THE UMBRELLA-TREE

Having paid, in passing, respects to the most gorgeous tree of the island, it would be sheer gracelessness to withhold a tribute to one of the commonest, though ever novel and remarkable—­the umbrella-tree.  Less conspicuous in its blooming than the flame-tree, it flourishes everywhere—­on the beaches with its roots awash at high tide; on the rearguard of the mangroves, leaning on the white-flowered calophyllums; on the steep hill-sides; on the borders of the jungle, and gripping scorched rocks with naked roots.

While the flame-tree—­few and confined to the beaches—­flashes into bloom—­an improvident blaze of colour, without a single atoning green leaf—­the umbrella-tree charms for several months with a combination of graceful foliage and a unique corollary of singular flowers.

From the centre of whorls of shapely glossy leaves radiate simple racemes, 2 feet long, as thickly set with studs of dense heads of red flowers as Aaron’s rod with its magical buds.  Crowned with several crowns of varying numbers of rays, rarely as few as four, frequently seven and nine and occasionally as many as twelve, each tree is a distillery of nectar of crystal purity and inviting flavour.  On every ray there may be eighty red studs, each composed of twelve compact flowers, and every flower drips limpid sweetness.  For months this unexcised distillation never ceases.  For all the birds and dainty butterflies and sober bees there is free abundance, and every puff of wind scatters the surplusage with spendthrift profusion.  Sparkling in the sunbeams, dazzling white, red, orange, green, violet, the swelling drops tremble from the red studs and fall in fragrant splashes as the wanton wind brushes past or eager birds hastily alight on the swaying rays.  A rare baptism to stand beneath the tree for the cool sweet spray to fall upon the upturned face, a baptism as pure as it is unceremonious.

Red-collared lorikeets revel in the nectar, hustling the noisy honey-eaters and the querulous sun-birds.  The radiant blue butterfly sips and is gone, or if it be his intent to pause, tightly folds his wings on the instant of settling, and is transformed from a piece of living jewellery to a brown mottled leaf caught edgeways among the red flowers.  The green and gold butterflies are for ever fluttering and quivering.  The complaining lorikeets peevishly nudge them off with red, nectar-dripping bills, the honey-eaters disperse them with inconsiderate wing sweeps; but the butterflies are not to be denied their share.  After a moment’s airy flight they return to the feast, quivering with eagerness.  And so the weeks pass, the patient tree generating food far beyond the daily needs of all who choose to take.

By a very moderate computation—­such an orderly plan of bloom lends itself to simple statistics—­the average production of a fairly crowned tree is over a gallon of nectar per day.  Hundreds of trees so crowned brighten all parts of the island with their red rays.  And where the nectar is, there will the sun-birds be gathered together—­a sweeter notion, truly, than carcases and eagles.