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Grand Bahama in 1917 (Chapter 7) THE CARVED
BEDSTEAD (pp. 91-99) I "......the Lord preserveth the simple." It would be a desert island but for a few hundred coloured people, who
are descended from slaves of the olden times. Sweet and gentle people,
most of whom can neither read nor write, but to whom much is known that
is hidden from us. On this island, in mid-ocean, time doesn't count, nor the day of the
year. Only the morning and the evening, and the month, are counted. The forest of the interior is owned by an American company and no one
goes there who can help it, on account of the flies and mosquitoes. Two spongers took me out in a blue cockleshell boat one day and through
their glass-bottomed bucket I saw the life of the sea where the brilliant
coloured fish swim among purple and yellow sea-fans, and brown feathers
wave above their heads; from a deep grotto in the white sand a huge crawfish
emerged, slowly and with great dignity; like a grand dutchess of the Austrian
Courtwith due form and ceremony and much waving of whiskers she
went on call on Madame Crawfish in an opposite grottoand the rhythm
of these two as they swayed down the path together (all the little fish
scurried out of the way) was like some mazurka of ancient date! Looking
down in another spot I saw the most lovely purple sea-fan I had ever noticed.
I exclaimed at the size and brilliance, and as I did so I heard a soft
movement behind my back. Before we reached shore he slid over and glided through the amazing water
to the bottom again, this time to get a conch for his dinner. His manner
of going into the water seemed exactly like that of a fish which we caught
and allowed to slip back! * * * * * * * * * * * Not far from the water, boarding the only road, is an intermittent hedge
of sea-grape and an occasional coconut tree rears its delicate, aristocratic
head against the everchanging sky, in which the clouds are so distinct
in shape that an artist might spend a long time studying cloud-forms and
not waster one moment in so doing. The children in school chant their multiplication tables as if they were
beating out the rhythm of a dance, but when they grow older this means
little to them. They remember the rhythm but forget how to multiply! At some time they must have had an Art of their ownfor Mr. Steiglitz, of 292 Fifth Avenue, New York, has made us familiar with the carving of the Africans in their native land, and in Brussels I have seen remarkable work done by the natives of the Congo. But civilization seems to have stamped it out here and nothing remains of their natural good taste except the colour sense which makes a girl wear blue stockings with a white dress that has a scarlet sash ... or yellow ones when she puts sapphire bows in her hair./ (< back - continued >) |