In the translucent green twilight of the flower-houses a hundred varieties of the
costly orchids thrive—not costly here. A shipload can be bought of the natives
for three cents apiece.
Walks carry you out into the dim aisles of the native jungle. Monkeys, surprised
at your footsteps, spring from limb to limb, and swing, chattering, out of sight in
a mass of rubber-vines. Splendid macadamized roads, that are kept in perfect
repair by a force of naked Hindus and an iron roller drawn by six unwilling,
hump-backed bullocks, spread out over the island in every direction. Leave one
at any point outside the town, and plunge into the bordering jungle, and you are
liable to meet a tiger or a herd of wild boar. The tigers swim across the straits
from the mainland, and occasionally strike down a Chinaman. It is said that if a
Chinaman, a Malay, and a European are passing side by side through a field, the
tiger will pick out the Chinaman to the exclusion of the other two.
Acres upon acres of pineapples stretch away on either hand, while patches of
bananas and farms of coffee are interspersed with spice trees and sago swamps.
This road system is the secret of the development of the agriculture, and one of
the secrets of the rapid growth of the great English colonies. Were it not for the
great black python, that lies sleeping in the road in front of you, or the green
iguana that hangs in a timboso tree over your head, or a naked runner pulling a
rickshaw, you might think you were travelling the wide asphaltum streets of
Washington.
The home of the European in Singapore is peculiar to the country. The parks
about their great bungalows are small copies of the Botanic Gardens—filled with
all that is beautiful in the flora of the East. From five to twenty servants alone
are kept to look after its walks and hedges and lawns.
A bungalow proper may consist of but a half-dozen rooms, and yet look like a
vast manor house. It is the generous sweep of the verandas running completely
around the house that lends this impression. Behind its bamboo chicks you retire
on your return from the office. The Chinese “boy” takes your pipe-clayed shoes
and cork helmet, and brings a pair of heelless grass slippers. If a friend drop in,
you never think of inviting him into your richly furnished drawing-room, but
motion him to a long rattan chair, call “Boy, bring the master a cup of tea,” and
pass a box of Manila cigars.