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.

Wahpering's bungalow, other than being larger and roomier than
the ordinary bungalow, was exactly like all others in style and
architecture.