Here and there on the country roads we found lemon, papaw, orange, lime, and fig trees; also several sorts of palms, among them the cocoa, the date, and the palmetto.  We saw some bamboos forty feet high, with stems as thick as a man’s arm.  Jungles of the mangrove tree stood up out of swamps; propped on their interlacing roots as upon a tangle of stilts.  In drier places the noble tamarind sent down its grateful cloud of shade.  Here and there the blossomy tamarisk adorned the roadside.  There was a curious gnarled and twisted black tree, without a single leaf on it.  It might have passed itself off for a dead apple tree but for the fact that it had a a star-like, red-hot flower sprinkled sparsely over its person.  It had the scattery red glow that a constellation might have when glimpsed through smoked glass.  It is possible that our constellations have been so constructed as to be invisible through smoked glass; if this is so it is a great mistake.

We saw a tree that bears grapes, and just as calmly and unostentatiously as a vine would do it.  We saw an India-rubber tree, but out of season, possibly, so there were no shoes on it, nor suspenders, nor anything that a person would properly expect to find there.  This gave it an impressively fraudulent look.  There was exactly one mahogany tree on the island.  I know this to be reliable, because I saw a man who said he had counted it many a time and could not be mistaken.  He was a man with a harelip and a pure heart, and everybody said he was as true as steel.  Such men are all too few.

One’s eye caught near and far the pink cloud of the oleander and the red blaze of the pomegranate blossom.  In one piece of wild wood the morning-glory vines had wrapped the trees to their very tops, and decorated them all over with couples and clusters of great bluebells—­a fine and striking spectacle, at a little distance.  But the dull cedar is everywhere, and is the prevailing foliage.  One does not appreciate how dull it is until the varnished, bright green attire of the infrequent lemon tree pleasantly intrudes its contrast.  In one thing Bermuda is eminently tropical—­was in May, at least—­the unbrilliant, slightly faded, unrejoicing look of the landscape.  For forests arrayed in a blemishless magnificence of glowing green foliage that seems to exult in its own existence and can move the beholder to an enthusiasm that will make him either shout or cry, one must go to countries that have malignant winters.

We saw scores of colored farmers digging their crops of potatoes and onions, their wives and children helping—­entirely contented and comfortable, if looks go for anything.  We never met a man, or woman, or child anywhere in this sunny island who seemed to be unprosperous, or discontented, or sorry about anything.  This sort of monotony became very tiresome presently, and even something worse.  The spectacle of an entire nation groveling in contentment is an infuriating thing.