About noon our elegant guide stopped, struck an attitude, and pointed
with his silver-headed rattan cane.
"This," said he, "is where we must camp."
We marched through a little village. A family party sat beneath the
veranda of a fine building--a very old wrinkled couple; two stalwart
beautiful youths; a young mother suckling her baby; two young girls; and
eight or ten miscellaneous and naked youngsters. As the rest of the
village appeared to be empty, I imagined this to be the caretaker's
family, and the youngsters to belong to others. We stopped and spoke,
were answered cheerfully, suggested that we might like to buy chickens,
and offered a price. Instantly with a whoop of joy the lot of them were
afoot. The fowl waited for no further intimations of troublous times,
but fled squawking. They had been there before. So had our hosts; for
inside a minute they had returned, each with a chicken--and a broad
grin.
After due payment we proceeded on a few hundred yards, and pitched camp
beneath two huge mango trees.
Besides furnishing one of the most delicious of the tropical fruits,
the mango is also one of the most beautiful of trees. It is tall,
spreads very wide, and its branches sweep to within ten feet of the
ground. Its perfect symmetry combined with the size and deep green of
its leaves causes it to resemble, from a short distance, a beautiful
green hill.
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