Edge of the Jungle

William Beebe

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• Publié par: zawying
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 18
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Edge of the Jungle, by William Beebe This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Edge of the Jungle Author: William Beebe Release Date: June 24, 2008 [EBook #25888] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EDGE OF THE JUNGLE *** Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Mark C. Orton, Linda McKeown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net WILLIAM BEEBE Author of Edge of the Jungle, Jungle Days, Gallapagos, World's End, The Arcturus Adventure, etc. BY THE AUTHOR OF "JUNGLE DAYS," "THE LOG OF THE SUN," ETC. EDGE OF THE JUNGLE By WILLIAM BEEBE Honorary Curator of Birds and Director of the Tropical Research Station of the New York Zoological Society. GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., INC. COPYRIGHT , 1921 B Y HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY TO THE BIRDS AND BUTTERFLIES, THE ANTS AND TREE-FROGS WHO HAVE TOLERATED ME IN THEIR JUNGLE ANTE-CHAMBERS I OFFER THIS VOLUME OF FRIENDLY WORDS NOTE This second series of essays, following those in Jungle Peace, are republished by the kindness of the Editors of The Atlantic Monthly , Harper's Magazine and House and Garden. With the exception of A Tropic Garden which refers to the Botanical Gardens of Georgetown, all deal with the jungle immediately about the Tropical Research Station of the New York Zoological Society, situated at Kartabo, at the junction of the Cuyuni and Mazaruni Rivers, in British Guiana. For the accurate identification of the more important organisms mentioned, a brief appendix of scientific names has been prepared. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE LURE OF KARTABO II A JUNGLE C LEARING III THE H OME TOWN OF THE ARMY ANTS IV A JUNGLE BEACH V A BIT OF U SELESSNESS VI GUINEVERE THE MYSTERIOUS VII A JUNGLE LABOR U NION VIII THE ATTAS AT H OME IX H AMMOCK N IGHTS X A TROPIC GARDEN XI THE BAY OF BUTTERFLIES XII SEQUELS APPENDIX OF SCIENTIFIC N AMES INDEX 3 34 58 90 112 123 149 172 195 230 252 274 295 299 EDGE OF THE JUNGLE "For the true scientific method is this: To trust no statements without verification, to test all things as rigorously as possible, to keep no secrets, to attempt no monopolies, to give out one's best modestly and plainly, serving no other end but knowledge." H. G. WELLS. I THE LURE OF KARTABO A house may be inherited, as when a wren rears its brood in turn within its own natal hollow; or one may build a new home such as is fashioned from year to [3] year by gaunt and shadowy herons; or we may have it built to order, as do the drones of the wild jungle bees. In my case, I flitted like a hermit crab from one used shell to another. This little crustacean, living his oblique life in the shallows, changes doorways when his home becomes too small or hinders him in searching for the things which he covets in life. The difference between our estates was that the hermit crab sought only for food, I chiefly for strange new facts—which was a distinction as trivial as that he achieved his desires sideways and on eight legs, while I traversed my environment usually forward and generally on two. The word of finance went forth and demanded the felling of the second growth around Kalacoon, and for the second time the land was given over to cutlass [4] and fire. But again there was a halting in the affairs of man, and the rubber saplings were not planted or were smothered; and again the jungle smiled patiently through a knee-tangle of thorns and blossoms, and the charred clumps of razor-grass sent forth skeins of saws and hanks of living barbs. I stood beneath the familiar cashew trees, which had yielded for me so bountifully of their crops of blossoms and hummingbirds, of fruit and of tanagers, and looked out toward the distant jungle, which trembled through the expanse of palpitating heat-waves; and I knew how a hermit crab feels when its home pinches, or is out of gear with the world. And, too, Nupee was dead, and the jungle to the south seemed to call less strongly. So I wandered through the old house for the last time, sniffing the agreeable odor of aged hypo still permeating the dark room, re-covering the empty stains of skins and traces of maps on the walls, and re-filling in my mind the vacant shelves. The vampires had returned to their chosen roost, the martins still swept through the corridors, and as I went down the hill, a moriche oriole sent a silver shaft of song after me [5] from the sentinel palm, just as he had greeted me four years ago. Then I gathered about me all the strange and unnameable possessions of a tropical laboratory—and moved. A wren reaches its home after hundreds of miles of fast aerial travel; a hermit crab achieves a new lease with a flip of his tail. Between these extremes, and in no less strange a fashion, I moved. A great barge pushed off from the Penal Settlement, piled high with my zoölogical Lares and Penates, and along each side squatted a line of paddlers,—whitegarbed burglars and murderers, forgers and fighters,—while seated aloft on one of my ammunition trunks, with a microscope case and a camera close under his watchful eye, sat Case, King of the Warders, the biggest, blackest, and kindesthearted man in the world. Three miles up river swept my moving-van; and from the distance I could hear the half-whisper—which was yet a roar—of Case as he admonished his children. "Mon," he would say to a shirking, shrinking coolie second-story man, "mon, do you t'ink dis the time to sleep? What toughts have you in your bosom, dat you delay de Professor's household?" And then a chanty would rise, the [6] voice of the leader quavering with that wild rhythm which had come down to him, a vocal heritage, through centuries of tom-toms and generations of savages striving for emotional expression. But the words were laughable or pathetic. I was adjured to "Blow de mon down with a bottle of rum, Oh, de mon—mon—blow de mon down." Or the jungle reëchoed the edifying reiteration of "Sardines—and bread—OH! Sardines—and bread, Sardines—and bread—AND! Sardines—and bread." The thrill that a whole-lunged chanty gives is difficult to describe. It arouses some deep emotional response, as surely as a military band, or the reverberating cadence of an organ, or a suddenly remembered theme of opera. As my aquatic van drew up to the sandy landing-beach, I looked at the motley array of paddlers, and my mind went back hundreds of years to the first Spanish crew which landed here, and I wondered whether these pirates of early days [7] had any fewer sins to their credit than Case's convicts—and I doubted it. Across my doorstep a line of leaf-cutting ants was passing, each bearing aloft a huge bit of green leaf, or a long yellow petal, or a halberd of a stamen. A shadow fell over the line, and I looked up to see an anthropomorphic enlargement of the ants,—the convicts winding up the steep bank, each with cot, lamp, table, pitcher, trunk, or aquarium balanced on his head,—all my possessions suspended between earth and sky by the neck-muscles of worthy sinners. The first thing to be brought in was a great war-bag packed to bursting, and Number 214, with eight more years to serve, let it slide down his shoulder with a grunt—the self-same sound that I have heard from a Tibetan woman carrier, and a Mexican peon, and a Japanese porter, all of whom had in past years toted this very bag. I led the way up the steps, and there in the doorway was a tenant, one who had already taken possession, and who now faced me and the trailing line of convicts with that dignity, poise, and perfect self-possession which only a toad, a giant grandmother of a toad, can exhibit. I, and all the law-breakers who [8] followed, recognized the nine tenths involved in this instance and carefully stepped around. When the heavy things began to arrive, I approached diffidently, and half suggested, half directed her deliberate hops toward a safer corner. My feelings toward her were mingled, but altogether kindly,—as guest in her home, I could not but treat her with respect,—while my scientific soul revelled in the addition of Bufo guttatus to the fauna of this part of British Guiana. Whether flashing gold of oriole, or the blinking solemnity of a great toad, it mattered little—Kartabo had welcomed me with as propitious an omen as had Kalacoon. Houses have distinct personalities, either bequeathed to them by their builders or tenants, absorbed from their materials, or emanating from the general environment. Neither the mind which had planned our Kartabo bungalow, nor the hands which fashioned it; neither the mahogany walls hewn from the adjoining jungle, nor the white-pine beams which had known many decades of snowy winters—none of these were obtrusive. The first had passed into oblivion, the second had been seasoned by sun and rain, papered by lichens, [9] and gnawed and bored by tiny wood-folk into a neutral inconspicuousness as complete as an Indian's deserted benab. The wide verandah was open on all sides, and from the bamboos of the front compound one looked straight through the central hall-way to bamboos at the back. It seemed like a happy accident of the natural surroundings, a jungle-bound cave, or the low rambling chambers of a mighty hollow tree. No thought of who had been here last came to us that first evening. We unlimbered the creaky-legged cots, stiff and complaining after their three years' rest, and the air was filled with the clean odor of micaceous showers of naphthalene from long-packed pillows and sheets. From the rear came the clatter of plates, the scent of ripe papaws and bananas, mingled with the smell of the first fire in a new stove. Then I went out and sat on my own twelve-foot bank, looking down on the sandy beach and out and ove