[Note: this transcription was produced by an automatic OCR engine]

124 WITH NATIVES IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC

mouldy ground, where leaves rot and trunks decay,
and where it is always wet, as never a sunbeam can
strike in so far.

Thus it is sad in the forest, and strangely quiet, as
in a churchyard, for not even the wind can penetrate
the green surface. It passes rushing through the
crowns, so that sometimes we catch an upward
glimpse of bright yellow sunshine as though out of
a deep gully. And as men in sternest fight are
silent, using all their energy for one purpose, so
here there is no sign of gay and happy life, there
are no flowers or coloured leaves, but the endless,
dull green, in an infinity of shapes.

Even the animals seem to shun the dark forest
depths ; only on the highest trees a few pigeons bathe
in the sun, and as they fly heavily over the wood,
their call sounds, melancholy as a sad dream, from
afar. A lonely butterfly flutters among the trees, a
delicate being, unused to this dark world, seeking in
vain for a ray of sun and a breath of fresh air.
Sometimes we hear the grunt of an invisible pig,
the breaking of branches and the rustling of leaves
as it runs away. Moisture and lowering gloom brood
over the swampy earth; one would not be surprised
if suddenly the ground were to move and wriggle
like slimy snakes tightly knotted around each other.
Thorns catch the limbs, vines catch the feet, and
the wanderer, stumbling along, almost fancies he
can hear the spiteful laughter of malicious demons. '
One feels tired, worried, unsafe, as if in an enemy’s
country, helplessly following the guide, who walks