ANYONE who has stayed near the upper forest during December or January, and has quietly watched for a short time among the trees, will not complain of scarcity of bird life to admire and study. The beautiful creatures will come and alight all around us, if we only remain perfectly still, seeking their food as they hop on the ground, or flutter from branch to branch. We may watch their nests and see their eggs, and then the newly fledged birds, noting from day to day how they develop; until one morning the nest is empty, for its little inmates have found out their power of wing, and have left it to set up for themselves and add another little company to the tenants of the forests. It may be truly said that the note of one bird or another is never silent at this time of the year all day long, while some are heard also at night. I remember especially watching one of the two species of goat-sucker, which are found here: for although it is called Matòriàndro, or “day-sleeper,” from its nocturnal habits, it may be seen in shady places at midday; its beautifully mottled shades of brown and grey giving it, no doubt, protection, from their resemblance to its surroundings. They have the habit of rising from a slight elevation straight into the air; then they let themselves suddenly fall, to resume their ordinary mode of flight. It will also fly along the paths, permitting one to approach it again and again, and when flying it reveals the black and white colouring under the wings. They feed exclusively on nocturnal insects, chiefly moths and beetles.

While speaking of the birds of the interior, one must not forget the owls, of which six or seven species are known in Madagascar; two of these, the scops owl and the barn owl, are tolerably plentiful. The last-mentioned appears to be exactly identical with the almost world-wide and well-known bird of that name. As among most other peoples, the owl is regarded by the Malagasy as a bird of ill-omen; they call it Vòrondòlo—i.e. “spirit-bird”—thinking it an embodiment of the spirits of the wicked; and when its startling screeching cry is heard in the night they believe it to be a presage of misfortune. There are numerous fables and stories about the owl, illustrating the popular dread of the bird. But like the owls in all other parts of the world, the Madagascar species are really public benefactors, by keeping down the number of rats and mice and other vermin; and yet their nocturnal habits, their large staring eyes, the “uncanny” ear-like feathers of some, and especially their unearthly screech, have all combined to make them objects of dread. One species of owl is really a beautifully coloured bird, its plumage being pale brown, spotted with silvery markings.

The bush and woods of small trees which are found surrounding the upper belt of forest do not show many flowers during the cold season of the year. Yet even during these cooler months—May to August—innumerable objects of interest present themselves to those who will use their eyes as they walk along the woodland paths. Among the few flowers that are to be seen, besides the ever-present orange spikes of the Sèva (Buddleia madagascariensis), and the purple flowers of the Sèvabé (Solanum auriculatum) are the bell-like reddish flowers of a species of Kitchingia, which are rather plentiful; and towards the end of August a number of small trees and bushes are showing clusters of handsome crimson flowers; while a purple trumpet-shaped flower is to be seen here and there. Not uncommon is a shrub with small red flowers, like honeysuckle, growing at the axils of the leaves and all along the stems. More rare is a good-sized bush, with large light green and glossy leaves, and with clusters of yellow fruits, much like large white currants. This shrub would be a handsome addition to a garden. Berries of various hues—black, red, orange and yellow—are fairly plentiful; and in many bushes and trees the lack of flowers is almost made up for by the brilliant scarlet, or crimson, or orange colours of the new leaves, and in others again by the bright orange or red of the fading leaves.

There are few trees of any size left in the woods in the immediate vicinity of the sanatorium, or near the paths through them; they have all been cut down for the timber market in the capital, or for house-building in the nearer villages. But in the deep valleys not a mile distant there is still much virgin forest, and many trees of considerable height; and on the roadside in the Mandràka valley, along which the automobile road and then the railway have been constructed within the last ten or twelve years, both cut through dense forest, there are many lofty and isolated trees still left standing, as well as numbers of them in the adjoining woods. Like most tropical trees, these show the generally vertical habit of the branches; in the crowd of competitors there is no room for lateral expansion by wide-spreading branches; every tree presses upwards to get the light and heat of the sun. In many parts of the forest, the small palm, commonly called the “bamboo-palm” (Mal. Fàri-hàzo—i.e. “woody sugar-cane”), is very plentiful, giving a thoroughly tropical appearance to the vegetation. Few trees are more beautiful than this palm, with its ringed stem, three to four inches in diameter, and its graceful crown of light green pinnate leaves, through which the sunlight shines. Its usual height is twelve or fourteen feet, but it occasionally attains double that height, or more, in certain situations. A much larger, but far less common, palm is the anìvona, but this is because of its being cut down for the sake of its tough wiry bark, of which the people make the flooring of their houses, and also use in the construction of the old-fashioned timber-framed Hova dwellings. The bamboo-palm seems of much less practical use, and is therefore much more plentiful. Here and there a still smaller species of palm may be found, with a stem not exceeding an inch in diameter.

A very noticeable feature of these woods, as indeed of all tropical forests, is the profusion of climbing plants. Even the smaller trees and bushes have their twining and creeping parasites, tightly wound round their stems. And from the tallest trees there hang and intertwine all manner of lianas, some as big as a ship’s cable, and others of all intermediate sizes—ropes of every dimension, down to the finest cord, and often forming an almost impassable barrier, an inextricable tangle of dense vegetation. Frequently these climbing plants seem to strangle and squeeze out the life of their unfortunate hosts; and it is often difficult to distinguish the foliage of the original tree, and that of the parvenu, which has used its more robust neighbour to climb up to the light and heat above the surrounding mass of leafage. Some of these climbers have prominent and beautiful flowers, which mark their presence very distinctly; one of these, first sent home by a lady, proved to be a new species. This liana is about as thick as a one-inch rope, and its spikes of creamy-yellow flowers are set from one to two feet apart on the main stem. These spikes are from ten to sixteen inches in length, each containing from forty to sixty large flowers growing closely together, so that they are very conspicuous in the forest, forming immense festoons of flowers, mounting to the tops of lofty trees, crossing from one tree to another, and shining almost golden in colour in the brilliant sunshine. These lianas are very plentiful and may be recognised at a considerable distance, so that they form in November one of the noticeable features of the upper line of forest. In the cold season, during which many of these observations were made, of course this liana is indistinguishable from the tangled mass of vegetation.

Although during the winter months flowers, as already mentioned, are scarce in the upper forest, there is very much to interest one in the cryptogamic vegetation which is so abundant everywhere around us. The mosses are seen in great profusion, and of many species. Frequently they occur in dense masses, carpeting the ground and the bases of the trees with a thick cushion-like covering. And of what beautiful and varied colours are these humble plants! light green and all shades of darker green, star-like mosses of pale pink, browns and greys, some bright crimson in colour, and some with waxy-looking fructification stalks; and of all kinds of growth; hair-like filaments, delicate branching forms, some thick like grass, others like seaweeds, others silvery-white on one side and chocolate-brown on the other; but words fail to give any adequate idea of their variety and beauty. During a short ramble a score of well-marked species may soon be gathered.

And the lichens are hardly less numerous or beautiful than the mosses: indeed it is sometimes difficult to tell to which order of plants some of these organisms belong. In many drier places the ground is covered with masses of a pale grey species, delicately branched. And almost everywhere the bushes and trees are festooned with the hanging filaments of another pale greyish-white lichen (Usnea sp.), which give them quite a venerable appearance. Another common species is a branching coral-like one, pale green above, with beautiful shades of brown underneath. The rocks seen all over Imèrina are sometimes perfectly white with minute forms of lichen, but more frequently present a mosaic of differently coloured species: black, white, orange, russet and red.

And the fungi again are quite as noticeable as the other cryptogams, and their colours make them even more conspicuous. On decaying timber, their circular and collar-like forms and bright tints constantly strike one’s attention. From one inch to three or four inches in diameter these plants present a great variety of colour; pure white, pale buff edged with brown, brilliant scarlet, orange, yellow, dark brown, etc.; all these are very common. Some fungi are hard and woody in substance; others are leathery and flexible, others soft and gelatinous; and occasionally one sees specimens a foot in diameter, with delicate shades of browns and greys on their upper surface.

It may be easily imagined that with this wealth and variety of cryptogamic forms many of the tree trunks are a perfect flora of the humbler kinds of vegetable growths; for we have not mentioned the delicate hymenophyllum ferns which also cover them in damp situations; or the great hart’s-tongue ferns, which often occupy the forks of the branches; or the innumerable small bulbs of the orchids, which cling, by their long aerial roots, to the trunks and boughs of the trees.

In walking through the woods one sometimes becomes conscious of a sickly sweet smell somewhere near us. This proceeds from a hive of bees not very far away, generally in the hollow of a tree. The honey, which is usually excellent, is generally brought for sale to us in the comb by some of the woodmen. Occasionally, however, it is somewhat bitter, through being obtained from the flowers of certain trees or plants. The Madagascar bee, known to entomologists as Apis unicolor, differs but little in appearance from the English species, although it is somewhat smaller, darker, and less hardy. It chooses, if left to nature, the same kind of situation for its hive, and multiplies in the same way. The drones also are idle and are killed off at certain seasons. The Madagascar insect is much more gentle when handled than the English one, but there is great difficulty in hiving the swarms. These bees continue to store honey during the winter months, although that is the dry season, with few flowers; and they work in all weathers, even during a heavy thunderstorm.

The enemies of the Madagascar bee are, in the first place, rats, then ants and the wax-moth; but the greatest enemy of all is the death’s-head moth (Sphinxatropos), which is very common. He enters the hive fearlessly, for although the bees crowd round him they have no power to stop him, as their stings cannot pierce that downy body, with its tough skin, but merely slip along it harmlessly. As soon as he is within he keeps his wings vibrating with a low humming noise and leisurely sucks his fill—a very long fill. The damage he does is immense, and hives have been known to be sucked dry, and not a drop of honey to be found in them, so that the bees quite give up resisting. Other enemies of the bee are a parasitical solitary wasp, which lays its eggs in the hive; and another wasp which seizes the bees when returning to the hive for the sake of their laden honey-bag, and it also kills them with wonderful celerity.

The Malagasy have a good general idea of the economy of the hive, and of the habits of the bees. They usually find the wild nests by watching the flight of the laden bees, and then by listening during the hot part of the day, when the bees are “playing.” At most places the people know of a number of wild nests, over which they keep supervision. In many villages they make large quantities of mead, more especially when the rite of circumcision is being observed. For bees’-wax there is always a ready sale.[13]

Madagascar, like most tropical countries, is not without a fair share of spiny and prickly plants. Perhaps most in evidence in the interior is the prickly pear (Opuntia ferox), which was universally used in old times as a thick hedge for the defence of the ancient towns and villages. With its large needle-like spines, an inch to an inch and a half long, studding its broad fleshy leaves, and capable of inflicting a wound difficult to heal, and with smaller spines covering the flowers and the fruit, it is easy to see that to a barefooted and lightly clothed people such a hedge presented a very formidable, not to say impassable, barrier. The flowers are large and handsome, yellow and red in colour, and growing at the edge of the leaves—if indeed they can be called such; the fruit, which is about as large as a pear, turns yellow when ripe and is not unpalatable, being something like an unripe gooseberry; but it is exceedingly difficult to get it peeled without being hurt by its hair-like needles. The large spines are the ordinary Malagasy pins, and are very useful for this purpose.

Another very noticeable plant is the Sòngosòngo, a species of Euphorbia, with spiny stems and brilliant scarlet flowers. This is planted on the top of the low earthen banks which form the boundaries between private properties and the roads; but it is not nearly such a formidable defence as the prickly pear. A very common variety of this plant has pale yellow flowers.

Another prickly plant is the Mysore thorn, or Tsiàfakòmby (lit. “impassable by cattle”), which is largely used for fences and stockades. From its numerous hook-like thorns, it also is not a plant which can be easily passed through, when growing thickly. It has a large spike of yellow flowers.

Another plant or shrub, which grows to the size of a tree, is not prickly, but stinging. This is the Amìana (Urera radula). The large velvety leaves sting like those of a nettle; they are, however, of beautiful and complicated outline, and I have pressed specimens taken from young plants which are as much as two feet across, and which would be admirable patterns for ornamentation. The wood is very soft and, when on fire, smoulders for a long time. The trunk, which is tall and straight, in some specimens is nearly two feet in diameter. Some five different species have been described.

Another stinging plant, the Agy, with fine needle-like hairs, which fall in showers and produce fearful irritation, is described in a subsequent chapter. Many trees in the forest are armed with blunt prickles, which injure the hand if they are touched when making one’s way through the dense vegetation. In the extreme south of the island there are trees or shrubs called Fàntsi-òlotra (“nail-edged”?), probably a species of Didierea, whose thorny stems, always turned towards the south, are said to resemble a barricade of elephants’ trunks; the stem, which is as big as a man’s thigh, is entirely covered with large thorns, between which grow the small round leaves. On one of these thorny trees, however, M. Lemaire found a white lemur (Propithecus verrauxii) clinging, which, when dislodged, went leaping across the country on its hind legs, after the fashion of a kangaroo.

Someone may perhaps ask: Where are the people of these woods? In the upper belt of forest there are few inhabitants except woodcutters, and in small hamlets on the side of the main tracks passing through it; but farther south, where the two lines unite, we shall find, as we travel past the Bétsiléo province and east of it, a considerable number of people, who are loosely called “Tanàla,” which simply means “forest-dwellers,” and of these there are many subdivisions. There are vague and uncertain accounts given by the Malagasy of a tribe of people whom they call Béhòsy, and who are said to live in a wooded country in the west of the island. Their food is honey, eels and lemurs, which latter are caught in traps and fattened. They are very dark in colour and are much like the Sàkalàva in appearance, and are said to jump from tree to tree like monkeys, and cannot easily be followed, as the country is rocky. They make network of cords, hence their name (hòsy, string, twine). They are extremely timid, and, if captured, die of fright. These Béhòsy seem to resemble in some of their habits the “monkey-men” of Dourga Strait, New Guinea; but it is much to be wished that more definite information could be obtained about them, for, if what we hear of them is correct, they are probably of a different stock to the rest of the inhabitants of Madagascar.

An apparently well-authenticated account was given by a Mauritius trader of a wild man of the woods having been caught by some Malagasy in the year 1879. He was asleep on the branch of a tree, and when taken resisted violently, biting his captors severely; after a few days’ confinement, however, he ceased to be aggressive. He was described as a powerfully built man, his face and body being thickly covered with long black hair. His mode of walking was very peculiar, as he travelled very fast, occasionally going on all-fours, his eyes being invariably fixed on the ground. When caught he was perfectly nude, but wore clothes when provided with them. He could never be induced to eat flesh, but lived entirely on manioc and other roots; nor would he sleep in a recumbent position. After some months he learned a few words, and by means of these and signs it was understood that he had a father and two brothers in the forest. These were found, and surrounded by a search-party one night, but easily eluded their pursuers, jumping from tree to tree and running on all-fours. The captured man died five months after being taken (see Proc. Roy. Geogr. Soc., May 1889).

The central part of the Indian Ocean is well known as the region of cyclones, and these dreaded storms often include in their revolving course the islands of Mauritius and Réunion, and occasionally touch the eastern shores of Madagascar. A notable example of this was the cyclone of November 1912, which stranded the S.S. Salazie, and wrecked Diego-Suarez and many villages in the north of the island. It is very seldom, however, that these storms reach the interior; but in the month of February 1876 a cyclone did ascend to the upper region of the island and did considerable damage. With my wife and children I was staying for a holiday at that time at Andràngalòaka, a small village on the edge of the upper forest, but five or six miles south of Ankèramadìnika, where our good friend, Dr A. Davidson, had a country house, which he often placed at the disposal of ourselves and other friends; and never shall we forget the experiences of that night of peril.

It was a Sunday evening and the sun set with a radiance which covered the whole sky with a crimson glow, in a very remarkable manner. We settled down after our evening meal for a little reading aloud, but the wind rose rapidly, and after a time the roar was so great that we could not go on. We found that its violence increased, and at length we perceived that it was slowly changing in its direction. We went to bed, but not to sleep, for the rain poured in from the roof, and the howl of the wind made sleep impossible. We lay trembling on our beds, fearing every now and then, as a more violent burst shook the house, that it would be blown down over us, and we buried in its ruins. Such would have been the case, I believe, had not the gables been built of burnt brick and strengthened by the chimney-stacks. During the night the metal roofing of the verandah was torn off with a fearful clatter, and soon after dawn—and how long that dawn seemed in coming!—the outer roof of the house, which was of grass, fixed over the tiled roof, was bodily seized by the wind and carried off altogether with its timbers, with a great crash, and then we thought the house itself was all going. But towards nine A.M. the wind gradually subsided, after having blown from about three-quarters of the circle of the compass.

Scores of country chapels as well as houses were unroofed and greatly damaged by this storm. A day or two after it we tried to take one of our usual walks through the woods, but the paths were almost obliterated by fallen trees and branches. In the valleys scores of great trees had been torn up by the roots, with masses of soil clinging to them; in other places they had been broken off short, snapped as if they had been mere twigs; and in the prostrate branches were numbers of arboreal creatures—chameleons, lizards, serpents and tree-frogs—dashed down from their homes. It was all striking evidence of the force with which the fierce wind had roared, especially up the valleys, and had laid low everything in its path.