In the brief interval of our passage, I could not help noticing the
remarkable submarine flora over which we passed. The water, perfectly
clear to a depth of four-hundred and eighty-two feet, showed a
remarkable picture of aquatic forestry. Under our keel spread limeaceous
trees of myriad hues in whose branches perched variegated fish nibbling
the coral buds or thoughtfully scratching their backs on the roseate
bark. Pearls the size of onions rolled aimlessly on ocean's floor. But
of these later; for the nonce our tale leads landward.

As our canvas scraped the shingle we leaped out, tossing the dory
lightly beyond the reach of the waves, and fell into the agreed-upon
formation. Triplett in the van, then Whinney, Swank and myself, in the
order named. Beyond the beach was a luxuriant growth of _haro_.
[Footnote: Similar to the photographer's grass; is used in the
foreground of early Sarony full lengths. I have seen a similar form
of vegetation just off the fairway of the third hole at Garden City.]
Into this we proceeded gingerly, intrepid and alert, but ready to bolt
at the slightest alarm.

The nut noises became constantly more ominous and menacing, but still
we saw no sign of human life. Near the edge of the forest we came to
a halt. Plainly it would be unwise to venture within range of the
arboreal hailstones without protection, for though our pith-helmets
were of the best quality they were, after all, but pith, and a cocoanut
is a cocoanut, the world over. While we were debating this point and
seeking a possible way into the jungle which was not overarched by
trees I heard a low bird-call, as I supposed, the even-song of the
cross-billed cuttywink. On the instant a towering circle of dark forms
sprang from the haro and at a glance I saw that we were completely
surrounded by gigantic Filbertines!