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 SECOND EDITION

FEDERLE • ROSADO-DE-CHRISTENSON
RAMAN • CARTER • WOODWARD • SHAABAN
ii
 SECOND EDITION
Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
Professor and Associate Chair for Education
Department of Radiology
Stanford University School of Medicine
Stanford, California

Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR

Section Chief, Thoracic Radiology
Department of Radiology
Saint Luke’s Hospital of Kansas City
Professor of Radiology
University of Missouri–Kansas City School of Medicine
Kansas City, Missouri

Siva P. Raman, MD
Assistant Professor of Radiology
Department of Radiology
Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine
Baltimore, Maryland

Brett W. Carter, MD
Assistant Professor of Radiology
Department of Diagnostic Radiology
The University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center
Assistant Professor of Radiology
Department of Diagnostic and Interventional Imaging
The University of Texas Medical School at Houston
Houston, Texas

Paula J. Woodward, MD
David G. Bragg, MD and Marcia R. Bragg Presidential Endowed
Chair in Oncologic Imaging
Professor of Radiology
Department of Radiology and Imaging Sciences
University of Utah School of Medicine
Salt Lake City, Utah

Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh

Professor of Radiology
Department of Radiology and Imaging Sciences
University of Utah School of Medicine
Salt Lake City, Utah

iii
 1600 John F. Kennedy Blvd.
Ste 1800
Philadelphia, PA 19103-2899

IMAGING ANATOMY: CHEST, ABDOMEN, PELVIS, SECOND EDITION ISBN: 978-0-323-47781-9

Copyright © 2017 by Elsevier. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Details on
how to seek permission, further information about the Publisher’s permissions policies and our arrangements with organizations such as
the Copyright Clearance Center and the Copyright Licensing Agency, can be found at our website: www.elsevier.com/permissions.

This book and the individual contributions contained in it are protected under copyright by the Publisher (other than as may be
noted herein).

Notices

Knowledge and best practice in this field are constantly changing. As new research and
experience broaden our understanding, changes in research methods, professional practices,
or medical treatment may become necessary.

Practitioners and researchers must always rely on their own experience and knowledge in
evaluating and using any information, methods, compounds, or experiments described
herein. In using such information or methods they should be mindful of their own safety
and the safety of others, including parties for whom they have a professional responsibility.

With respect to any drug or pharmaceutical products identified, readers are advised to check
the most current information provided (i) on procedures featured or (ii) by the manufacturer
of each product to be administered, to verify the recommended dose or formula, the
method and duration of administration, and contraindications. It is the responsibility of
practitioners, relying on their own experience and knowledge of their patients, to make
diagnoses, to determine dosages and the best treatment for each individual patient, and to
take all appropriate safety precautions.

To the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the authors, contributors, or
editors, assume any liability for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter
of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods,
products, instructions, or ideas contained in the material herein.

Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Federle, Michael P. | Rosado-de-Christenson, Melissa L. | Raman, Siva P. |

Carter, Brett W. | Woodward, Paula J. | Shaaban, Akram M.
Title: Imaging anatomy. Chest, abdomen, pelvis / [edited by] Michael P. Federle, Melissa L.
Rosado-de-Christenson, Siva P. Raman, Brett W. Carter, Paula J. Woodward, and
Akram M. Shaaban.
Other titles: Chest, abdomen, pelvis.
Description: Second edition. | Salt Lake City, UT : Elsevier, Inc., [2016] | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-323-47781-9
Subjects: LCSH: Diagnostic imaging--Handbooks, manuals, etc. | Chest--Anatomy--Handbooks,
manuals, etc. | Abdomen--Anatomy--Handbooks, manuals, etc. | Pelvis--Anatomy--Handbooks,
manuals, etc. | Imaging systems in medicine--Handbooks, manuals, etc. | MESH: Thorax--
anatomy & histology--Atlases. | Abdomen--anatomy & histology--Atlases. | Pelvis--anatomy
& histology--Atlases. | Magnetic Resonance Spectroscopy--Atlases. | Tomography, X-Ray
Computed--Atlases.
Classification: LCC RC78.7.D53 D534 2016 | NLM WE 17 | DDC 616.07’54--dc23

International Standard Book Number: 978-0-323-47781-9

Cover Designer: Tom M. Olson, BA
Cover Art: Lane R. Bennion, MS
Printed in Canada by Friesens, Altona, Manitoba, Canada

Last digit is the print number: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

iv
 Dedications
To Ric Harnsberger, whose vision, enthusiasm, charisma, and hard work created
and sustained this entire enterprise. Your legacy will endure long after all of our
names are forgotten.
MPF

To my family, especially my husband, Paul, and my daughters, Jennifer and

Heather, whose love, encouragement, and support have seen me through this
project. To my dear friend and coauthor, Dr. Brett Carter, from whom I continue
to learn every day.
MRDC

To my wife, Janani Venkateswaran, whose support throughout my career has

helped sustain me and drive me forward.
SPR

I dedicate this project to my parents, Ralph and Joy Carter, without whom this
effort would not have been possible.
BWC

To Miguel Flores.
The stalwart patriarch of the Flores/z clan, whose staunch work ethic remains
an inspiration to me. You started in this world with so little and have done so
much. Thank you not only for your example but also for your hijo.
PJW

To my parents, I truly owe you everything.

To my wife, Inji, son, Karim, and daughters, May and Jena, the jewels of my life,
thanks for your understanding and tremendous support.
AMS

v
vi
Additional Contributing Authors
Gerald F. Abbott, MD, FACR
Associate Radiologist, Thoracic
Massachusetts General Hospital
Associate Professor
Harvard Medical School
Boston, Massachusetts

Rania Farouk El Sayed, MD, PhD

Assistant Professor
Genitourinary and MR Pelvic Floor Imaging Unit
Department of Radiology, Faculty of Medicine
Cairo University Hospitals
Cairo, Egypt

vii
viii
 Preface

In his elegant foreword to the first edition of this book, Professor Morton Meyers
related the evolution of our understanding of human anatomy, from Vesalius’ Fabrica
through the many contributions of surgeons, such as Harvey Cushing, who wrote that
“...from the publication of the Fabrica almost to the present day the intimate pursuit
of...anatomy has constituted the high road for entry into the practice of surgery.”
Meyers went on to write, “Today it is the radiologist who is most facile with highly
detailed anatomy, and who...demonstrates this in vivo. Dissectional anatomy has been
superseded by cross-sectional anatomy.”

In the decade since the publication of the first edition of this book, our ability to define
normal and abnormal anatomy of the chest, abdomen, and pelvis has continued
to advance. An example is the major improvement in MR evaluation of the pelvis,
depicting in multiple planes with unprecedented detail the pertinent anatomical
alterations that may result in pelvic floor laxity, urinary and fecal incontinence, and
perianal fistulas. Similar advances have been made in the multimodality depiction of
anatomic structures throughout the body, and these have been incorporated into this
second edition of Imaging Anatomy.

As with the first edition, we feature what Meyers deemed “exquisite, museum-quality
illustrations,” paired with the imaging modalities most relevant to the understanding
of human anatomy in health and disease.

We hope that the efforts of our radiologist authors and talented medical illustrators
will make the anatomy of the chest, abdomen, and pelvis “come alive” for our readers.

Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR

Professor and Associate Chair for Education
Department of Radiology
Stanford University School of Medicine
Stanford, California

ix
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x
Acknowledgments

Text Editors
Arthur G. Gelsinger, MA
Nina I. Bennett, BA
Terry W. Ferrell, MS
Karen E. Concannon, MA, PhD
Matt W. Hoecherl, BS
Megg Morin, BA

Image Editors
Jeffrey J. Marmorstone, BS
Lisa A. M. Steadman, BS

Illustrations
Lane R. Bennion, MS
Richard Coombs, MS
Laura C. Sesto, MA

Art Direction and Design

Tom M. Olson, BA
Laura C. Sesto, MA

Lead Editor
Lisa A. Gervais, BS

Production Coordinators
Angela M. G. Terry, BA
Rebecca L. Hutchinson, BA
Emily Fassett, BA

xi
xii
 Sections

SECTION 1: CHEST

SECTION 2: ABDOMEN

SECTION 3: PELVIS

xiii
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

636 Small Intestine

SECTION 1: CHEST Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
4 Chest Overview 666 Colon
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
44 Lung Development 708 Spleen
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
64 Airway Structure 732 Liver
Brett W. Carter, MD and Gerald F. Abbott, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
86 Vascular Structure 778 Biliary System
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
106 Interstitial Network 804 Pancreas
Brett W. Carter, MD and Gerald F. Abbott, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
118 Lungs 834 Retroperitoneum
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
148 Hila 860 Adrenal
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
178 Airways 882 Kidney
Brett W. Carter, MD and Gerald F. Abbott, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
200 Pulmonary Vessels 920 Ureter and Bladder
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
232 Pleura
Brett W. Carter, MD and Gerald F. Abbott, MD, FACR SECTION 3: PELVIS
258 Mediastinum 946 Vessels, Lymphatic System and Nerves, Pelvic
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
294 Systemic Vessels
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR MALE
336 Heart
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR 974 Male Pelvic Wall and Floor
380 Coronary Arteries and Cardiac Veins Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh 1000 Testes and Scrotum
402 Pericardium Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
Melissa L. Rosado-de-Christenson, MD, FACR 1018 Prostate and Seminal Vesicles
422 Chest Wall Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
Brett W. Carter, MD and Gerald F. Abbott, MD, FACR 1036 Penis and Urethra
Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
SECTION 2: ABDOMEN FEMALE
448 Embryology of Abdomen
1050 Female Pelvic Floor
Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR and Siva P. Raman, MD
Paula J. Woodward, MD, Rania Farouk El Sayed, MD, PhD,
484 Abdominal Wall
and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
1078 Uterus
508 Diaphragm
Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
1104 Ovaries
528 Peritoneal Cavity
Paula J. Woodward, MD and Akram M. Shaaban, MBBCh
Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
550 Vessels, Lymphatic System and Nerves, Abdominal
Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR
592 Esophagus
Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR and Siva P. Raman, MD
608 Gastroduodenal
Siva P. Raman, MD and Michael P. Federle, MD, FACR

xiv
This page intentionally left blank
This page intentionally left blank
 SECOND EDITION

FEDERLE • ROSADO-DE-CHRISTENSON
RAMAN • CARTER • WOODWARD • SHAABAN
This page intentionally left blank
 SECTION 1

Chest

Chest Overview 4
Lung Development 44
Airway Structure 64
Vascular Structure 86
Interstitial Network 106
Lungs 118
Hila 148
Airways 178
Pulmonary Vessels 200
Pleura 232
Mediastinum 258
Systemic Vessels 294
Heart 336
Coronary Arteries and Cardiac Veins 380
Pericardium 402
Chest Wall 422
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 Chest Overview
Chest

GENERAL ANATOMY AND FUNCTION CHEST RADIOGRAPHY

Chest Wall Standard Chest Radiography
• Anatomy • Imaging study of choice for initial assessment of
○ Spine cardiopulmonary disease
○ Sternum • PA and lateral chest radiographs
○ Ribs ○ Orthogonal views (at right angles to each other)
○ Clavicles ○ Analysis of orthogonal views for precise anatomic
○ Scapulae localization of imaging abnormalities
○ Skeletal muscles Standard Radiographic Positioning
○ Chest wall nerves and vessels
• Upright patient
○ Skin and subcutaneous fat
• Full inspiration and breath hold near total lung capacity
• Function
• No rotation or motion
○ Protects lungs, cardiovascular structures, and
• Attempt to minimize overlying osseous structures
intrathoracic organs
• Area of interest closest to image receptor (IR)
○ Participates in bellows-like process of respiration
• Radiographic technique
Pleura ○ Source-to-image receptor distance (SID): 72 inches to
• Anatomy minimize magnification
○ Thin, continuous membrane ○ Central x-ray beam centered on thorax
○ Parietal pleura: Lines nonpulmonary surfaces ○ Beam collimation to include outer chest wall
○ Visceral pleura: Lines pulmonary surfaces Radiographic Projections
○ Pleural space: Potential space between pleural surfaces
• Posteroanterior (PA) chest radiography
• Function
○ Term PA: Describes PA direction of x-ray beam traversing
○ Production and absorption of normal pleural fluid chest toward IR
– Lubrication of pleural surfaces ○ Anterior chest against IR
– Facilitation of lung motion during respiration ○ Head vertically positioned and chin on top of grid device
○ Clearance of abnormal pleural fluid ○ Dorsal wrists on hips, and elbows rotated anteriorly to
Airways move scapulae laterally
• Anatomy ○ Shoulders moved caudally and squarely against IR to
○ Trachea bring clavicles below apices
○ Mainstem bronchi • Left lateral chest radiography
○ Lobar bronchi ○ Term left lateral: Denotes that left lateral chest wall is
against IR
○ Segmental/subsegmental bronchi
○ X-ray beam traverses chest from right to left toward IR
○ Bronchioles
○ Arms above head to move upper extremities away from
○ Distal airways and alveoli
lungs and mediastinum
• Function
• Anteroposterior (AP) chest radiography
○ Gas exchange during respiration
○ Term AP: Describes anteroposterior direction of x-ray
○ Protective mechanisms against foreign particles
beam traversing chest toward IR
– Mucociliary escalator
○ Supine and bedside (portable) radiography and imaging
– Cough reflex of sitting and semiupright patients
○ Gas exchange to and from alveolar-capillary interface – Neonates, infants, and young children
Heart and Great Vessels – Debilitated and unstable patients
• Anatomy – Critically ill and bed-ridden patients
○ Venae cavae ○ Distinctive features
○ Right atrium – Magnification of anterior structures (heart and
○ Right ventricle mediastinum) farthest from IR; shorter SID
○ Pulmonary arteries – Clavicles course horizontally and partially obscure
apices
○ Capillary network
– Ribs assume horizontal course
○ Pulmonary veins
• Lateral decubitus chest radiography
○ Left atrium
○ Recumbent position with right or left side down
○ Left ventricle
○ Elevation of chest on radiolucent support
○ Thoracic aorta and branches
○ Frontal radiograph (AP or PA) with horizontal x-ray beam
• Function
○ Indications
○ Pump action for systemic and pulmonary circulations
– Evaluation of pleural fluid in dependent pleural space
○ Transport of deoxygenated blood to capillary-alveolar
(x-ray beam tangential to fluid-lung interface)
interface
– Evaluation of air in nondependent pleural space (x-ray
○ Transport of oxygenated blood to tissues
beam tangential to visceral pleura-air interface)
4
 Chest Overview

Chest
• Apical lordotic (AP or PA axial) chest radiography Radiographic Densities
○ Superior angulation of x-ray beam from horizontal plane • 5 radiographic densities
of 15-20° ○ Air
○ Distinctive features ○ Water (fluid, blood, and soft tissue)
– Clavicles and first anterior ribs project above apices ○ Fat
– Ribs course horizontally ○ Bone
– Magnification (foreshortening) of mediastinum ○ Metal (contrast, metallic portions of medical devices,
○ Indications metallic foreign bodies)
– Radiographic visualization of apex, superior • Silhouette sign
mediastinum and thoracic inlet ○ Intrathoracic process (mass, consolidation, pleural fluid)
– Enhanced visualization of minor fissure in suspected that touches mediastinum or diaphragm obscures
middle lobe atelectasis visualization of their borders on radiography
• Expiratory radiography ○ Critical for radiographic diagnosis of
○ Evaluation of air-trapping – Atelectasis
○ Evaluation of pneumothorax (limited value) – Consolidation
– No clear difference in sensitivity or specificity for – Pleural effusion
diagnosis
Radiographic Interpretation COMPUTED TOMOGRAPHY
• Assessment of patient's identity and location of right/left General Concepts
markers • Imaging based on x-ray absorption by tissues with differing
• Assessment of entire thorax atomic numbers
○ Frontal radiography • Display of differences in x-ray absorption in cross-sectional
– Inclusion of all thoracic structures from larynx to lung format
bases • Excellent spatial resolution
– Full inspiration • Enhanced visualization of structures of different tissue
□ Diaphragm below posterior 9th-10th ribs or at 5th- density based on display of wide range of Hounsfield unit
7th anterior ribs at mid clavicular line (HU) measurements
○ Lateral radiography ○ Window width refers to number of HU displayed
– Inclusion of anteroposterior extent of chest wall ○ Window level refers to median (center) HU
– Inclusion of apical lung and posterior ○ Window width and level for assessment of thoracic CT
costodiaphragmatic sulci – Lung window (width of 1,500 HU; level of -650 HU)
• Assessment of appropriate radiographic positioning □ Evaluation of lungs, airways, and air-containing
○ No rotation portions of gastrointestinal tract
– Spinous process of T3 (posterior structure) centered □ Identification of pneumomediastinum,
between medial clavicles (anterior structures) on pneumoperitoneum, and soft tissue gas
frontal radiography – Soft tissue (mediastinal) window (width of 400 HU;
– Superimposition of right and left ribs posterior to level of 40 HU)
thoracic vertebrae on lateral radiography □ Evaluation of vascular structures and soft tissues of
○ Medial aspects of scapulae lateral to lungs on frontal mediastinum and chest wall
radiography – Bone window (width of 2,000 HU; level of 400 HU)
○ Arms above thorax without superimposition on lung and □ Evaluation of skeletal and calcified structures
mediastinum on lateral radiography □ Evaluation of metallic objects and medical devices
• Appropriately exposed radiograph – Liver window (width of 150 HU; level of 50 HU
○ Assessment of peripheral pulmonary vasculature without contrast and 100 HU with contrast)
○ Visualization of pulmonary vessels through heart and □ Evaluation of upper abdomen: Liver, kidney
diaphragm on frontal radiography □ Evaluation of pleural effusions for solid pleural
○ Visualization of vertebrae through heart on frontal nodules
radiography
• Systematic evaluation Conventional CT
○ Assessment of multiple superimposed structures and • Evaluation, localization, and characterization of
tissues abnormalities detected on radiography
○ Assessment of all visible structures including portions of • Localization of lesions in preparation for CT-guided
neck, shoulders, and upper abdomen biopsy/drainage
○ Anatomic localization of abnormalities Contrast-Enhanced CT
○ Assessment of associated findings
• Administration of intravenous contrast
○ Comparison to prior studies
○ Evaluation of vascular structures
• Challenges
○ Evaluation of vascular abnormalities
○ Evaluation of retrocardiac lung
○ Distinction of vascular structures from adjacent soft
○ Evaluation of retrodiaphragmatic lung tissues (e.g., lymph nodes)
○ Evaluation of apical lung
5
 Chest Overview
Chest

○ Determination of lesion/tissue enhancement ○ Intrinsic vascular "contrast"

• Administration of enteric contrast ○ Increased soft tissue contrast
○ Evaluation of gastrointestinal perforations/leaks
Technique
CT Angiography • Spin-echo sequences typically used in chest imaging
• Vascular imaging ○ T1-weighted images
○ Timing of contrast bolus ○ T2-weighted images
○ Imaging of specific vascular structures • Bright blood sequences
– CT pulmonary angiography for evaluation of
Indications
pulmonary thromboembolic disease
– CT aortography for evaluation of traumatic aortic • Imaging of heart and great vessels
injury or aneurysm • Distinction of vascular structures from adjacent soft tissues
– CT aortography for evaluation of acute aortic without use of contrast
syndrome • Evaluation of mediastinum and hila
□ Baseline unenhanced images required prior to • Diagnostic imaging of thymus
contrast administration to document intramural • Assessment of chest wall and diaphragm
hematoma
ANGIOGRAPHY
High-Resolution CT
Pulmonary Angiography
• Technique
○ Thin sections to minimize partial volume effects • Venous catheterization
○ High-resolution reconstruction algorithm • Cannulation of pulmonary arterial system
• Indications • Indications
○ Evaluation of diffuse infiltrative lung disease ○ Evaluation of congenital and acquired pulmonary
○ Evaluation of patients with unexplained dyspnea and vascular abnormalities
normal radiographs ○ Management of selected cases of thromboembolic
• Special techniques disease
○ Prone imaging for evaluation of peripheral basilar lung Aortography
disease • Arterial catheterization
○ Expiratory imaging for evaluation of small airways • Cannulation of proximal aorta
disease
• Indications
Postprocessing Techniques ○ Evaluation of traumatic aortic and great vessel injury
• Multiplanar reformations ○ Assessment of congenital arterial vascular anomalies
○ Multiplanar evaluation of axially oriented structures and ○ Evaluation of caliber and integrity of aortic and great
abnormalities vessel lumina
○ Evaluation of anatomic location of lung lesions in relation Bronchial Artery and Intercostal Arteriography
to interlobar fissures
• Arterial catheterization
○ Evaluation of chest wall and mediastinal involvement by
• Selective cannulation of bronchial/intercostal arteries
adjacent pulmonary lesions
• Indications
○ Coronal and sagittal lesion measurements
○ Diagnosis and treatment of hemoptysis
• Maximum-intensity projection (MIP)
○ Evaluation of vascular structures
OTHER CHEST IMAGING MODALITIES
○ Increased conspicuity of pulmonary nodules
• Minimum-intensity projection (minIP) Scintigraphy
○ Evaluation of central airways and air-trapping • Positron-emission tomography
• Surface-rendered displays ○ Determination of metabolic activity of lesions
• Volume-rendered techniques for problem solving and ○ Staging of malignant neoplasms
education ○ Use of integrated PET/CT imaging
○ Virtual bronchoscopy • Ventilation-perfusion imaging
○ Evaluation of thromboembolic disease
MAGNETIC RESONANCE IMAGING – Study of choice in pregnant subjects
General Concepts ○ Evaluation of pre- and postoperative lung function
• Application of radiofrequency to excite protons within Ultrasound
magnetic field • Evaluation of pleural effusion
• Detection of signal emitted by nuclei as they relax to their ○ Free vs. loculated
original alignment with generation of image depicting their ○ Thoracentesis/biopsy planning and thoracostomy tube
spatial distribution placement
• Advantages of MR • Evaluation of diaphragmatic motion in cases of suspected
○ Excellent contrast resolution paralysis
○ Multiplanar imaging
6
 Chest Overview

Chest
CHEST OVERVIEW

Chest wall skeletal

structures

Airways

Thoracic great vessels

Lung

Heart

Chest wall muscle

Chest wall subcutaneous

tissue

Pleura

Graphic shows the complex and diverse structures and organs of the thorax. The chest wall skeletal and soft tissue structures surround
and protect the primary organs of respiration, the thoracic cardiovascular system, and the proximal gastrointestinal tract. The apposed
pleural surfaces create a potential space that normally contains a small amount of fluid, which lubricates the pleural surfaces and
reduces friction during respiratory motion. The airways deliver oxygen to the alveolar-capillary interface and carry carbon dioxide out to
the environment. The heart and vessels deliver deoxygenated blood to the capillary-alveolar interface and oxygenated blood to the
peripheral organs and tissues.

7
 Chest Overview
Chest

PA CHEST RADIOGRAPHY

Chest wall skeletal

structures
Aorta

Chest wall soft tissues

Airways

Interlobar pulmonary
artery

Heart

Lung

Normal posteroanterior (PA) chest radiograph helps illustrate inherent challenges regarding interpretation of radiographs of the
thorax. Chest radiography displays a wide range of structures and tissue types with significant superimposition of structures of different
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radiographic image quality is of paramount importance for accurate diagnosis of subtle abnormalities.

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 MAORI FISHING PARTY

Sir George Grey was the first, I think, to write down any of the
Maori fairy-tales; at any rate, two of the best of them are found in
his book. One concerns the adventure of the chief Kahukura, who,
walking one evening on the sea-shore in the far north of the North
Island, saw strange footprints and canoe marks on the sands.
Clearly fishermen had been there; but their landing and departure
must have taken place in the night, and there was something about
the marks they had left that was puzzling and uncanny. Kahukura
went his way pondering, and “held fast in his heart what he had
seen.” So after nightfall back he came to the spot, and after a while
the shore was covered with fairies. Canoes were paddled to land
dragging nets full of mackerel, and all were busy in securing the fish.
Kahukura mingled with the throng, and was as busy as any, picking
up fish and running a string of flax through their gills. Like many
Maori chiefs, he was a light-complexioned man, so fair that in the
starlight the fairies took him for one of themselves. Morning
approached, and the fishermen were anxious to finish their work;
but Kahukura contrived by dropping and scattering fish to impede
and delay them until dawn. With the first streaks of daylight the
fairies discovered that a man was among them, and fled in confusion
by sea and land, leaving their large seine net lying on the shore. It is
true that the net was made of rushes; but the pattern and knotting
were so perfect and ingenious that the Maori copied them, and that
is how they learned to make fishing-nets.
Another chief, Te Kanawa, fell in with the fairies high up on a
wooded mountain near the river Waikato. This encounter also, we
are assured, took place long ago, before the coming of white men.
Te Kanawa had been hunting the wingless kiwi, and, surprised by
night, had to encamp in the forest. He made his bed of fern among
the buttresses at the foot of a large pukatea-tree, and, protected by
these and his fire, hoped to pass the night comfortably. Soon,
however, he heard voices and footsteps, and fairies began to circle
round about, talking and laughing, and peeping over the buttresses
of the pukatea at the handsome young chief. Their women openly
commented on his good looks, jesting with each other at their
eagerness to examine him. Te Kanawa, however, was exceedingly
terrified, and thought of nothing but of how he might propitiate his
inquisitive admirers and save himself from some injury at their
hands. So he took from his neck his hei-tiki, or charm of greenstone,
and from his ears his shark’s-tooth ornaments, and hung them upon
a wand which he held out as an offering to the fairy folk. At once
these turned to examine the gifts with deep interest. According to
one version of the story they made patterns of them, cut out of
wood and leaves. According to another, they, by enchantment, took
away the shadows or resemblances of the prized objects. In either
case they were satisfied to leave the tangible ornaments with their
owner, and disappeared, allowing Te Kanawa to make his way
homeward. That he did with all possible speed, at the first glimpse
of daylight, awe-struck but gratified by the good nature of the elves.

CARVED HOUSE, OHINEMUTU

A third story introduces us to a husband whose young wife had

been carried off and wedded by a fairy chief. For a while she lived
with her captor in one of the villages of the fairies into which no
living man has ever penetrated, though hunters in the forest have
sometimes seen barriers of intertwined wild vines, which are the
outer defences of an elfin pa. The bereaved husband at last
bethought himself of consulting a famous tohunga, who, by powerful
incantations, turned the captured wife’s thoughts back to her human
husband, and restored the strength of her love for him. She fled,
therefore, from her fairy dwelling, met her husband, who was lurking
in the neighbourhood, and together they regained their old home.
Thither, of course, the fairies followed them in hot pursuit. But the
art of the tohunga was equal to the danger. He had caused the
escaped wife and the outside of her house to be streaked and
plastered with red ochre. He had also instructed the people of the
village to cook food on a grand scale, so that the air should be heavy
with the smell of the cooking at the time of the raid of the fairies.
The sight of red ochre and the smell of cooked food are so
loathsome to the fairy people that they cannot endure to encounter
them. So the baffled pursuers halted, fell back and vanished, and
the wife remained peacefully with her husband, living a happy Maori
life.
The Maori might well worship Tané, the tree-god, who held up the
sky with his feet and so let in light upon the sons of earth. For the
forest supplied them with much more than wood for their stockades,
canoes, and utensils. It sheltered the birds which made such an
important part of the food of the Maori, living as they did in a land
without four-footed beasts. Tame as the birds were, the fowlers, on
their side, were without bows and arrows, and knew nothing of the
blow-gun, which would have been just the weapon for our jungles.
They had to depend mainly on snaring and spearing, and upon the
aid of decoys. Though the snaring was ingenious enough, it was the
spearing that needed especial skill and was altogether the more
extraordinary. The spears were made of the tawa-tree, and while
they were but an inch in thickness, were thirty feet long or even
longer. One tree could only supply two of these slim weapons,
which, after metals became known to the Maori, were tipped with
iron. When not in use they were lashed or hung in a tree. Taking one
in hand the fowler would climb up to a platform prepared in some
tree, the flowers or berries of which were likely to attract wild
parrots or pigeons. Then the spear was pushed upwards, resting
against branches. All the fowler’s art was next exerted to draw down
the birds by his decoys to a perch near the spear-point. That
accomplished, a quick silent stab did the rest. Many living white men
have seen this dexterous feat performed, though it must be almost a
thing of the past now. As soon as the Maori began to obtain guns,
and that is ninety years ago, they endeavoured to shoot birds with
them. Having a well-founded distrust of their marksmanship, they
would repeat as closely as possible the tactics they had found useful
in spearing. Climbing silently and adroitly into the trees and as near
their pigeon or kaka as possible, they waited until the muzzle of the
gun was within a foot or two of the game, and then blew the
unfortunate bird from the branch. Major Cruise witnessed this
singular performance in the year 1820. Birds were among the
delicacies which the Maori preserved for future use, storing them in
tightly-bound calabashes, where they were covered with melted fat.
Their favourite choice for this process was a kind of puffin or petrel,
the mutton-bird, which goes inland to breed, and nests in
underground burrows.
 A BUSH ROAD

Though no great traveller, I have seen beautiful landscapes in

fourteen or fifteen countries, and yet hold to it that certain views of
our forest spreading round lakes and over hills and valleys, peaceful
and unspoiled, are sights as lovely as are to be found. Whence
comes their complete beauty? Of course, there are the fine contours
of mountain and vale, cliff and shore. And the abundance of water,
swirling in torrents, leaping in waterfalls, or winding in lakes or sea-
gulfs, aids greatly. But to me the magic of the forest—I speak of it
where you find it still unspoiled—comes first from its prodigal life
and continual variety. Why, asks a naturalist, do so many of us wax
enthusiastic over parasites and sentimental over lianas? Because, I
suppose, these are among the most striking signs of the astonishing
vitality and profusion which clothe almost every yard of ground and
foot of bark, and, gaining foothold on the trees, invade the air itself.
Nature there is not trimmed and supervised, weeded out, swept and
garnished, as in European woods. She lets herself go, expelling
nothing that can manage to find standing room or breathing space.
Every rule of human forestry and gardening appears to be broken,
and the result is an easy triumph for what seems waste and rank
carelessness. Trees tottering with age still dispute the soil with
superabundant saplings, or, falling, lean upon and are held up by
undecaying neighbours. Dead trunks cumber the ground, while
mosses, ferns, and bushes half conceal them. Creepers cover matted
thickets, veiling their flanks and netting them into masses upon
which a man may sit, and a boy be irresistibly tempted to walk.
Aloft, one tree may grow upon another, and itself bear the burden of
a third. Parasites twine round parasites, dangle in purposeless ropes,
or form loops and swings in mid-air. Some are bare, lithe and
smooth-stemmed; others trail curtains of leaves and pale flowers.
Trees of a dozen species thrust their branches into each other, till it
is a puzzle to tell which foliage belongs to this stem, which to that;
and flax-like arboreal colonists fill up forks and dress bole and limbs
fantastically. Adventurous vines ramble through the interspaces,
linking trunk to trunk and complicating the fine confusion. All around
is a multitudinous, incessant struggle for life; but it goes on in
silence, and the impression left is not regret, but a memory of
beauty. The columnar dignity of the great trees contrasts with the
press and struggle of the undergrowth, with the airy lace-work of
fern fronds, and the shafted grace of the stiffer palm-trees. From the
moss and wandering lycopodium underfoot, to the victorious climber
flowering eighty feet overhead, all is life, varied endlessly and put
forth without stint. Of course there is death at work around you, too;
but who notes the dying amid such a riot of energy? The earth itself
smells moist and fresh. What seems an odour blended of resin,
sappy wood, damp leaves, and brown tinder, hangs in the air. But
the leafy roof is lofty enough, and the air cool and pure enough, to
save you from the sweltering oppressiveness of an equatorial jungle.
The dim entanglement is a quiet world, shut within itself and full of
shadows. Yet, in bright weather, rays of sunshine shoot here and
there against brown and grey bark, and clots of golden light,
dripping through the foliage, dance on vivid mosses and the root-
enlacement of the earth.
 “The forest rears on lifted arms
Its leafy dome whence verdurous light
Shakes through the shady depths and warms
Proud trunk and stealthy parasite.
There where those cruel coils enclasp
The trees they strangle in their grasp.”

When the sky is overcast the evergreen realm darkens. In one

mood you think it invitingly still and mysterious; in another, its tints
fade to a common dulness, and gloom fills its recesses. Pattering
raindrops chill enthusiasm. The mazy paradise is filled with “the
terror of unending trees.” The silence grows unnatural, the rustle of
a chance bird startles. Anything from a python to a jaguar might be
hidden in labyrinths that look so tropical. In truth there is nothing
there larger than a wingless and timid bird; nothing more dangerous
than a rat poaching among the branches in quest of eggs; nothing
more annoying than a few sandflies.
The European’s eye instinctively wanders over the foliage in
search of likenesses to the flora of northern lands. He may think he
detects a darker willow in the tawa, a brighter and taller yew in the
matai, a giant box in the rata, a browner laburnum in the kowhai, a
slender deodar in the rimu, and, by the sea, a scarlet-flowering ilex
in the pohutu-kawa. The sub-alpine beech forests are indeed
European, inferior though our small-leaved beeches are to the
English. You see in them wide-spreading branches, an absence of
underbrush and luxuriant climbers, and a steady repetition of the
same sort and condition of tree, all recalling Europe. Elsewhere there
is little that does this. In the guide-books you constantly encounter
the word “pine,” but you will look round in vain for anything like the
firs of Scotland, the maritime pines of Gascony, or the black and
monotonous woods of Prussia. The nikau-palm, tree-fern, and palm-
lily, the serpentine and leafy parasites, and such extraordinary
foliage as that of the lance-wood, rewa-rewa, and two or three kinds
of panax, add a hundred distinctive details to the broad impression
of difference.

AMONG THE KAURI

I suppose that most New Zealanders, if asked to name the finest

trees of their forest, would declare for the kauri and the totara.
Some might add the puriri to these. But then the average New
Zealander is a practical person and is apt to estimate a forest-tree in
terms of sawn timber. Not that a full-grown kauri is other than a
great and very interesting tree. Its spreading branches and dark
crown of glossy-green leaves, lifted above its fellows of the
woodland, like Saul’s head above the people, catch and hold the eye
at once. And the great column of its trunk impresses you like the
pillar of an Egyptian temple, not by classic grace, but by a rotund
bulk, sheer size and weight speaking of massive antiquity. It is not
their height that makes even the greatest of the kauri tribe
remarkable, for one hundred and fifty feet is nothing extraordinary.
But their picked giants measure sixty-six feet in circumference, with
a diameter that, at least in one case, has reached twenty-four.
Moreover, the smooth grey trunks rise eighty or even a hundred feet
without the interruption of a single branch. And when you come to
the branches, they are as large as trees: some have been measured
and found to be four feet through. Then, though the foliage is none
too dense, each leaf is of a fair size. From their lofty roof above your
head to the subsoil below your feet, all is odorous of resin. Leaves
and twigs smell of it; it forms lumps in the forks, oozes from the
trunk and mixes with the earth—the swelling humus composed of
flakes of decayed bark dropped through the slow centuries. There
are still kauri pines in plenty that must have been vigorous saplings
when William the Norman was afforesting south-western Hampshire.
The giants just spoken of are survivors from ages far more remote.
For they may have been tall trees when cedars were being hewn on
Lebanon for King Solomon’s temple. And then the kauri has a
pathetic interest: it is doomed. At the present rate of consumption
the supply will not last ten years. Commercially it is too valuable to
be allowed to live undisturbed, and too slow of growth to make it
worth the while of a money-making generation to grow it. Even the
young “rickers” are callously slashed and burned away. Who regards
a stem that may be valuable a quarter of a century hence, or a
seedling that will not be worth money during the first half of the
twentieth century? So the kauri, like the African elephant, the whale,
and the bison, seems likely to become a rare survival. It will be kept
to be looked at in a few State reserves. Then men may remember
that once upon a time virtually all the town of Auckland was built of
kauri timber, and that Von Hochstetter, riding through a freshly
burned kauri “bush,” found the air charged with a smell as of
frankincense and myrrh.
Nor is the totara other than a king of the woods, albeit a lesser
monarch than the giant. Its brown shaggy trunk looks best, to my
thinking, when wrapped in a rough overcoat of lichens, air-lilies,
climbing ferns, lianas, and embracing rootlets. Such a tree, from
waist to crown, is often a world of shaggy greenery, where its own
bristling, bushy foliage may be lit up by the crimson of the florid
rata, or the starry whiteness of other climbers. The beauty of the
totara is not external only. Its brown wood is handsome, and a
polished piece of knotty or mottled totara almost vies with mottled
kauri in the cabinet-maker’s esteem.
For utility no wood in the islands, perhaps, surpasses that of the
puriri, the teak of the country. One is tempted to say that it should
be made a penal offence to burn a tree at once so serviceable and
so difficult to replace. A tall puriri, too, with its fresh-green leaves
and rose-tinted flowers, is a cheering sight, especially when you see,
as you sometimes do, healthy specimens which have somehow
managed to survive the cutting down and burning of the other forest
trees, and stand in fields from which the bush has been cleared
away.
 POHUTUKAWA IN BLOOM, WHANGAROA HARBOUR

Yet none of the three trees named seems to me to equal in beauty

or distinction certain other chieftains of the forest. Surely the cedar-
like rimu—silvæ filia nobilis,—with its delicate drooping foliage and
air of slender grace, and the more compact titoki with polished
curving leaves and black-and-crimson berries, are not easily to be
matched. And surpassing even these in brilliance and strangeness
are a whole group of the iron-heart family, ratas with flowers blood-
red or white, and their cousin the “spray-sprinkled” pohutu-kawa.
The last-named, like the kauri, puriri, tawari, and tarairi, is a
northerner, and does not love the South Island, though a stray
specimen or two have been found in Banks’ Peninsula. But the rata,
though shunning the dry mid-eastern coast of the South Island,
ventures much nearer the Antarctic. The variety named lucida grows
in Stewart Island, and forms a kind of jungle in the Auckland Isles,
where, beaten on its knees by the furious gales, it goes down, so to
speak, on all fours, and, lifting only its crown, spreads in bent
thickets in a climate as wet and stormy as that of the moors of
Cumberland.
The rata of the south would, but for its flowers, be an ordinary
tree enough, very hard, very slow in growing, and carrying leaves
somewhat like those of the English box-tree. But when in flower in
the later summer, it crowns the western forests with glory, and lights
up mountain passes and slopes with sheets of crimson. The
splendour of the flower comes not from its petals, but from what
Kirk the botanist calls “the fiery crimson filaments of its innumerable
stamens,” standing as they do in red crests, or hanging downward in
feathery fringes. To win full admiration the rata must be seen where
it spreads in profusion, staining cliffs, sprinkling the dark-green tree-
tops with blood, and anon seeming in the distance to be massed in
cushions of soft red. Trees have been found bearing golden flowers,
but such are very rare.
The rata lucida does not climb other trees. Another and even
brighter species, the florid rata, is a climbing plant, and so are two
white-flowered kinds named albiflora and scandens, both beautiful in
their way, but lacking the distinction of the blood-hued species, for
white is only too common a colour in our forest flora. The florid rata,
on the other hand, is perhaps the most brilliant of the tribe. Winding
its way up to the light, it climbs to the green roof of the forest, and
there flaunts a bold scarlet like the crest of some gay bird of the
Tropics. It is a snake-like vine, and, vine like, yields a pale rose-
tinted drink, which with a little make-believe may be likened to
rough cider. Rata wine, however, is not crushed from grapes, but
drawn from the vine-stem. Mr. Laing states that as much as a gallon
and a half of liquid has dripped from a piece of the stem four feet
long, after it had been cut and kept dry for three weeks.
But the most famous rata is neither the vine nor the tree of the
south. It is the tree-killing tree of the North Island, the species
named robusta. Its flowers are richer than the southerner’s, and
whereas the latter is not often more than fifty feet high, robusta is
sometimes twice as tall as that. And it is as strong as tall, for its
hard, heavy logs of reddish wood will lie on the ground year after
year without decaying. But its fame comes from its extraordinary
fashion of growing. Strong and erect as it is, and able to grow from
the ground in the ordinary way, it prefers to begin life as an
epiphyte, springing from seed dropped in a fork or hollow of a high
tree. At any rate the tallest and finest specimens begin as seedlings
in these airy nests. Thence without delay they send down roots to
earth, one perhaps on one side of the tree trunk, one on the other.
These in their turn, after fixing themselves in the ground, send out
cross-roots to clasp each other—transverse pieces looking like the
rungs of a rope-ladder. In time oblique rootlets make with these a
complete net-work. Gradually all meet and solidify, forming a hollow
pipe of living wood. This encloses the unhappy tree and in the end
presses it to death. Many and many a grey perished stick has been
found in the interior of the triumphant destroyer. In one tree only
does the constrictor meet more than its match. In the puriri it finds a
growth harder and stouter than itself. Iron is met by steel. The grey
smooth trunk goes on expanding, indifferent to the rata’s grasp, and
even forcing its gripping roots apart; and the pleasant green of the
puriri’s leaves shows freshly among the darker foliage of the
strangler.
The rata itself, on gaining size and height, does not escape the
responsibilities of arboreal life. Its own forks and hollows form
starting-points for the growth of another handsome tree-inhabitant,
the large or shining broadleaf. Beginning sometimes thirty feet from
the ground, this last will grow as much as thirty feet higher, and
develop a stem fourteen inches thick. Not satisfied with sending
down roots outside the trunk of its supporter it will use the interior
of a hollow tree as a channel through which to reach earth. The
foliage which the broadleaf puts forth quite eclipses the leaves of
most of the trees upon which it rides, but it does not seem to kill
these last, if it kills them at all, as quickly as the iron-hearted rata.
 NIKAU PALMS

Our wild flowers, say the naturalists, show few brilliant hues. Our
fuschias are poor, our violets white, our gentians pallid—save those
of the Auckland isles. Our clematis is white or creamy, and our
passion-flower faint yellow and green. Again and again we are told
that our flowers, numerous as they are, seldom light up the sombre
greens of the forest. This complaint may be pushed much too far. It
is true that pale flowers are found in the islands belonging to
families which in other countries have brightly coloured members.
Though, for instance, three or four of our orchids are beautiful, and
one falls in a cascade of sweet-scented blooms, most of the species
are disappointing. But the array of our more brilliant flowers is very
far from contemptible. Over and above the gorgeous ratas and their
spray-sprinkled cousins are to be reckoned the golden-and-russet
kowhai, the crimson parrot’s-beak, veronicas wine-hued or purple,
the red mistletoe, the yellow tarata, and the rosy variety of the
manuka. The stalks of the flax-lily make a brave show of red and
yellow. The centre of the mountain-lily’s cup is shining gold. And
when speaking of colour we may fairly take count of the golden glint
or pinkish tinge of the toé-toé plumes, the lilac hue of the palm-
flower, the orange-coloured fruit of the karaka, and the purples of
the tutu and wineberry. Nor do flowers lack beauty because they are
white,—witness the ribbon-wood loaded with masses of blooms, fine
as those of the double cherry, and honey-scented to boot; witness
the tawari, the hinau, the rangiora, the daisy-tree, the whau, and
half a score more. For myself, I would not change the purity of our
starry clematis for the most splendid parasite of the Tropics.
Certainly the pallid-greenish and chocolate hues of some of our
flowers are strange; they seem tinged with moonlight and meant for
the night hours, and in the dusky jungle carry away one’s thoughts
to “Rappaccini’s Daughter” and “Les Fleurs du Mal.”
For a bit of New Zealand colour you may turn to Colenso’s
description of a certain morning in early October when he found
himself on a high hill-top in face of Mount Ruapehu. Snow had fallen
in the night and the volcano was mantled heavily therewith. The
forest and native village on the hill on which Colenso stood were
sprinkled with white, and, though the rising sun was shining brightly,
a few big flakes continued to flutter down. Outside the village a
grove of kowhai was covered with golden-and-russet blossoms, all
the more noticeable because the young leaves were only on the way.
Suddenly from the evergreen forest a flock of kakas descended on
the kowhais, chattering hoarsely. The great parrots, walking out on
the underside of the boughs to the very end of the branches, began
to tear open the flowers, piercing them at the side of their base and
licking out the honey with their brush-tipped tongues. Brown-
skinned Maori boys climbing the trees brought to the naturalist
specimens of the blossoms thus opened by the big beaks. The
combination of the golden-brown flowers and green forest; the
rough-voiced parrots, olive-brown and splashed with red, swaying on
the slender branch-tips; and the sunlight gleaming on the white
snow, made, with the towering volcano in the background, a picture
as brilliant as curious.
Whatever the dim flowers, purple fruit, and glossy leaves of many
of our plants might lead the imaginative to expect, the number that
are poisonous is very small. Only two examples are conspicuous, and
but one does any damage to speak of. Of the noxious pair the
karaka, a handsome shrub, is a favourite garden plant, thanks to its
large polished leaves and the deep orange colour of its fruit. It has
been a favourite, too, with the Maori from time immemorial. They
plant it near their villages, and they claim to have brought it in their
canoes from Polynesia. Botanists shake their heads over this
assertion, however, the explanation of which is somewhat similar to
a famous statement by a certain undergraduate on the crux of the
Baconian controversy. “The plays of Shakespeare,” said this young
gentleman, “were not written by him, but by another fellow of the
same name.” It seems that there is a Polynesian karaka in the
islands where the Maori once dwelt, but that it is no relation of the
New Zealand shrub. The affection of the Maori for the latter was
based on something more practical than an ancestral association.
They were extremely fond of the kernel of its fruit. When raw, this is
exceedingly bitter and disagreeable—fortunately so, for it contains
then a powerful poison. Somehow the Maori discovered that by long
baking or persistent steaming the kernels could be freed from this,
and they used to subject them to the process in a most patient and
elaborate fashion. Now and then some unlucky person—usually a
child—would chew a raw kernel and then the result was
extraordinary. The poison distorted the limbs and then left them
quite rigid, in unnatural postures. To avoid this the Maori would lash
the arms and legs of the unfortunate sufferer in a natural position,
and then bury him up to his shoulders in earth. Colenso once saw a
case in which this strong step had not been taken, or had failed. At
any rate the victim of karaka poison, a well-grown boy, was lying
with limbs stiff and immovable, one arm thrust out in front, one leg
twisted backwards; he could neither feed himself nor beat off the
swarm of sandflies that were pestering him. White children must be
more cautious than the Maori, for though the karaka shines in half
the gardens of the North Island, one never hears of any harm
coming from it. The other plant with noxious properties is the tutu,
and this in times past did much damage among live-stock, sheep
especially. Much smaller than the karaka, it is still an attractive-
looking bush, with soft leaves and purple-black clusters of berries.
Both berries and shoots contain a poison, powerful enough to
interest chemists as well as botanists. Sheep which eat greedily of it,
especially when tired and fasting after a journey, may die in a few
hours. It kills horned cattle also, though horses do not seem to
suffer from it. Its chief recorded achievement was to cause the
death of a circus elephant many years ago, a result which followed
in a few hours after a hearty meal upon a mixture of tutu and other
vegetation. So powerful is the poison that a chemist who handles
the shoots of the plant for an hour or two with his fingers will suffer
nausea, pain, and a burning sensation of the skin. An extremely
minute internal dose makes the nausea very violent indeed. Of
course, so dangerous a plant does not get much quarter from the
settlers, and for this and other reasons the losses caused by tutu
among our flocks and herds are far less than was the case forty or
fifty years ago. Strangely enough the Maoris could make a wine from
the juice of the berries, which was said to be harmless and
palatable, though I venture to doubt it. White men are said to have
tried the liquor, though I have never met any of these daring
drinkers. Though the most dangerous plant in the islands, it does
not seem to have caused any recorded death among white people
for more than forty years.
 ON THE PELORUS RIVER

Our flora has oddities as well as beauties. Some of its best-known

members belong to the lily tribe. Several of these are as different
from each other and as unlike the ordinary man’s notion of a lily as
could well be. One of the commonest is a lily like a palm-tree, and
another equally abundant is a lily like a tall flax. A third is a tree-
dweller, a luxuriant mass of drooping blades, resembling sword-
grass. A fourth is a black-stemmed wild vine, a coiling and twining
parasite of the forest, familiarly named supplejack, which resembles
nothing so much as a family of black snakes climbing about playfully
in the foliage. Another, even more troublesome creeper, is no lily but
a handsome bramble, known as the bush-lawyer, equipped with
ingenious hooks of a most dilatory kind. When among trees, the
lawyer sticks his claws into the nearest bark and mounts boldly aloft;
but when growing in an open glade, he collapses into a sort of
huddled bush, and cannot even propagate his species, though, oddly
enough, in such cases, he grows hooks even more abundantly than
when climbing.
Members of very different families, the pen-wiper plant and the
vegetable sheep are excellently described by their names. That is
more than can be said for many of our forest trees. One of these,
the aké, has leaves so viscous that in sandy or dusty spots these
become too thickly coated with dirt to allow the tree to grow to any
size. As a variation the para-para tree has normal leaves, but the
skin of its fruit is so sticky that not only insects but small birds have
been found glued thereto. A rather common trick of our trees is to
change the form of their leaves as they grow old. The slim, straight
lance-wood, for instance, will for many years be clothed with long,
narrow, leathery-looking leaves, armed with hooks, growing from the
stem and pointing stiffly downwards. So long, narrow, and rigid are
they that the whole plant stands like an inverted umbrella stripped
of its covering. Later in life the leaves lose both their hooks and their
odd shape, and the lance-wood ceases to look like a survival from
the days of the pterodactyl. At no time can it look much stranger
than two species of dracophyllum, the nei-nei and the grass-tree.
Save for the extremities, the limbs of these are naked. They reserve
their energies for tufts at the tips. In one species these are like long
wisps of grass; in the other they curve back like a pine-apple’s, and
from among them springs a large red flower having the shape of a
toy tree. Even the nei-nei is eclipsed by the tanekaha, or celery pine,
which contrives to be a very handsome tree without bearing any
leaves whatever; their place is taken by branchlets, thickened and
fan-shaped. The raukawa has leaves scented so sweetly that the
Maori women used to rub their skins with them as a perfume.
Another more eccentric plant is scentless by day, but smells
agreeably at night-time. Indeed, both by day and night the air of the
forest is pleasant to the nostrils. A disagreeable exception among
our plants is the coprosma, emphatically called fœtidissima,
concerning which bushmen, entangled in its thickets, have used
language which might turn bullock-drivers green with envy.
 AUCKLAND

The navigators who discovered or traded with our islands while

they were still a No Man’s Land have recorded their admiration of
the timber of our forests. The tall sticks of kauri and kahikatea, with
their scores of feet of clean straight wood, roused the sailors’
enthusiasm. It seemed to them that they had chanced upon the
finest spars in the world. And for two generations after Captain
Cook, trees picked out in the Auckland bush, and roughly trimmed
there, were carried across on the decks of trading schooners to
Sydney, and there used by Australian shipbuilders. In the year 1819
the British Government sent a store-ship, the Dromedary, to the Bay
of Islands for a cargo of kauri spars. They were to be suitable for
top-masts, so to be from seventy-four to eighty-four feet long and
from twenty-one to twenty-three inches thick. After much chaffering
with the native chiefs the spars were cut and shipped, and we owe
to the expedition an interesting book by an officer on board the
Dromedary. Our export of timber has always been mainly from
Auckland, and for many years has been chiefly of kauri logs or sawn
timber. There has been some export of white pine to Australia for
making butter-boxes; but the kauri has been the mainstay of the
timber trade oversea. Other woods are cut and sawn in large
quantities, but the timber is consumed within the colony. How large
the consumption is may be seen from the number of saw-mills at
work—411—and their annual output, which was 432,000,000
superficial feet last year. Add to this a considerable amount cut for
firewood, fences, and rough carpentering, which does not pass
through the mills. And then, great as is the total quantity made use
of, the amount destroyed and wasted is also great. Accidental fires,
sometimes caused by gross carelessness, ravage thousands of acres.
“A swagger will burn down a forest to light his pipe,” said Sir Julius
Vogel, and the epigram was doubtless true of some of the swag-
carrying tribe. But the average swagger is a decent enough labourer
on the march in search of work, and not to be classed with the
irreclaimable vagrant called tramp in Britain. In any case the
swagger was never the sole or main offender where forest fires were
concerned. It would be correct to say that gum-diggers sometimes
burn down a forest in trying to clear an acre of scrub. But bush fires
start up from twenty different causes. Sparks from a saw-mill often
light up a blaze which may end in consuming the mill and its
surroundings. I have heard of a dogmatic settler who was so positive
that his grass would not burn that he threw a lighted match into a
tuft of it by way of demonstration. A puff of wind found the little
flame, and before it was extinguished it had consumed four hundred
acres of yellow but valuable pasture.
And then there is the great area deliberately cut and burned to
make way for grass. Here the defender of tree-life is faced with a
more difficult problem. The men who are doing the melancholy work
of destruction are doing also the work of colonisation. As a class
they are, perhaps, the most interesting and deserving in colonial life.
They are acting lawfully and in good faith. Yet the result is a hewing
down and sweeping away of beauty, compared with which the
conquests of the Goths and Vandals were conservative processes.
For those noted invaders did not level Rome or Carthage to the
ground: they left classic architecture standing. To the lover of
beautiful Nature the work of our race in New Zealand seems more
akin to that of the Seljuk Turks in Asia Minor, when they swept away
population, buildings and agriculture, and Byzantine city and rural
life together, in order to turn whole provinces into pasture for their
sheep. Not that my countrymen are more blind to beauty than other
colonists from Europe. It is mere accident which has laid upon them
the burden of having ruined more natural beauty in the last half-
century than have other pioneers. The result is none the less
saddening. When the first white settlers landed, the islands were
supposed still to contain some thirty million acres of forest. The
Maori had done a share of destruction by reckless or accidental
burning. Other causes, perhaps, had helped to devastate such tracts
as the Canterbury plains and the kauri gum-fields. But enough, and
more than enough, was left; indeed the bush seemed the chief
barrier to rapid settlement. The havoc wrought by careless savages
was a trifle compared with the wholesale destruction brought about
by our utilising of the forests and the soil. Quod non fecerunt Barbari
fecere Barberini. To-day we are told that the timber still standing
cannot last our saw-mills more than two generations, and that a
supply which was estimated at forty-three thousand million feet in
1905 had shrunk to thirty-six thousand million feet in 1907. The
acreage of our forests must be nearer fifteen than twenty millions
now. Some of this, covering, as it does, good alluvial soil, must go;
but I am far from being alone in believing that four-fifths of it should
be conserved, and that where timber is cut the same precautions
should be insisted on as in Germany, France, India, and some
intelligent portions of North America. Within the last two years great
floods in Auckland and Hawke’s Bay, and, farther south, two
summers hot and dry beyond precedent, seem to point the moral
and strengthen the case for making a courageous stand on behalf of
the moiety we have left of the woods that our fathers thought
illimitable.
 MOUNT EGMONT

Something has already been done. Forty years ago Thomas Potts,
naturalist and politician, raised his voice in the parliamentary
wilderness; and in the next decade a Premier, Sir Julius Vogel, came
forward with an official scheme of conservation which would have
been invaluable had he pressed it home. Since then enlightened
officials, like the late Surveyor-General, Mr. Percy Smith, have done
what they could. From time to time reserves have been made which,
all too small as they are, now protect some millions of acres. In the
rainier districts most of this is not in great danger from chance fires.
Nor is it always and everywhere true that the forest when burned
does not grow again. It can and will do so, if cattle and goats are
kept out of it. The lavish beauty of the primeval forest may not
return, but that is another matter. The cry that Government
reservation only saves trees from the axe to keep them for the fire
may be dismissed as a counsel of despair, or—sometimes—as
inspired by the saw-miller and land-grabber. Of late years, too, both
Government and public are waking up to the wisdom of preserving
noted and beautiful scenes. Many years ago the settlers of Taranaki
set an example by reserving the upper and middle slopes of their
Fusiyama, Mount Egmont. Long stretches of the draped cliffs of
Wanganui River have been made as safe as law can make them,
though some still remain in danger, and I am told that at
Taumaranui, on the upper river, the hum of the saw-mills is ever in
your ears. Societies for preserving scenery are at work elsewhere,
and the Parliament has passed an Act and established a Board for
the purpose of making scenic reserves. Twenty-five thousand acres
have lately been set aside on the Board’s advice, and the area will, I
assume, be added to yearly.
Now and again, in dry, windy summers, the forest turns upon its
destroyers and takes revenge. Dying, it involves their works and
possessions in its own fiery death. A bush-fire is a fine sight when
seen on windy nights, burning whole hill-sides, crawling slowly to
windward, or rushing with the wind in leaping tongues and flakes
that fly above the tree-tops. The roar, as of a mighty gale, the
spouting and whirling of golden sparks, the hissing of sap and resin,
and the glowing heat that may be felt a mile away, join grandly in
furious energy. Nothing can be finer than the spectacle, just as
nothing can be more dreary than the resulting ruin. A piece of bush
accidentally burned has no touch of dignity in its wreck. It becomes
merely an ugly and hateful jumble, begrimed, untidy, and
unserviceable. A tract that has been cut down and fired deliberately
is in a better case. Something more like a clean sweep has been
made, and the young grass sprouting up gives promise of a better
day. But bush through which fire has run too quickly is often spoiled
as forest, without becoming of use to the farmer. The best that can
be done when trees are thus scorched is for the saw-miller to pick
out the larger timber and separate with his machinery the sound
inside from the burned envelope. This he does skilfully enough, and
much good wood—especially kauri—is thus saved. The simple-
minded settler when selling scorched timber sometimes tries to
charge for sound and injured portions alike; but the average saw-
miller is a man of experience.

TAREI-PO-KIORE

As I have said, fire sometimes sweeps down upon the forest’s

enemies and carries all before it: saw-mills and their out-buildings
are made into bonfires, and the stacks of sawn planks and litter of
chips and sawdust help the blaze. The owner and his men are lucky
if they save more than their portable belongings. Nor does the fire
stop there. After making a mouthful of mills and woodcutters’ huts,
it may set out for some small township not yet clear of stumps, dead
trunks, and inflammable trash. All depends upon the wind. If the
flames are being borne along upon the wings of a strong north-west
wind—the “regular howling nor’-wester” of up-country vernacular—
very little can be done except to take to flight, driving live-stock, and
taking such furniture as can be piled on carts and driven away.
Fences, house, machinery, garden, and miles of grass may be swept
away in a few hours, the labour of half a lifetime may be consumed,
and the burnt-out settler may be thankful if the Government comes
to his aid with a loan to enable him to buy grass seed to scatter on
his blackened acres after the long-desired rains have come.
In an exceptionally dry summer—such an extraordinary season as
came in January and February of this year—the fire goes to work on
a grand scale. In a tract a hundred miles long, thirty or forty
outbreaks may be reported within a week. Settlers looking out from
their homesteads may see smoke and glowing skies in half-a-dozen
directions at once. Now the blaze may approach from this direction,
now from that, just as the wind freshens or shifts. Sheep are
mustered, and, if possible, driven away. Threatened householders
send their furniture away, or dig holes in the ground and bury it.
When the danger comes too suddenly to give time for anything
more, goods are hastily piled on some bare patch and covered with
wet blankets. I have read of a prudent settler who had prepared for
these risks of fire by excavating a cave almost large enough to
house a band of prophets. After three years the fire came his way,
and he duly stored away his possessions in the repository. But just
as rain does not fall when you take out a large umbrella, so our
provident friend found that the fire would not touch his house. He
lost nothing but a shed.
 MORNING ON THE WANGANUI RIVER

If there appears any fair chance of beating back the flames, the
men join together, form a line, and give battle. They do not lightly
surrender the fruits of years of toil, but will fight rolling smoke, flying
sparks, and even scorching flame, hour after hour. Strips of grass
are burned off in advance, and dead timber blown up with dynamite.
Buckets of water are passed from hand to hand, or the flames are
beaten out with sacks or blankets. Seen at night on a burning hill-
side, the row of masculine fighting figures stands out jet-black
against the red glow, and the wild attitudes and desperate exertions
are a study for an artist. Among the men, boys work gleefully; there
is no school for them when a fire has to be beaten. Very young
children suffer greatly from the smoke with which the air they
breathe is laden, perhaps for days together. Even a Londoner would
find its volumes trying. Now and again a bushman in the thick of the
fight reels half-suffocated, or falls fainting and has to be carried
away. But his companions work on; and grass-fires are often
stopped and standing crops saved. But fire running through thick
bush is a more formidable affair. The heat is terrific, the very soil
seems afire; and indeed the flames, after devouring trunks and
branches, will work down into the roots and consume them for many
feet. Sparks and tongues of flame shoot across roads and streams
and start a blaze on the farther side. Messengers riding for help, or
settlers trying to reach their families, have often to run the gauntlet
perilously on tracks which the fire has reached or is crossing. They
gallop through when they can, sometimes with hair and beard
singed and clothes smelling of the fire. Men, however, very seldom
lose their lives. For one who dies by fire in the bush, fifty are killed
by falling timber in the course of tree-felling. Sheep have
occasionally to be left to their fate, and are roasted, or escape with
wool half-burnt. Wild pigs save themselves; but many native birds
perish with their trees, and the trout in the smaller streams die in
hundreds.
Many stories are told of these bush fires, and of the perils, panics,
or displays of courage they have occasioned. Let me repeat one. In
a certain “bush township,” or small settlement in the forest, lived a
clergyman, who, in addition to working hard among the settlers in a
parish half as large as an English county, was a reader of books. He
was, I think, a bachelor, and I can well believe that his books were
to him something not far removed from wife and children. The life of
a parson in the bush certainly deserves some consolations in
addition to those of religion. Well, a certain devastating fire took a
turn towards the township in which a wooden roof sheltered our
parson and his beloved volumes. Some householders were able to
drive off with their goods; others stood their ground. The minister,
after some reflection, carried his books out of doors, took a spade
and began to dig a hole in the earth, meaning to bury them therein.
Just as the interment was beginning, a neighbour rode up with the
news that the house of a widow woman, not far away, had caught
fire and that friends were trying to extinguish the burning or at least
save her goods. Whether the book-lover gave “a splendid groan” I
do not know; but leaving his treasures, off he ran, and was soon
among the busiest of the little salvage corps, hauling and
shouldering like a man. When all was done that could be done he
hastened back, blackened and perspiring, to his own dwelling. Alas!
the fire had outflanked him. Sparks and burning flakes had dropped
upon his books and the little collection was a blazing pile. I have
forgotten the parson’s name and do not know what became of him.
But if any man deserved, in later life, a fine library at the hands of
the Fates, he did. I hope that he has one, and that it includes a copy
of Mr. Blades’s entertaining treatise on the Enemies of Books. With
what gusto he must read chapter i., the title of which is “Fire.”

ON THE UPPER WANGANUI

Just as a burning forest is a magnificent scene with a dismal

sequel, so the saw-miller’s industry, though it finds a paradise and
leaves a rubbish-yard, is, while it goes on, a picturesque business.