say, a palm, one of many kinds that flourish in India.  But none of them can be ranked with it.  The rough date palm makes dense groves on sandy plains, but brings no fruit to perfection, pining for something which only Arabia can supply; the strong but unprofitable “brab,” or fan palm, rises on rocky hills, the beautiful fish-tailed palm in forests solitarily, while the “areca” rears its tall, smooth stem and delicate head in gardens and supplies millions with a solace more indispensable than tobacco or tea.  But the coconut loves a sandy soil and the salt breath of the sea and the company of its own kind.  The others grow erect as a mast, but the gentle coconuts lean on the wind and mingle the waving of their sisterly arms, casting a grateful shade on the humble folk who live under their blessing.

To the mariner sailing by India’s coral strand that country presents the aspect of an endless beach of shell sand, quite innocent of coral, on which the surf breaks continually into dazzling white foam against a dark background of pensive palms.  He might naturally suppose that they had grown up of themselves, like the screw-pines and aloes which sometimes share the beach with them; but that would be a great mistake.  Everyone of them has been planted and carefully watered for years and manured annually with fresh foliage of forest trees buried in a moat round the root.  And so it grew in stature, but not in girth, until its head was sixty, seventy or even eighty feet above the ground, and a hundred nuts of various sizes hung in bunches from long, shiny, green arms, each as thick as a man’s, which had thrust themselves out from between the lower fronds.

There is no production of Nature that I know of less negotiable than a coconut as the tree presents it.  The man who first showed the way into it deserved a place in mythology with Prometheus, Jason and other heroes of the dawn.  There is a crab, I know, which lives on coconuts, enjoying the scientific name of Birgus latro, the Burglar; but it seems to be a special invention, as big as a cat and armed with two fearful pairs of pincers in front for rending the outside casings of the fruits, and a more delicate tool on its hind-legs for picking out the meat.  Other animals have to do without it, as had man, I opine, in the stone and copper ages.  With the iron age came a chopper, called in Western India a “koita,” with which he can hack his way through most of the obstructions of life.  When, with this, he has slashed off the tough outer rind and the inch-thick packing of agglutinated fibres, like metal wires, he has only to crack the hard shell which contains the kernel.