train climbs and climbs, and little painted posts tell you how high you are, and natives see the train and run after it, and when they have caught up sell you cocoanuts through the window, or ancient Shinhalese coins, and you rock as at sea, and are very hot and give thanks for that there is no dust. You rest at Kandy, rickshaw around the lake under the stars, and listen to the life of the village with one ear and to the life of the jungle with the other. You visit Buddha's tooth in its jeweled caskets—the outer one is of rubies!—and you drive to Peridynia, and for the first time in your life see orchids as are orchids. Again the train, and up you go. And now the thing takes on a bold air of majesty, for you crawl out on precipices and overlook great depths—so green and wet and luxuriant!—vast prospects, green mountains, blue sky, white clouds. There is preached to you many a gospel of space and immortality. Bordering the track are century-plants as big as huts, and sometimes bigger. You pass through the giant fern belt.
