I wish that
these people would not adopt our salutations, their own are so much
more appropriate to their character.
The yacht is now lying at anchor in a deep coffee-colored stream, near
a picturesque Malay village on stilts, surrounded by very extensive
groves of palms. Several rivers intersect each other in this
neighborhood, flowing through dense jungles and mangrove swamps. The
sun is still high. The four white men and the Rajah Moussa have gone
ashore snipe shooting, the Malays on board are sleeping, and I am
enjoying a delicious solitude.
February 4, 4 P.M. - We are steaming over the incandescent sapphire sea,
among the mangrove-bordered islands which fringe the Selangor coast,
under a blazing sun, with the mercury 88 degrees in the shade, but the
heat, though fierce, is not oppressive, and I have had a delightful
day. The men returned when they could no longer see to shoot snipes,
with a well filled bag, and after sunset we dropped down to Bukit Jugra
or Langat. Most of the river was as black as night with the heavy
shadows of the forest, but along the middle there was a lane of
lemon-colored water, the exquisite reflection of a lemon-colored sky.
The Resident and Mr. Daly went down to the coast in the yacht to avoid
the mosquitoes of the interior, but I with Omar, one of the "body
guard," half Malay half Kling, as my attendant, and Mr. Syers, landed,
to remain at the magistrate's bungalow.
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