a flattering name, for
he jangles but does not spangle--sits on the slim branch of the Moreton
Bay ash which held last year's nest and chatters discordances in the
very ears of his responsive mate. They will start building a loose nest
on the brittlest branch forthwith, and while the lady sits on her three
eggs he will screech defiances to the high heavens and perform aerial
gymnastics with delirious delight.
The sun-birds are searching the lemon blooms. The breast of the gay,
assertive little bird is far richer in tint than the brightest of the
lemons. A minute ago one perched on a ripe fruit as if to shame it by
contrast, and the fruit has since seemed a trifle dull of tint, and with
light-hearted inconsequence the pair are now probing narrow throats of
papaw flowers. The ground has been too much overgrown with grass and
weeds for the comfort of the little green pigeons which come strutting
down the paths for seeds and crumbs. Dry soil, which may be easily
scanned and scratched, is more to their liking, so they keep to the
forest, where in some places the undergrowth of wattles is so dense that
the sun may not visit the ground, and the bare places glitter with seed.
When rain was seriously deficient, proof was given that some proportion
of the wattle seeds eaten by pigeons are not digested. In the crevices
of logs supporting the water-trough, which proved to be a popular
refreshment spot of many species of birds, clamorous with thirst, seeds
were deposited, and when the rains came the trough was fringed and
decorated with pinnate leaves of sprouting wattles, some of which grew
so strongly, notwithstanding the absence of soil, save that which occurs
from the slow decay of seasoned bloodwood, that if summary measures had
not been taken the trough might have been embowered. The season seems to
have been too damp for the night-jars, though quite to the taste of
all species of pigeons. In the course of a few minutes the voice of
the timid, tremulous, barred-shouldered dove came from among the
yellow-flowered hibiscus of the beach, while the pheasant-tailed pigeon
sounded its rich, dual note, the red-crowned fruit pigeon tolled its
mournful chime, and the guttural of the magnificent fruit pigeon--often
heard, but seldom seen--came from the jungle close at hand. Not one of
these birds was visible, nor was the fluty-voiced shrike thrush, which
answers every strange call and mimics crude attempts to reproduce its
varied notes. The blue kingfisher is investigating the tumour made by
white ants in the bloodwood wherein the nest is annually excavated,
and soon the chattering notes of the pair will be heard. A week ago
few signs of the approach of the scene-shifter were discernible. He
has come, and plants and birds respond to his genial and becoming
presence--plants with richer growth and more abundant flowers, birds
with the unreflecting gaiety of nuptial days.
BEACH PLANTS
“Remove the vegetable kingdom, or interrupt the flow of its unconscious
benefactions, and the whole higher life of the world ends.”--HENRY
DRUMMOND.
Strolling on the curving footway of broken shells and coral chips
marking the limit of the morning's tide, a vague attempt was made to
catalogue the plants which crowd each other on the verge of salt water,
and so to make comparison with that part of Australia the features
of which provoked Adam Lindsay Gordon to frame an adhesive phrase
concerning bright scentless blossoms and songless, bright birds.
Excluding the acacias and eucalypts, said to have given sameness to
the scenes among which the exotic poet ranged, a long list might be
compiled; nor will the pleasant sounds of the afternoon be set down in
formal order to the vexing of his memory, for possibly he never heard
the whoop and gurgle of the swamp pheasant or the blended voices of
hundreds of nutmeg pigeons mellowed by half a mile of still, warm air.
Nor may such unassuming vegetation as the grasses--at least a dozen
varieties--find place in an enumeration which appeals primarily on the
grounds of prominence, though it would not do to despise the soft and
pleasant carpet beneath the orderly row of Casuarinas which the tide
planted during the last big cyclone with gardener's art. The common
name for the trees--“she” (or “shea” oaks, as the late F. Manson Bailey
preferred)--mimics the sound of the wind among the branches, which the
slightest zephyr stirs and, the storm lashes into sea-like roar. The
bright green of the grasses sets off the dull green and bronze of the
steadfast harps of the beach. At certain seasons and in some lights,
when the sun is in the west, the minute scales at the joints of
the slender, pendulous branchlets shine like old gold, producing a
theatrical effect which, if not experienced before, startles and almost
persuades to the belief that the complaining trees have been decorated
by one who “has sought out many inventions.” But the slant of the sun
alters, the light fades, leaving them sombre in hue and whispering
more and more discreetly as the night calm settles over the scene. Such
communicable trees should stand together, commenting on passing events,
booming in unison with the cyclone, and mimicking the tenderest tones of
the idlest wind. During a storm, when the big waves crash on the beach
and the Casuarinas are tormented, the tumult is bewildering; but however
loud their plaint, very few suffer, though growing in loose sand; for
the roots are widespread and, like the trunk and main branches, tough,
while the branchlets stream before the wind.
Close behind the screen of Casuarinas is a magnificent specimen of a
wide-spreading shrub, in form a squat dome, which commemorates the name
of a French naturalist--TOURNEFORTIA ARGENTA. The leaves, crowded at
the ends of thick branchlets, are covered with soft, silky hairs of
a silvery cast, which reflect the sun's rays. It would be gross
exaggeration to say that the finely shaped shrub shines like silver, for
the general hue of the foliage is sage green, but that it has a silvery
cast, which in certain lights contrasts with the dull gold of its
neighbours, is an alluring fact which must not be strained. Moreover,
the shrub covers an almost perfect circle, about thirty feet in
diameter, and since it is not more than ten feet high, its form is as if
Nature had designed the creation of a circus of shadow, dense and cool,
for the comfort of mankind.
At high-water mark stands one of the Terminalias with big terminal light
green leaves, musty flowers, and purple fruit--gold, silver, and purple
in close array--while over the sand the goat-footed convolvulus sends
long, succulent shoots bearing huge pink flowers complementary to the
purple of the beach-pea (CANVALIA OBTUSIFOLIA).
Under the she-oaks young coral trees have sprung up, but the red flowers
are of the past, and so also have the gold and white of the Calophyllums
disappeared. But in the evening the breeze brings whiffs of a singular
savour, pleasant yet not sweet, which comes from the acre or two of
native hops a few yards back. The bruised leaves thereof give off
anything but an attractive odour, yet the faint natural exhalations
from the plant are sniffed eagerly and to the revivification of pleasant
recollections.
Among a crowd of massive shrubs sprawls a plant of loose habit known as
CAESALPINA BONDUCELLA, the long clinging branches and the pods of which
are armed with hooked prickles. It is a plant of wide range, for the
bluish-grey seeds are said to be used in Arabia for necklets. In the
idle days of the past the blacks were wont to enclose a single seed in
a miniature basket woven of strips of cane for the amusement of
infants--probably the first of rattles. It has seized for support some
of the branches of a rare tree (CERBERA ODOLLAM) which bears long,
glossy, lanceolate leaves, large, pink-centred, white flowers,
delicately fragrant, and compressed oval fruit, brilliantly scarlet. The
tempting appearance of the fruit is all that may be said in its favour,
for it is hard and bitter, and said to be vicious in its effects on
the human system; hence the generic title, after the three-headed dog,
guardian of the portals of the infernal regions.
Grouped here and there are pale green, big-leaved shrubs (PREMNA
OBTUSIFOLIA,) bearing flowers and fruit calling to mind the elder of
the old country. The wood is deep yellow in colour, but apparently of no
practical use.
Another small tree, suggesting in its regular and well-balanced shape
the use of the pruning-knife, is GUETTARDIA SPECIOSA, the flowers of
which are white with a tinge of pink in the centre and highly fragrant.
The fruit is a hard, woody drupe, containing small seeds. TIMONIUS
RUMPHII, belonging to the same Family, but of more frequent occurrence,
bears small white flowers and globular fruit. The white, finely grained
wood is said to resemble English sycamore. Though harsh and flaky, the
surface of the bark seems to retain moisture, making it attractive to
several species of fungi and epiphytal ferns, the most conspicuous of
the latter being the stag's-horn. Few of the trees near the beach are
free from such encumbrances.
To unaccustomed eyes the Pandanus palm is chief among the noticeable
features of the flora of the coast of tropical Queensland. Two species
are represented on these accommodating sands, each suffering no ill,
from imbibing salt water, each exhibiting the peculiarity whence the
genus derives its common name--the screw palm, the arrangement of the
long, narrow, prickle-edged leaves displaying in the most regular
and demonstrative style the perfect spiral. The single stem of youth
frequently deteriorates and occasionally disappears altogether,
adventitious roots, descending from various heights, forming an
elaborate and sure and ever-developing support. The huge, bright
orange-tinted fruit of the species known as Odoratissimus is highly
attractive in appearance, and to the uninitiated offers pleasing hopes
and delicious expectations. It is, however, delusive, being constituted
of woody drupes in close clusters collected into a globular head,
with meagre yellow pulp at the base of each group, the pulp having an
aromatic and unsatisfactory flavour. Each drupe contains an oblong oval
kernel, pleasant to the taste, but so trivial in size as to be hardly
worth the trouble of extraction unless there is little else to occupy
attention save the pangs of hunger. These defects do not detract from
the parade of the tree--picturesque, singular, and replete with interest
to the observer of the infinite variety of the vegetation of the
tropics.
The cockatoo apple (CAREYA AUSTRALIS), which has several useful
qualities, flourishes exceedingly. The ripe fruit, green and insipid,
was wont to be eaten by the blacks, bark from the branches was twisted
into fishing-lines, that of the roots used for poisoning fish, while
the leaves, heated over the fire until the oil exuded, were applied to
bruised and aching parts of the body. Extraordinary tenacity of life
distinguished the tree, the axe, fire, and poison failing under some
circumstances to vanquish it.
Another and closely related member of the same Family (Myrtaceae)
is BARRINGTONIA SPECIOSA, which, so far as local experience is to be
trusted, is restricted to the beaches, growing lustily in pure sand
at the very verge of high-water mark. The glossy leaves of this
many-branched tree often exceed a foot in length; the flowers, too,
are large and singular in style, the petals being comparatively
insignificant, while the numerous stamens attain a length of four inches
and are of a lovely shade of red. Like its relative, the cockatoo apple,
the flowers of the Barringtonia have a meaty smell, which seems to
attract many species of insects. In keeping with other characteristics,
the fruit is large, consisting of a thick, woody covering, as if Nature
designed that the single seeds should be adequately protected during a
protracted oceanic drift. It is often cast up on the sand, but the seed
does not germinate as consistently as that of the cannon-ball-tree; but
when it does it rarely fails to become established.
Two species of Ficus deserve to be mentioned, though this catalogue does
not claim to be exhaustive. FICUS FASCICULATA, as the title implies,
bears its inedible fruit in bundles, branches, trunk, and exposed roots,
being alike fertile, and is almost as retentive of life as the cockatoo
apple. Opposita is remarkable for varied form of foliage, referred to
particularly elsewhere, and for the sweetness of its fruit.
One of the loveliest and most remarkable plants of the beach is the
seacoast laburnum (SOPHORA TOMENTOSA), with its pinnate leaves of sage
green, hoary with silvery fur as soft as seal-skin, and bearing terminal
spikes of golden flowers with scent invoking slight comparison with
mignonette. The thick, silky leaves, the yellow flowers, and the strange
pods, are distinctive qualities, which atone for the absence of the
special sweetness of the garden favourite. The pods begin as slender,
silvery, dangling threads, which speedily lengthen and become
constricted. When the breeze flusters the shrubs, revealing the
undersides of the leaves at a reflective angle and shaking the tasselled
pods, and the splashes of gold sway hither and thither, the character
of the shrub as one of the most attractive ornaments of the beach is
so truly displayed that it might be likened to the tree of the sun
described by Marco Polo--green on one side, but white when perceived on
the other.
This quality, however, is not special or peculiar. The brown kurrajong
(COMMERSONIA ECHINATA) exhibits it even more conspicuously, and, when
the dusty white flowers--displayed in almost horizontal planes--are
buffeted by the winds and the white undersides of the leaves are
revealed, the whole style of the tree is transformed as a demure damsel
is by tempestuous petticoats.
With the grey-green of the Sophora is often intertwined the leafless
creeper CASSYTHA FILIFORMIS, which in the days of the past the blacks
were wont to use with other beach plants in the composition of a crude
seine net. The long-reaching, white-flowered CLERODENDRON INERME and the
tough, sprawling BLAINVILLEA LATIFOLIA, with its small, harsh flowers,
yellow as buttercups but resembling a daisy in form, were also embodied
in the net.
The Poonga oil-tree, the new and old leaves the colour of new copper,
and the mature the darkest of green, bears spikes of pale lavender
flowers, and makes a decided blotch among the light green succulent
leaves of the native cabbage (SCAEVOLA KOENIGII), with its strange white
flowers and milk-white fruit. All parts of the plant are said to be
emetic.
Two varieties of VITEX TRIFOLIA, each bearing pretty lavender flowers,
but in other respects sharply contrasted, are among the commonest of
denizens of the beach. The one is a prostrate plant with sage-coloured
and sage-scented leaves; the other a shrub or small tree with light
green foliage, the underside of which is mealy-white, and flowers paler
than those of its lowly kin. Each is pretty, and the creeping variety
(known in Egypt as the “Hand of Mary”) decidedly one of the most eager
lovers of the sand, to which it keeps strictly.
Almost within reach from high water are representatives of a tall,
shining-leaved shrub known as MORINDA CITRIFOLIA, the flower-heads of
which merge into a berry which has a most disagreeable odour and a still
more objectionable flavour. It is related that when La Perouse was cast
away on one of the islands of the South Pacific, a native undertook
to ward off the pangs of hunger by converting the fruit into an
edible dish. But his manipulation seemed but to intensify original
nauseousness, and the brave Frenchman and his companions found
semi-starvation more endurable than the repugnant mess.
Magnificent representatives of the umbrella-tree (BRASSAIA
ACTINOPHYLLA), unique among the many novelties of the tropical coast,
are massed in groups or stand in solitary grace close to the sea.
Queensland has a monopoly over this handsome and remarkable tree, the
genus to which it belongs being limited to a single species occurring
nowhere else in a native state. Discovered by Banks and Solander at
Cooktown in 1770, the second record of its existence, it is believed,
was made from specimens obtained on this island by Macgillivray and
Huxley in 1848. Possibly the very trees which attracted their attention
still crown their rayed and glossy leaflets with long, radiating rods
thickly set with red, stud-like flowers. Such foliage and such flowers
would appeal gloriously to an enthusiastic botanist, and to so devoted,
indefatigable, and successful a searcher after the wonders and the
higher truths of the world as Huxley.
Few of the ornaments of the beach are more noticeable than that known
commonly as the sunflower-tree and by the natives as Gingee (DIPLANTHERA
TETRAPHYLLA), with its big leaves, soft of surface when young, but harsh
and coarse at maturity. The golden flowers, grouped in huge heads, are
rich in nectar, attracting birds and butterflies by day and flying foxes
at night. The fruit, enclosed in a crisp capsule, is tough and leathery,
in shape a flattened oval, and is entirely covered with silken seeds
lying close and dense as the feathers of the grebe. When numbers of the
capsules open simultaneously, the seeds float earthwards like a silvery
mantle or stream before the wind like a veil. Rarely the capsule falls
to the ground complete, and then the parting of the valves reveals the
fruit, in form not unlike a small fish covered with glistening scales.
The soft white wood is generally condemned, but duly seasoned it becomes
tough, and is durable when not exposed to the weather. Like other
quick-growing trees, the Gin-gee takes no long time in arriving at
maturity, and its life is comparatively brief. Often big trees die from
no apparent cause, and the wood becoming dry and tindery, the limbs
crash to the ground suddenly, and in a few months the whole substance
disappears in dust and mould.
Though the flowering season of the Calophyllum is of the past, the tree
which bestows on the beaches the deepest shade and is handsome in all
its parts must not be disregarded, for does it not, ever and anon,
strive after a higher purpose than the production of goodly leaves,
white flowers, and nuts “harsh and crude”? On rare occasions the
external covering of the nut turns yellow on the tree, and is then found
to enclose a thin envelope of pulp of aromatic and rather gratifying
flavour. Such a phenomenon seems to manifest inherent excellencies, a
laudable effort towards self-improvement, a plea for assistance on the
part of some approving and patient man, an indication of the lines on
which he might co-operate. The tree does not need gloss for its perfect
leaves or fragrance for its flowers, nor need the qualities of its pink
wood of wavering figure be extolled. With the exception of the stamens,
all parts of the inflorescence, inclusive of the long pedicles, are
milk-white, and the perfume is as sweet and refreshing as an English
spring posy. Chemists tell us that the oil from the kernels contains a
green pigment which changes to yellow on saponification, and that the
resin is emetic and purgative, and healing when applied as plaster.
If botanical science can develop the meritorious tendencies the fruit
occasionally exhibits, the Calophyllum would certainly rank as one of
the most wonderful of all tropical fruits. And may it not be wise to
indulge the highest hopes when it is borne in mind that at the head
of the Family to which the Calophyllum belongs stands that queen of
fruits--the mangosteen? Faith in the probable idealisation of the
Calophyllum is justified by reference to the “Prefatory and Other Notes”
to the late F. M. Bailey's great work, the “Comprehensive Catalogue of
Queensland Plants,” where is to be found these encouraging words: “When
any particular plant is said to furnish a useful fruit, it must not be
imagined that the fruit equals the apple, pear, or peach of the present
day, but all so marked are superior to the fruits known to our far-back
forefathers.”
Two eucalypts--bloodwood and Moreton Bay ash (CORYMBOSA and TESSELLARIS
respectively)--and two acacias are represented, the former developing
into great trees of economic value, the latter being comparatively
short-lived and ornamental. The young shoots of Acacia flavescens are
covered as with golden fleece, and its globular flowers are pale yellow.
The wood resembles in tint and texture its ally, the raspberry-jam wood
of Western Australia, though lacking its significant and remarkable
aroma. ACACIA AULACOCARPA displays in pendant masses golden tassels rich
in fragrance.
The yellow-flowered hibiscus (cotton-tree) overhangs the tide, and the
small-leaved shrub the blacks name Tee-bee (WIKSTRAEMIA INDICA), the
pink, semi-transparent fruit of which is eaten in times of stress,
springs from pure sand.
A tall, almost branchless shrub (MACARANGA TANARIUS), the Toogantoogan
of the natives, grows in close clumps conducive to the production of
light, straight, slim stems used as fish-spears. The bark peels readily
in long strands, easily convertible into lines, and the sap from incised
stems, which crystallises with a reddish tint, is a fast cement. Huge
platter-shaped leaves are supported on long stalks from nearly the
centre, whence radiate prominent nerves of pale green. Some plants
exhibit leaf-stalks of ruby red, with central leaf-spot and nerves like
in hue, producing the most beautiful effect. If the growth of the plant
could be kept within bounds it would be gladly admitted as a garden
shrub. The stems and the base of the leaf-stalk are coated with,
glaucous bloom, like that of a ripe plum. The bloom, easily to be rubbed
off, is said to derive its title from that Glaucus who took part in the
Trojan War and had the simplicity, or the wisdom, to exchange his suit
of golden armour for one of iron.
The length of the beach thus casually examined is not more than a
quarter of a mile long, and no plant mentioned is more than a few yards
from high-water mark, the soil being almost pure sand. Imagine some
three square miles of country varied by hills and flats of rich soil,
with creeks and ravines, precipices and bluffs, dense jungle and thick
forest, hollows wherein water lodges in the wet season, and granite
ridges, and then endeavour to comprehend the botany of one small island
of the tropical coast!
To obtain demonstration of the vitalising and nourishing principles in
maritime sands under the effects of heat, light, and moisture, it
is necessary to retrace our steps and walk round the sandspit to the
transfigured and degenerate mouth of that once mangrove-creek known to
the blacks by a name signifying that a boy once tethered in it a sucking
fish (Remora). Obstructed by a bank, the creek is dead and dry save when
the floods of the wet season co-operate with high tides and effect a
breach, to be repaired on the cessation of the rains. No more than four
years have passed since the formation of the bank began. It is now a
shrubbery made by the incessant and tireless sea from materials hostile,
insipid, and loose-sand, shells, and coral debris, with pumice from some
far-away volcano. On this newly made, restricted strip one may peep and
botanise without restraint, discovering that though it does not offer
conditions at all favourable to the retention of moisture, plants of
varied character crowd each other for space and flourish as if drawing
nutriment from rich loam.
Several botanical Families are represented, the genera and species
being:
Casuarina equisetifolia (she-oak)
Avicennia officinalis (white mangrove).
Clerodendron inerme.
Premna obtusifolia.
Vitex trifolia.
Vitex trifolia, var. obovata.
Carapa moluccensis (cannon-ball-tree).
Erylhrina indica (coral-tree).
Sophora tomentosa (sea-coast laburnum).
Pongamia glabra (poonga oil-tree).
Vigna luteola (yellow-flowered pea).
Calophyllum inophyllum (Alexandrian laurel).
Terminalia melanocarpa.
Ximenia americana (yellow plum).
Scoevola koenigii (native cabbage).
Hibiscus tiliaceus (cotton-tree).
Wikstroemia indica. Macaranga tanarius.
Euphorbia eremophilla (caustic bush).
Dodonaea viscosa (hop-bush).
Passiflora foetida (stinking passion fruit).
Ipomea pes caprae (goat-footed convolvulus).
Ionidium suffruticosum, Form A.
Ionidium suffruticosum, Form B (spade-flower).
Blainvillea latifolia.
Gnaphalium luteo-album (flannel-leaf or cud-weed).
Vernonia cinerea (erect, fluffy-seeded weed).
Remirea maritima (spiky sand-binder).
Cyperus decompositus (giant sedge).
Erigeron linifolius (cobbler's pegs or rag-weed).
Tribulus terrestris (caltrops).
Triumfetta procumbens (burr).
Salsola kali (prickly salt-wort).
Mesembryanthemum aequilaterale (pig's face).
Anthistria ciliata (kangaroo-grass).
Paspalum distichum (water couch-grass).
Zoysia pungens (coast couch-grass).
Lepturus repens (creeping wire-grass).
Panicum leucophaeum (pasture-grass).
Andropogon refractus (barbed wire-grass).
Tragus racemosus (burr-grass).
Eragrostis brownii, var. pubescens (love-grass).
With the exception of some of the grasses and two noxious weeds, this
assemblage is representative of plants which grow just beyond the
sweep of the waves, and are prosperously at home nowhere else. One,
the cannonball-tree, is so highly specialised that its presence is but
temporary, for it endures but a single set of conditions--saline mud
and the shade of mangroves. The thick, leathery capsule contains several
irregularly shaped seeds, somewhat similar to Brazil nuts, but larger in
size and not to be reassembled readily after separation. When stranded,
germination is prompt, but the young plants, lacking essential
conditions, invariably perish. One of the trailers--the caltrops--has
trilobed, saw-edged leaves (harsh on both sides), yellow flowers of
unpleasant odour, and fruit which, perhaps, formed the model of the war
weapon of the time of the Crusaders. In whatever position it rests on
the ground it presents an array of spikes to the bare foot. Though
all its superficial qualities are graceless, it performs the admirable
office of binding sand, and thus prepares the way for benign and
faultless vegetation.
That his garden might not only be instructive but profitable to mankind,
Neptune heaved on to its verge three coco-nuts, the goose-barnacles on
two of which bore testimony to a long drift. That which retained the
germ of life fell into the hands of a visiting black boy, who split it
open to feast on the pithy and insipid “apple” within its shell at
the base of the sprout. This mischance ruined for the time being the
prospect of a fine effect; but the perseverance and prodigality of
Neptune none may estimate. He will certainly bring from distant
domain another nut which may escape the observation of the
never-to-be-satisfied black boys until the young plant itself has
assimilated its concentrated food, and begins to spread its glossy
fronds in the face of the sun. In the meantime the garden displays four
weeds, two of the nature of pests, two of discomfort merely; ornamental,
scented, and flowering shrubs, and trees promising to be conspicuous and
picturesque, so that credit is to be divided--the sea made the site, the
adjacent land provided all the becoming plants.
What are the elements in this primitive spot which afford nutriment
to vegetation of such varied character? Probably there are few of the
beaches of islands within the Great Barrier Reef on which the majority
of the plants do not exist. It is typical, therefore, not of isolated
experiments on the part of Nature, but of conditions and processes
repeated in similitude wheresoever in the region raw sand heals the
wounds inflicted by the sea or the grumbling sea retreats before the
sibilant, incessant sand.
SHADOWS
“The wish--that ages have not yet subdued--In man to have no master save
his mood.”
BYRON.
Before the coming of the obscuring grey of these wet-season days, when
the tranquil sea absorbed the lustrous blue of the sky, I discovered
myself day-dreaming for a blissful moment or two ere the crude anchor of
the flattie slipped slowly to the mud twelve feet below. The rough iron
and rusty chain cast curious crinkled shadows, and presently, as the
iron sank into the slate-coloured mud and the chain tightened, the
shadow was single but infirm. Light and the magic of the sea, which,
though it takes its ease, is forbidden absolute rest, transformed
it until imagination created similitude to a serpent in its natural
element. Its half-concealed, formless head was verified by a flake of
rust just where a watchful eye might have been, and the sun played upon
it.
So here at last was the sea-serpent with alert eye and without end. It
was all so realistic and endowed with such benignity and such gentleness
of motion that I gazed at it with the gladness of a discoverer. In
response to a slight motion of the hand, the sea-serpent wriggled as
though in haste; but wriggle as it might the end never came.
The boat drifted back. The serpent became seriously elongated, but
though the beginning was now a grey blotch in the mud, the end was not.
I might beat up a little foam with the chain, and see below a giddy
dance or at least lively flourishes and swaying. Yet there was something
lacking--the end. But for that very commonplace default did there not
here exist a very good beginning for another romance of the sea?
The phantom, born of light and limpid salt water and iron into which
rust had deeply gnawed, gave zest to the pursuit of shadows. What is
commoner under the tropic sun? The boat was now over the sand of the
steeply shelving beach, where the water takes the tint of the chrysolite
and creatures of fairy lightness come into view. Often on still days
small sea-spiders sport under the lea of the boat, each of the eight
legs supported by a bubble. With astonishing nimbleness, the spider
slips and glides over the surface as a man in laborious snow-shoes over
the snow. Having basked in the sun and frolicked with its kind, the
spider abandons its pads, takes to its hairy bosom a bubble of air,
and dives below. The shadows, not the spiders alone, gave pleasing
entertainment. Each vague shadow and the eight bubble-shod feet formed
a brooch-like ornament on the yellow sand--a grey jewel surrounded by
diamonds, for every bubble acted as a lens concentrating the light. When
the frail creatures darted hither and thither--the majestic sun does not
disdain to lend his brilliance to the most prosaic of happenings--the
shadows of the bubbles became jewels or daylight lightnings. The hour
was so restful, the light so searching, that many of the spiders, long
of leg and pearly-grey of body, gathered about the boat, the shade
of which seemed to be grateful. A wave of the hand dispersed the gay
assemblage, but in a few seconds the playful creatures--not too easily
to be deprived of their place in the sun--reappeared from nowhere,
and the beads and flashes on the floor of old Ocean once more began to
glitter.
Small, slim fish took shelter from the intense light. Some hung
motionless in the water; others nibbled daintily the green and lazy
slime on the batten at the bilge, their gently waving shadows being
barely perceptible, for their delicate, semi-transparent bodies absorbed
but the merest particle of the brightness of noonday.
The unnoticeable swing of the tide took the responsive boat out from
the beach, and again the serpent swayed sleepily. Down in the mud an
organised conflict was taking place between a tiny soft-bodied crab
and four molluscs which used whip-like tentacles with unceasing energy,
while the crab defended itself with ever-ready claws. Borne down by
numbers, it sank into the mud, the energy of the victors creating a
tiny spiral of slush. A huge stingray passed on its way, the edges of
extended wings rippling never so gently, its shadow half the size of the
boat; and presently, with ghostly glide, a dull-skinned shark came into
view with motion so steady and apparently effortless that it might have
been a spectre. The pectoral fins swayed listlessly. The swirl of the
tail was as tender as a caress. Passing the boat a few yards, it turned
with a gracious sweep and nestled in its shade, and, though motionless,
it was wide awake. The eyes on each end of the projecting extremities of
the head blinked up at the boat. It was comfortable, but suspicious. Was
its conscience quite clear? The hammer-head has not the reputation
of being an active enemy of man. Why should it be distrustful? This
hammer-head would not sleep in the shadow, so let it be made aware of
the serpent. I took hold of the chain cautiously, the shark watching,
and with a quick turn of the wrist the docile serpent lashed
offensively. Then did the shark, frightened of a shadow, flee with
mud-stirring haste, like the wicked when no man pursueth.
The hour of day-dreaming was past. I slip over the side of the boat to
roll and splash in tepid water limpid almost to invisibility, and to
test the wondrous buoyancy of the substantial part of man. Sit down, the
lips just awash, so that the accurately ballasted portion cushions on
the cleanly sand. Stretch out the legs so that the heels barely rest.
Head thrown back and arms extended, fill the lungs to their utmost
capacity with the placid, revivifying air, and you will find yourself so
uplifted that the heels alone gently touch the sand. At each inspiration
almost sufficient air is imbibed to float the whole bulk and machinery
of the body. And when the radiant air is all one's own, why be
niggardly? Let it be gulped greedily, strongly, wilfully, and let the
smiling sea, responding to the embraces of your widespread arms, salute
your lips with ripples.
“SMILING MORN”
“The light of the morning, When the sun riseth, even a morning without
clouds; As the tender grass springing out of the earth By clear shining
after rain.”