“Not all alone, like Robinson Crusoe. O no! that would be horrible; but I think we might all of us together live here beautifully a little while, if we had plenty of provisions, and plenty of arms to defend ourselves against the savages; and then of course we should want a house to live in, too.”
“Nonsense,” said Max, “what should we want of provisions?—the sea is full of fish, and the forest of birds; the trees are loaded with fruit; there are oysters and other shell-fish in the bays, and no doubt there are various roots, good for food, to be had by digging for them. As to a house, we might sleep very comfortably, in such weather as this, under these Tournefortias, and never so much as think of taking cold; or we could soon build a serviceable hut, which would be proof against sun and rain, of the trunks and boughs of trees, with a thatch of palm-leaves for a roof. Then in regard to arms, of course, if it should be our fate to set up for desert islanders, we should be well supplied in that line. I never heard of any one, from Robinson Crusoe down, being cast away on a desert island, without a good store of guns, pistols, cutlasses, etcetera, etcetera. Such a thing would be contrary to all precedent, and is not for a moment to be dreamed of.”
“But we haven’t any arms,” said Johnny, “except those old rusty cutlasses that Spot put into the yawl, and if we should be cast away, or left here, for instance, where should we get them from?”
“O, but we are not cast away yet,” replied Max. “This is the way the thing always happens. When people are cast away, it is in a ship, of course.”
“Why, yes; I suppose so,” said Johnny, rather doubtfully. “Well—the ship is always abundantly supplied with every thing necessary to a desert island life; she is driven ashore; the castaways—the future desert islanders—by dint of wonderful good fortune, get safely to land; the rest of course are all drowned, and so disposed of; then, in due time, the ship goes to pieces, and every thing needful is washed ashore and secured by the islanders—that’s the regular course of things—isn’t it, Arthur!”
“Yes, I believe it is, according to the story-books, which are the standard sources of information on the subject.”
“Or sometimes,” pursued Max, “the ship gets comfortably wedged in between two convenient rocks, (which seem to have been designed for that special purpose), so that the castaways can go out to it on a raft, or float of some kind, and carry off every thing they want—and singularly enough, although the vessel is always on the point of going to pieces, that catastrophe never takes place, until every thing which can be of any use is secured.”
“Do you suppose, Arthur,” inquired Johnny, “that there are many uninhabited islands, that have never been discovered!”
“There are believed to be a great many of them,” answered Arthur, “and it is supposed that new ones are constantly being formed by the labours of the coral insect. A bare ledge of coral first appears, just at the surface; it arrests floating substances, weeds, trees, etcetera; soon the sea-birds begin to resort there; by the decay of vegetable and animal matter a thin soil gradually covers the foundation of coral; a cocoa-nut is drifted upon it by the winds, or the currents of the sea; it takes root, springs up, its fruit ripens and falls, and in a few years the whole new-formed island is covered with waving groves.”
“Mr Frazer says he has no doubt that these seas swarm with such islands, and that many of them have never been discovered,” said Max; besides, here’s poetry for it:—