sandy beach, along which were scattered the charred embers of past fires. From
under our feet darted the grotesque little robber-crabs, with their stolen shell
houses on their backs. A great white jellyfish, looking like a big tapioca pudding,
had been washed up with the tide out of the reach of the sea, and a small colony
of ants was feasting on it. We did not try to explore the interior of the islet. We
named it Fir Island from its crown of fir-like casuarina trees, which sent out on
every breeze a balsamic odor that was charged with far-away New England
recollections.
The next island was a large one. The keeper said it was called Pulo Seneng, or
Island of Leisure, and held a little kampong, or village of Malays, under an old
punghulo, or chief, named Wahpering. We found, on nearing the verdure-
covered island, that it looked much larger than it really was. The woods grew out
into the sea for a quarter of a mile. We entered the wood by a narrow walled
inlet, and found ourselves for the first time in a mangrove swamp. The trees all
seemed to be growing on stilts. A perfect labyrinth of roots stood up out of the
water, like a rough scaffold, on which rested the tree trunks, high and dry above
the flood. From the limbs of the trees hung the seed pods, two feet in length,
sharp-pointed at the lower end, while on the upper end, next to the tree, was a
russet pear-shaped growth. They are so nicely balanced that when in their
maturity they drop from the branches, they fall upright in the mud, literally
planting themselves.
The punghulo’s house, or bungalow, stood at the head of the inlet. The old man
—he must have been sixty—donned his best clothes, relieved his mouth of a
great red quid of betel, and came out to welcome us. He gracefully touched his
forehead with the back of his open palm, and mumbled the Malay greeting:—
“Tabek, Tuan?” (How are you, my lord?)
When the keeper gave him our cards, and announced us in florid language, the
genial old fellow touched his forehead again, and in his best Bugis Malay
begged the great Rajah and Ranee to enter his humble home.
The only way of entering a Malay home is by a rickety ladder six feet high, and
through a four-foot opening. I am afraid that the great “Rajah and Ranee” lost
some of their lately acquired dignity in accepting the invitation.