And how the Malays use it
In an old dog-eared copy of Monteith’s Geography, I remember a picture of a
half-dozen pirate prahus attacking a merchantman off a jungle-bordered shore.
A blazing sun hung high in the heavens above the fated ship, and, to my youthful
imagination, seemed to beat down on the tropical scene with a fierce,
remorseless intensity. The wedge-shaped tops of some palm-thatched and palm-
shaded huts could just be seen, set well back from the shore.
I used to think that if I were a boy on that ship, I would slip quietly overboard,
swim ashore, and while the pirates were busy fighting, I would set fire to their
homes and so deliver the ship from their clutches. Little did I know then of the
acres of bewildering mangrove swamps filled with the treacherous crocodiles
that lie between the low-water line and the firm ground of the coast.
But always the most striking thing in the little woodcut to me were the curious,
snake-like knives that the naked natives held in their hands. I had never seen
anything like them before. I went to the encyclopædia and found that the name
of the knife was spelled kris and pronounced creese.
The day-dreams which seemed impossible in the days of Monteith’s Geography
have since been realized. I am living, perhaps, within sight of the very place
where the scene of the picture was laid; for it was supposed to be illustrative of
the Malay Peninsula; and, as I write, one of those snake-like krises lies on the
table before me. It is a handsomer kris than those used by the actors in that
much-studied picture of my youth. The sheath and handle are of solid gold—a
rich yellow gold, mined at the foot of Mount Ophir, the very same mountain so
famous in Bible history, from which King Solomon brought “gold, peacocks’
feathers, and monkeys.” The wavy, flame-like blade is veined with gold, and its
dull silvery surface is damascened with as much care as was ever taken with the
old swords of Damascus. It is only an inch in width and a foot in length and does