shape of the leaves, the varying shades of green which they present when lightly moved by the wind, and especially the contrast they afford in colour and form to the more sombre hues and more rounded outline of the other trees, are quite sufficient to account for the charm of this glorious tree. Strange forms of vegetation drew our attention at almost every step. Amongst them were the different kinds of Bromelia, or pine-apple plants, with their long, rigid, sword-shaped leaves, in some species jagged or toothed along their edges. Then there was the bread-fruit tree—an importation, it is true; but remarkable from its large, glossy, dark green, strongly digitated foliage, and its interesting history. Many other trees and plants, curious in leaf, stem, or manner of growth, grew on the borders of the thickets along which lay our road; they were all attractive to new comers, whose last country ramble of quite recent date was over the bleak moors of Derbyshire on a sleety morning in April.
As we continued our walk the brief twilight commenced, and the sounds of multifarious life came from the vegetation around. The whirring of cicadas; the shrill stridulation of a vast number and variety of field crickets and grasshoppers,—each species sounding its peculiar note; the plaintive hooting of tree frogs—all blended together in one continuous ringing sound,—the audible expression of the teeming profusion of Nature. As night came on, many species of frogs and toads in the marshy places joined in the chorus: their croaking and drumming, far louder than anything I had before
