[Note: this transcription was produced by an automatic OCR engine]

LIFE ON A PLANTATION 39

day, As it was, Mr. Ch. had to leave more than half
his crop to rot in the fields, a heavy rain having
delayed the harvesting.

The humidity at the Segond Channel is exception-
ally great. As we stood on the fine coral sand that
forms the shores of the channel, our clothes Were
damp with the rain from the weeds and shrubs which we
had passed through while stumbling through the plant-
ation. The steel-grey sea quivers, sleepy and pulpy
looking; in front of us, in a grey mist, lies the flat
island of Aore, the air smells mouldy, and brown rain-
clouds roll over the wall of primeval forest surrounding
the clearing on three sides. The atmosphere is heavy,
and a fine spray floats in the air and covers everything
with moisture. Knives rust in one’s pocket, matches
refuse to light, tobacco is like a sponge and paper
like a rag. It had been like this for three months;
no wonder malarial fever raged among the white
population. Mr. Ch., after only one year’s sojourn
here, looked like a very sick man; he was frightfully
thin and pale and very nervous; so was his wife, a
delicate lady of good French family. She did the
hard work of a planter’s wife with admirable courage,
and, while she had never taken an active part in
housekeeping in France, here she was standing all
day long behind a smoky kitchen fire, cooking or
Washing dishes, assisted only by a very incapable and
unsophisticated native woman.

On our return to the house, which lies about 200
metres inland, we found this black lady occupied
with the extremely hard and puzzling task of laying the