HOW WE PLAYED ROBINSON CRUSOE.

One morning we started on an exploring expedition, in the keeper’s jolly-
boat. It was only a short distance to the first island, a small rocky one, with a
bit of 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 jelly-fish, 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 campong, or
village of Malays, under an
old Penghulo, or chief,
named Wahpering. We
found, on nearing the verd-
ure-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 Penghulo’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 eracefully touched.

his forehead with the back of hisopen 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.

 

WAHPERING’S BUNGALOW.