Mystery of the White Indians

The Mystery of the White Indians

A Second Article, Giving the Scientific Explanations That Have Been Suggested to Account for This Tribe of Blond Savages in Eastern Panama [First Article]

By Richard O. Marsh

From The World's Work, April 1925, Vol. XLIX, No. 6. Digitized March 2014 by Doug Frizzle

Golden Yellow Hair and Hazel Eyes

“A canoe came toward us, and in the bow stood a naked savage with a white body, whose yellow hair, falling to his shoulders, was held in order by a gold chaplet two inches wide encircling his head at the brow. He was of medium height, but magnificently developed about the chest and arms; and he stood as erect as a king. Behind him were a girl of ten and a boy of four, and in the stern his wife wielded a steering paddle. Not one of the four gave a start when they came suddenly upon us, and the man and woman did not vary a heart-beat in the rhythm of their strokes as they plied the canoe to pass directly by us. The man eyed us with a truly regal pride and disdain, and passed us by without troubling to turn his head to see whether or not we intended to follow. His whole manner said more plainly than words: ‘I am king here; what are you doing in my domain?’ ”

In his first article, which was published in the World’s Work last month, Mr. Marsh told of the discovery of this tribe of White Indians. His present article provides a more complete account of their physical and mental peculiarities and their significance to the science of human origins.

 

WHEN I brought my three specimen White Indians to the United States, they interested many scientists in the government service at Washington and leading scientists elsewhere, because they led to offer a hope of solving several kinds of knotty problems.

First is the fascinating mystery of the ancient civilizations of the Western Hemisphere that disappeared under the impact with Europeans following the discovery of America by Columbus. Cortez found Mexico flourishing under Montezuma, with a highly organized political life, well-developed arts in precious stones and metals and in architecture, a literature of historical records as advanced as that of the ancient Babylonians and Assyrians, and an astronomical science comparable with that of the ancient Egyptians. Pizarro found the Incas of Peru enjoying an equally high civilization, with the additional blessing of a science of medicine as highly developed as any in Europe and in many respects superior for the Incas had originated the use of quinine, a drug of more general value than any in the Caucasian pharmacopoeia.

Within a century after Columbus’s arrival, these great civilizations had crumbled into dust. The Spaniards destroyed the political unity of these countries, killed or dispersed the men of art and learning, and enslaved the peoples in a servitude that made education impossible. The palaces and monuments fell into decay, and in modern times it is doubtful if a score of men exist who could, if they would, decipher the hieroglyphics left by the Mayas of Central America, for example, which by their variety and quantity undoubtedly hold the key to much lost history and science.

The White Indians may include some of these surviving repositories of the wisdom of the ancients, for the traditions of most of the brown Indian tribes on both continents contain the story of a miraculous white prophet who visited their ancestors, bringing with him knowledge of the arts and sciences, and who gave their people stable and wise government and all they know about nature’s laws. Cortez found White Indians in Mexico City, worshipped as superior beings. The Incas were doubtless partly of white blood. The Mayas may have been—it seems likely from the evidence. Could my White Indians belong to one of these favored tribes?

 

NOT OF MONGOLIAN ORIGIN

THE first step toward finding out was, naturally, to study the language. Dr. John P. Harrington, ethnologist of the Smithsonian Institution, and Dr. Paul Vogenitz, translator and language expert of the Post Office Department, undertook this task. The San Blas Indian interpreter, whom I brought also, was the first medium of communication. In a few weeks, the scientists had learned the language themselves. It early appeared that the language was phenomenal, because it was utterly unlike any other Indian tongue in the Western Hemisphere. All other Indians, whatever their dialect, use an agglutinative speech that suggests their Mongolian origin. But the San Blas language—the White Indians and the San Blas use the same—is not Mongolian in structure. On the contrary, it is pure Aryan, and most closely resembles Sanskrit in its syntax.

Now Sanskrit, of course, is the mother of the Aryan tongues, including not only the Greek and Latin and their modern descendent languages such as French and Italian, but also the speech of the prehistoric tribes of northern Europe, from which the Germanic and Scandinavian languages derive. The English language, with its Saxon base and its Norman and Romance superstructure, is, therefore, doubly descended from the Sanskrit. The White Indian tongue is thus more nearly related to the speech of Topeka, Kansas, than it is to the speech of aboriginal Indians who have lived for thousands of years as their neighbors in the Panamanian jungle.

MELODIOUS, NOT GUTTURAL

THE White Indians call their language Tule. It is described by Dr. Harrington as one of the most melodious and smooth sounding tongues in the world. This quality arises chiefly from the fact that no two consonants ever come together in Tule: the words are made up of an alternating flow of consonant and vowel, so that no harsh or guttural or staccato effects mar its melodious beauty. Besides the five vowel sounds and the two semi-vowels W and Y, the language contains only eleven consonant sounds, K, T, Ch, Sh, Ts, S, L, M, N, R, and P, making an alphabet of only eighteen characters in all.

Practically all other Indian languages are guttural, or “agglutinative,” and are consequently harsh by comparison. The Polynesian languages have “choky” or throaty sounds, that make them difficult for a Caucasian to speak. But Tule offers no such difficulties. It is, indeed, probably the easiest of all languages for a Caucasian to learn. The only “tricky” thing about it is this: every sound has two forms, one short and one long. In this way, the number of sounds available for the construction of words is doubled. This device, which is similar to one employed in Finnish, likewise provides the language with sufficient flexibility to furnish the necessary number of roots and affixes to give a rich vocabulary.

The other Indian tongues, of the agglutinative type, build complex words by putting together separate roots and word-elements. The Tule tongue proceeds quite differently: it follows the habit of other analytical languages and invents a distinct new word to express each new idea or to describe each new object.

Perhaps the most curious fact about Tule is that the men and women do not pronounce the language alike. The boys are taught a masculine pronunciation of each word, whereas the girls learn what the scientists have termed a “feminine lisp” for the same word. Thus, where Olo and Chepu, the boys under examination, use the sound Ch, Margarita, the girl, uses Ts. She uses the S sound where they use the masculine Sh, and Y and L where they use K and R. They describe the chieftain as “sakla,” while Margarita calls the word “sayla.” The boys say “chapu” when they mean “white." but Margarita says “tseppi.”

But an even more astonishing development awaited the scientists as they got deeper into the language. At least 2 dozen words turned up in the White Indian vocabulary that are identical in pronunciation and meaning with words that were used by the Norsemen at the time of the Battle of Hastings. Eleventh-century Norwegian in Central America prior to Columbus! The following is a list of these and other surprising words in the San Blas language:

MEANING                 TULE                                            NORSE

IN ENGLISH             WORD                                          WORD

Work                           Arbaedi        Norwegian               Arbeide

Both                            Bogwá          "                                Baade

Yes                              Eye               Anglo-Saxon            Yea

                                    (Ayah)

Music                          Kala              Norwegian               Kole-Kalla

Foot                             Naga             Russian                     Noga

To Throw                    Mette            "                                Metats

Colored                       Parbatti         Indo-Germanic         Parbh

Sack                            Sagi              Norwegian               Saek

Tree                             Sappi            "                                Sappe

To Say                         Soge             German- Icelandic   Sagen (Saga)

Crab                            Suga             Norwegian               Suge

Boat (Hull)                  Ulu               Anglo-Saxon            Hulu

How did the Norse get into the San Blas vocabulary? These words “belong” in these Indians’ language—they are not borrowed nor out of place. They are not modern additions caused by contact with white men, for these Indians, alone all the American tribes, have been able until now to resist the invasions of outsiders and have fiercely maintained the integrity of their race and institutions. Two or three working hypotheses have been advanced to explain the phenomenon.

First of all, it may be that the White Indians are descendants of Norsemen. It is fairly certain that Norse navigators crossed the Atlantic from Iceland to Greenland, and some scientists estimate that they led a migration of as many as one hundred thousand Scandinavians, who settled on the mainland of America, perhaps as much as a thousand years before Columbus. It may ultimately be established that some of these Norse settlers migrated westward along the northern coast of America and became the ancestors of the Blond Eskimos discovered a few ago by Vilhjálmur Stefansson. Others may have followed the Atlantic coastline southward, founding the Mayan civilization of Yucatan (from which that of Mexico was probably derived) and, continuing across the Isthmus of Panama, gone on down the Andes and founded the Incan civilization of Peru.

Remnants of the stragglers from such a migration may be represented by the White Indians, who have lived for centuries in the mountains adjoining the Atlantic shore of the Isthmus, where they would naturally be if they had dropped out of the southward march. The affinity of their language, in syntax and vocabulary, with the Norse language, is one support to this theory. Another support is their assertion (yet to be verified by further explorations that are now in contemplation) that the untouched wilderness of inner Darien contains the ruins of extensive stone cities built by their ancestors and containing hieroglyphic records of their history. If this assertion be true (and personally l have no doubt of it), it may be that among the inhabitants of that region are White Indians who have preserved the knowledge necessary to read these inscriptions. The importance of such a discovery could hardly be overestimated, as it would rival in potential scientific value the rich Mayan remains, which still await anything like complete translation, though enough has been deciphered to assure the experts in that field that these inscriptions contain priceless records of the history and arts of early America.

There is another theory of the origin of the White Indians that holds no less fascinating possibilities before the student of mankind. This theory is that the White Indians are biological “mutations” from the original brown type with which the human race began. To make clear just what this means and how important it may be to science, it is necessary to make a very brief excursion into biology.

Scientists are now pretty well agreed that Darwin’s theory of “the survival of the fittest” describes, not nature’s means for evolving new and higher forms of life, but nature’s sieve, so to speak, to strain out, from new and higher forms, those that can stand the competitive struggle of life. Since Darwin’s day, science has discovered what is probably nature’s method of creating new forms. This method is called “mutation,” and the word describes a phenomenon, frequently observed amongst plants and occasionally in the animal kingdom, whereby an individual of a fixed species suddenly throws off descendants that are strikingly different from the parent and which thereafter “breed true” to their own new characteristics, instead of following the characteristics of their ancestors. Numerous such mutations among garden plants have been observed in the last fifty years, and their authenticity is beyond question. Once these “mutants” appear, the law of survival operates upon them, and only those new forms survive that are adapted to withstand the hardships of the life into which they have been so suddenly and unexpectedly projected.

EMERGENCE OF THE WHITE MAN

MANY scientists believe that the white race is such a mutation from the aboriginal brown species of homo sapiens. Here is where the second theory about the White Indians enters the field of scientific interest. Have we at last an opportunity to see, repeated before our own eyes, the emergence of white men as biological “sports” from a fundamental brown race, the San Blas Indians? Heretofore it has been assumed that the original mutation of this sort transpired in prehistoric times and might never be repeated. But of course what happened once could happen again—as, indeed, in botany it has been known to happen independently in quite remotely separated parts of the world, and more than twice at that. If the San Blas Indians are a segment of the brown race nearing the end of a “life cycle of a species,” it is scientifically quite tenable to believe that they may be throwing off mutated forms, and that the White Indians are the mutants.

Color is lent to this theory by the identity of language and institutions of the two tribes, and their similarity in high intellectual powers by comparison all of their neighbors. If this theory should prove to be correct, it would be of epochal importance to science, for it would demonstrate, in the instance most convincing to the human mind, the truth of evolution as a principle of universal application and of current, continuing force. Scientists, of course, have no doubt upon this point now; but the lay mind has an instinctive aversion to accepting it as applied to the human race. But if cases of its truth in this highest field can be demonstrated before our own eyes, it should convince even the Doubting Thomases.

A WHOLE RACE OF ALBINOES?

THE third theory concerning origin of the White Indians is startling, but it is by no means without great scientific value and interest. This theory holds that they are albinoes. The most striking support of this theory lies in a very curious trait that is manifested by albinoes of other races and is common to them all. This trait is a habit of rolling the eyes and is probably associated with nervous impulses set up in the body of the albino by reasons of the irritation caused to the eyes by the actinic rays which, in normally pigmented eyes, are toned down or strained out before they touch the optic nerves. The White Indians have this trait of rolling the eyes.

On the other hand, they have pigment in the retina and cornea, as most albinoes have not. Instead of the characteristic pink eyes of the usual albino, they have hazel eyes, that is to say, blue pigmentation overlaid with patches of brown. Nevertheless, Dr. James B. Davenport, who is one of the great biologists of our time, believes that the White Indians are albinoes. He finds them unique, however, in their numbers. Nowhere else, he says, has so high a percentage of a population been albino—in this case so numerous as to amount to a quasi-race. And if, as he believes, they are an albino side-line of the San Blas Indians, they indicate an extraordinarily interesting field of scientific study of that tribe itself, offering the most favorable opportunity to learn more about a phenomenon of biology that is extremely helpful to that science. Controlled study of albinism in rats and mice and rabbits has been one of the most useful instruments that science has had in working out the laws of heredity, for this characteristic lends itself to positive experimentation capable of easy mathematical analysis. Of how much greater interest and value would it be to follow the corresponding results working out among human beings in the normal course of everyday living.

A fourth explanation of the possible cause of the white color of these Indians been advanced by Major Cuthbert Christy, of England, a specialist in tropical diseases, who thinks it may arise from a pathological physiologic condition that prevents the normal processes of pigmentation from taking place within their bodies.

These four theories cover what seem to be all the possible solutions to the puzzle. Of course I make no pretensions to scientific knowledge, and would not expect my opinion to weigh with those of any of the men quoted above; but speaking purely as a layman whose only qualifications are many years of close contact with aboriginal peoples in many parts of the world, I have from the first felt strongly that the true explanation lies either in heredity from ancient whites who once settled in America, or in biological mutation of white offspring from brown parents. Whatever the final conclusion of the scientists may be, I shall feel that my work in tracing these people to their home land and bringing them to the attention of the world has been worthwhile, especially when a scientist of such distinction as Dr. Ales Hrdlicka says that “the phenomenon deserves a thorough investigation, and Mr. Marsh deserves the thanks of American and British anthropologists for having brought to their attention a subject of considerable scientific interest and importance.”

One curious misapprehension about the San Blas Indians early gained newspaper currency. Soon after I brought the three White children and the five brown San Blas to America, some of the anthropologists who examined them noticed that the children’s heads were larger and of a  different shape from those of the dark adults. The anthropologists asked the Indians a question which the Indians misunderstood, and before the misunderstanding was cleared up and the correct answer given the story appeared in the papers that the brown San Blas Indians massage their children’s heads in infancy, with the result that they are relatively dwarfed and square when grown. A statement which I then gave to the papers corrects this misapprehension. In it I said:

(1)           The difference in size and shape between the skulls of the blond Indians and those of the standard San Blas has been attributed to artificial deformation of those of the dark infants, while those of the white infants are natural. This is wholly untrue. The San Blas Indians do not massage nor in any way alter the heads of their children. The rounder, broader, and higher crania of the whites cannot be explained in that way.

(2)           The timid demeanor of the children and the behavior of their eyes when under inspection by strangers is misleading. They are not mentally deficient or abnormal in any way. On the contrary, they are unusually alert and keen, with excellent memory. They are rapidly learning English.

(3)           The blond Indians do not spring from the normal San Blas Indians but from the larger and more robust type, which occupy the hills back from the coast.

To make clearer the full force of this statement, I should perhaps repeat the exact facts about the eight Indians I brought to America. Two were White Indian boys, aged ten and fourteen years. The other White Indian was Margarita, a girl of fourteen. Two of the five brown San Blas were Margarita's father and mother. This brown mother's mother (that is, Margarita’s maternal grandmother) was a White Indian. Margarita is one of seven children of the same parents, of whom five were white and two were dark—suggesting at once to biologists that here was a typical example of Mendelian inheritance, in which the “recessive” whiteness disappeared in Margarita’s mother but reappeared in five of her children.

Margarita and her family are representatives of a type of larger frame, larger heads, and more vigorous bodies than are characteristic of the ordinary brown San Blas. I feel sure that the blond strain will be found limited to this type, which lives inland from the San Blas coast. These characteristics all relate the White Indians to the Caucasian type, and fit perfectly into the logic of the theory that they are examples of the mutation process by which the Caucasian gained his greater stature and bigger brain than his brown progenitors possessed. The larger brain is not merely a matter of physical bulk; it is the source of higher intellectual powers as well.

The superior intelligence of these Indians over their neighbors, their more complex and flexible language, their fuller vocabulary, their more humane social customs, their unique and very interesting music, their strict moral code, their well-developed system of law, and their highly organized structure of government, which is both feudal, federal, and constitutional, all evidence their exceptional intellectual capacity. These advanced powers and achievements are characteristic of the evolutionary progress of man.

If scientists finally agree that the White Indians are true examples of the process of mutation, we shall be able not only to see that biological evolution at work, but also to study the origins of our own civilization in the lives of people of our own day.

° ° °

As this article goes to press, an interesting cable has come from Mr. Marsh, who is now in Darien on his second expedition. His cable is dated at Colon, and says in part: “Dr. Harris now on San Blas coast, going into interior with us. Has already studied many White Indians. Harris says positively not albinoes. Offers two theories: first, most probable, Darien Indians formerly extensively mixed with unknown prehistoric white race; second, Darien Indians abnormally susceptible to frequent mutation from brown to white.” As Dr. Reginald Harris, referred to in this cable, is the director of the Long Island Biological Association at Cold Spring Harbor, New York, and a biologist of high repute, his opinion is an interesting and important contribution to the discussion of the origin of the White Indians.

Text from the illustrations:

ARTS OF THE SAN BLAS INDIANS The woman is mending a fish trap and the man at the water’s edge is working on his nets.

ORIGINS OF THE WHITE INDIANS From such mothers as these brown San Blas Indians the larger, White Indians may be derived. The possible explanations are discussed in the accompanying text.

A SAN BLAS VILLAGE The warlike inhabitants of the coast have been able to defend it against inroads by outsiders, and have provided a screen for the White Indians who live in the interior and were unknown till the Marsh expedition succeeded in placating the brown tribes.

SAN BLAS MOTHER AND CHILD

OLD AND NEW STYLES The girl at the right is clad in the conservative native costume of the San Blas women. The other girl wears the skirt that has come in with modern contacts with the world. The blouses are of native weave, while the skirt is made of cloth bought from the traders. The leg and arm bands and the arm rings are purely feminine adornments.

GEOMETRY IN VILLAGE PLANNING Both the San Blas and the White Indians lay out their villages upon a geometrical plan, evidencing a higher intelligence and civilization than other Indians, who build casually according to “the lay of the land.”

ALL STAGES OF SAN BLAS DRESS The woman’s skirt and the men’s hats and shirts are modern innovations. The traditional custom of San Blas attire is expressed in the old nursery rhyme, “Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, and let the little colt go bare.”

A "COMMUNITY HOUSE” IN DARIEN These tribal meeting places are frequently built on hillsides in tiers, so that at a distance they give the effect of a three-story building.

PART OF THE SAN BLAS “NAVY” These very heavy but seaworthy canoes are hollowed out of single logs, and are perfectly adapted to navigation among the islands and keys of the San Blas Coast.

FEMININE FINERY The blouses worn by these San Blas girls are of ancient origin and of great scientific interest. Though the patterns are symmetrical in mass, close scrutiny reveals that they are in no two places alike in detail. They are hieroglyphics whose origin and meaning have been forgotten, though some archaeologists believe they are nursery legends like our own “Mother Goose".

A PARADISE FOR CHILDREN This old San Blas chieftain refused to pose for his photograph until his grandchildren could be summoned to stand beside him. Mr. Marsh declares he never saw a child or a woman on the San Blas Coast who did not look happy.

A "STILL" OF A "MOVIE" OPERATOR  Mr. Charles Charlton, in a San Blas shelter. He made the motion pictures of the life of the brown and white Indians of the Darien region of Panama.

THE SAN BLAS COAST  The mountains coming down to the sea, the numerous islands, and the heavy tropical growth have all fostered the Indians’ ambition to keep strangers out of their sanctuary.

A number of people have asked for these two Richard Marsh stories on the Blond (or White) Indians, so I have now collected them both for the blog.

I believe that in the final analysis these people do have a form of albinism similar two piebald deer—I could be wrong. Certainly from Richard Marsh's writing we can see why there was a lot of excitement at that time. His book is prohibitively expensive now.

Verrill was familiar with the White Kuna as he wrote in 'Hunting the White Indians' in 1925.

Will Rogers in South America

Will Rogers in South America

"I also believe I hold a record for speed for I wrote Folks Say of Will Rogers in seven days . . ."  (Folks Say of Will Rogers-a Memorial Anecdotage by Payne and Lyons, editors!? Published Putnam, 1936) The quote above is from Never a Dull Moment, Hyatt Verrill autobiography. It is remarkable that AHV claims authorship to this collaboration of stories about Will Rogers; he is given penultimate acknowledgement, even after Payne and Lyons, but no editor status. His sole contribution appears below, less than a page. He obviously knew Will Rogers well; they overlap in subject materials on Indians, aircraft and exploration. Both were well recognized internationally known personalities.

Rogers in South America

excerpt

by A. Hyatt Verrill

From 'Folks Say of Will Rogers' 1936 G. P. Putnam's Sons Publishers. Page 107. Digitized by Doug Frizzle, March 2013.

Although we hear little of Will Rogers good-will around South America, and few if any anecdotes of his trip to our southern neighbors have ever appeared in print yet he probably did as much if not far more to cement friendly relations with the Latin Americans than all our other so-called good-will emissaries together.

Not only did he win the esteem and love of all American, British and other foreign residents of the countries he visited, but he won the hearts of the natives as well, despite his quips at their expense.

Although there is nothing which the Latin Americans hate more than ridicule, yet they invariably took Rogers' jokes as they were intended, and enjoyed them thoroughly.

He visited Peru at the time when that country and Colombia were in a state of war over the remote frontier outpost of Leticia, and wishing to see the territory over which the two republics were fighting, Will had his pilot fly over the district. Very largely it is wild, uninhabited jungle and Rogers could see no signs of it town or settlement.

The next day, when he gave an impromptu talk in the Hotel Bolivar in Lima, he remarked, “Peru and Colombia are the only countries that ever had a war over a place they can’t find.”

A large number of English residents were present, including the British Minister to Peru, and Will drifted into reminiscences of his visit to England.

“When I was over there,” he said, “I found they always took the King’s chair away after he had presided at a function. Those Britishers knew, if they left it, some American tourist would take it away as a souvenir."

“I went out to see an old Inca city,” he told the people. “There was a big mound there, about the size of the Capitol in Washington. It was all filled with Inca mummies, they told me. I guess it must have been the Incas’ House of Representatives.”

The Lake of Gold!

The Lake of Gold!

The TRUE Story of the Man of Gold! He used to bathe in a lake at the bottom of which now lies £300,000,000 in Treasure. It's still there—waiting for someone to take it!

By Stanton Hope

From The Modern Boy magazine, 17 February 1934, No. 315, Vol. 13. Contributed by Keith and Brian Hoyt, digitized by Doug Frizzle, March 2013.

EL DORADO is a name that has come to stand for rich gold mines and diamond fields. But its literal meaning is "The Man of Gold." and there actually existed a golden man among the ancient Indians of South America!

One of the world's most amazing true stories of treasure is linked with the real El Dorado. At a low estimate £300,000,000 in treasure lies at the bottom of the lake where, once a year, the Man of Gold used to bathe.

If you have a map of South America handy, take a glance at the countries in the north above the mighty Amazon River. On the east is Guiana, then Venezuela, Colombia, and down on the west coast Ecuador, Peru, and Chile, which extends south to Cape Horn.

The jungle trails of those countries in the north were the trails of the old Spanish conquistadors. The armed hordes of Pizarro and Cortez tramped through the undergrowth, and many left their bones in swamps and on the high passes of the Andes Mountains.

It wasn't mere love of adventure that drove those hard-bitten men through a country of wild animals, poisonous reptiles, fever, and hostile Indians, but the lure of gold.

In the fifteenth century, Spanish adventurers learned of the vast treasure of the Incas. Strange stories reached the Pacific coast of cities built with gold, of temples filled with jewels, of a mysterious lake whose bed was paved with gold. An even more fantastic story was that of a man of solid gold who lived in the mountains and had been seen to walk and to swim.

At that time, many Spaniards were along the coast from Colombia to Peru. On the seaboard of Venezuela to the north there was a German colony, and news of the vast Indian treasures leaked through also to this Caribbean coast.

Proof was soon forthcoming that there was solid truth in the stories, amazing though they appeared. Individual adventurers returned from the interior, some of whom had secured wonderful golden ornaments and rare jewels.

It is safe to say that all the gold got by the early conquistadors was smeared with blood. The hardy Indians of the Andes did not trade or present this gold to the white man. It was taken over their dead bodies when sword and flame had done their grim work.

Proof piled upon proof until the facts were established of the world's most amazing treasure hoard.

To the south of Colombia was a great plateau inhabited by the Chibchas, a powerful Indian tribe who had their own civilisation and arts. Back there in the fifteenth century they built stone houses, suspension bridges which would have done credit to a European engineer, and shrewdly traded salt and other products for gold-dust.

For centuries the Chibchas had been engaged in that trade. They were a wealthy people, and their goldsmiths had remarkable skill. For centuries they made ornaments with gold and jewels, and many of these were buried in the burial mounds, called guacas, of the tribe.

At the head of those Indians was a hereditary prince and high priest combined, and it was he who was known as El Dorado, or the Man of Gold.

At seed-time and harvest the tribe held a great festival at which athletic sports were held. The youths were splendid athletes, and many a little young Indian dropped dead in the strenuous foot races. The chief event occurred at the famous Lake Guatavita, a pool nine thousand feet up in the Andes, and not far from Bogota, the present capital of Colombia.

For the ceremony at the lake the prince smothered his body with the gum from trees, possibly the chicle gum of the kind used nowadays for making chewing-gum

The prince felt sticky, but he was not allowed to remain looking undignified for long. His priests came with their blow-pipes and wafted gold-dust all over him. By the time they had done that, he looked like a gilt statue, and when he walked forth into view of the great gathering of Indians round the lake, a murmur of awe and admiration rose upon the mountain air.

The lake was no bigger than many a pond in an English park, and it took little time for the man of gold to voyage in a decorated boat to the middle. There, after prayers and ceremony, he hurled himself into the lake.

THERE is historical reason for believing that the dive itself was hidden from the populace by a smoke-screen made by attendants on board the craft.

However, the splash was the signal for great happenings. Uttering mighty shouts the whole vast crowd produced either ornaments of gold or jewels, and hurled them far out into the lake. This ceremony, mark you, was carried out religiously over the course of centuries.

These precious offerings were to appease the tribal god whose home was supposed to be at the bottom of Lake Guatavita. The prince himself came out minus most of his gold-dust, and back on board his decorated craft proceeded to add one or two sackfuls of gold and jewels to the already vast treasure in the lake.

Two of Pizarro's captains were the first men to get on the trail of this mighty treasure. The first, who took a force of soldier-adventurers with him, was set upon and defeated by Indian warriors who ambushed them. The second, Captain Gonzalo de Quesada, took a party of 715 men with him. The existence of the lake was known, but Quesada had to find out its exact location.

In those days there was only one way for the conquistadors to find out the secrets of Indians. They caught every Indian they could find and put him to the torture. Quesada's progress was a trail of sword-work and roastings—and the charred bones of brave men who died with the Chibcha secret still locked in their hearts.

The Spaniards were not squeamish, and they had determination and pluck despite their cruelty and greed. Quesada's band gradually melted like the snow on the Andes in the summer sun. Still the survivors pressed on, fighting with sword and pistol against the spears and blow-guns of the warlike Indians, who had many old scores to pay off. In the jungles and swamps fever took its toil, and the cold nights of the upper Andes picked off others weakened by wounds and malaria.

Quesada had his troubles, too, from a party of adventurous Germans who had made their way from the Caribbean coast.

At last, his determination and tortures gained him the knowledge he wanted. He discovered the situation of the lake of gold, and after managing to set the Chibcha Indians fighting with one another, he reached it with a handful of the armoured men who had set out with him. Unluckily for himself, practically the whole remaining treasure of the tribe was dumped into the lake not long before his arrival.

Perhaps there were Indians still lurking in the jungle who smiled ironically at the spectacle of Quesada standing on the lake-shore, baffled. In the middle that lake was forty fathoms deep—240 feet—and now that Quesada had found the cache the problem was how to lay hands on the treasure.

With his armed men, Quesada went forth and rounded up hundreds of fugitive Indians and set them like slaves to dig a channel for him.

By means of that channel much water was drained from the lake, but it was found impossible to empty it. For all his pains, Quesada got no more than £350 worth of treasure from the £300,000,000 hoard.

Once the location of this lake of El Dorado became known, there were not lacking other adventurers to try to get the wealth sunken in it.

Another Spaniard, Antonio de Sepulveda, went direct to King Philip II to ask the king's help in draining the lake. This time the job was done with more thoroughness, but still the water remained twenty feet deep in the middle of the lake where most of the precious offerings had been thrown.

He took out a quantity of golden ornaments, though, and in those days when precious stones were cheap compared with their value now, a single emerald taken from the lake was sold in Madrid for the equivalent of £40,000.

Yet the treasure hunters had barely scratched this vast treasure. Sepulveda's attempt came to an abrupt end when his huge draining channel fell in and killed most of the Indian workers. And once more the lake filled to a depth of over two hundred feet.

All kinds of attempts have been made since then to reach the lake into which the man of gold used to dive.

Near the beginning of the nineteenth century, Captain Cochrane, an Englishman, went into partnership with Ignacio Paris, a South American, in a determined attempt to dig out Sepulveda's channel. Like previous lesser attempts, the venture was a failure because too much capital was needed for the engineering work, and the sum was not forthcoming to complete the job.

IF ever a Chibcha god dwelt at the bottom of Lake Guatavita, he must have smiled- at man's puny efforts to despoil him.

A large company was formed in Bogota City for a new great treasure attempt. Little was done for three years until, in 1900, the objects and assets of the company were taken over by an English concern.

This English company had the princely sum of £30,000 to play with, and that represented a small enough outlay for the sake of getting a treasure of £300,000,000.

The work went on for years, and yet another £10,000 had to be found to continue the engineering of a tunnel for draining the lake. When the water ran out, special arrangements were made to catch any gold ornaments or jewels which happened to be dislodged with it.

Imagine the wild excitement of the workers, when articles of gold, great emeralds, jewelled brooches and rings were disgorged from the lake.

Those who had thought that, after all, the story of El Dorado was a fable, had the solid proof in gold and jewels before their eyes.

At last, by a shaft through the bottom of the lake, all the water was drained away. More articles were found, and the whole lot were worth some thousands of pounds, but not enough to give a profitable return on the capital outlay. The great bulk of the treasure, had gradually sunk into the mud of the lake-bed daring the centuries, for gold is one of the heaviest of metals.

The sun blazed down from a clear-sky, and a crust was formed over the dry lake-bed. Almost before digging could be got under way, this place which once had been a lake had become a basin of solid concrete!

It had cost a fortune to drain Lake Guatavita, and now the dismayed engineers recognised that it would take another fortune to obtain and employ the means for, breaking through this sun-baked lake-bed, and delving deep in the mud where this fabulous treasure lay.

And if they did manage to raise sufficient money with which to pay for the machinery and labour necessary for breaking through, they could not be sure that they would find sufficient treasure to make the venture worth while—or even to pay the expenses. They had staked a fortune on the chance of finding the treasure by draining the lake, and now that the prize had eluded them they were not prepared to take a second chance and risk losing money in a venture that might or might not turn out trumps. They decided to give it best!

From that day to this no other serious attempt has been made to wrench the treasure from El Dorado. If you go to Bogota, you can hire a motor-car and drive over good roads and through magnificent mountain scenery to the place where once the man of gold used to dive. The lake has filled up again; there remains the rotten timbering of the tunnel made by the last engineers, and the ruins of huts where some of the workers lived.

Look down into that shimmering water and imagine generation after generation of ancients flinging their precious offerings to the god of the lake. Forty fathoms down and deep in the mud of the lake-bed still lies the bulk of a £300,000,000 treasure. Gold and precious stones, sufficient to transform three hundred poor men into millionaires, remain there in the Andes.

Will this mighty treasure ever be recovered? Men still dream and plot how to drag it from the depths into the light of day. Meanwhile, the Indians of Colombia say that the laughter of the lake-god can be heard when the wind ruffles the surface of the water!

Another Splendid TRUE Story Next Saturday, the Hunting of a Human Tiger! And Don't YOU Miss It!!!

Thirty Years in the Jungle -Ch 3-5

This continues the story from the book, Thirty Years in the Jungle, an autobiography by A. Hyatt Verrill, 1929. Previous

Chapter 3            Marooned in the Forest

Leaving the bird-skins with the chief, who promised to send them on to Laudat, we resumed our interrupted journey towards Morne Diablotin.

There, at nearly a mile above the sea, on the upper slopes of this loftiest peak in the Lesser Antilles, we spent nearly two weeks, searching the former haunts of the mysterious Devil-bird. It was not pleasant work, for we were constantly in a cloud, our garments were never dry, and, although in the tropics the temperature fell to below 50^° F. at night and a bitter cold and chilly wind swept across the mountain. Often, for days at a time, we were isolated from all the rest of the world. Below us was a vast, undulating, billowy sea of clouds; above us clouds hid the mountain top from sight. Our visible world was a few square rods of rough, almost bare rock and tufa as silent as the grave.

Possibly one or two Devil-birds survived on Dominica, but our most careful search failed to reveal their presence, and even the trained dogs could not smell one out. So, abandoning all hopes at last, we packed up, descended the mountain, and headed for the interior of the island, for a locality where, my companions assured me, we could find many rare birds. It was a delightful spot after the cold and dreary mountain top, a tongue of partly cleared land with a flashing mountain stream flowing around it in a horseshoe bend, and with the high bush extending for countless miles on every side. A small but fairly comfortable hut had been built upon the little peninsula to accommodate a Government survey party several years previously, and here we established ourselves. It proved a very rich and promising collecting ground, and my specimens accumulated rapidly. In fact, it was such an excellent locality that I decided to extend my stay, and as provisions were getting low I despatched Rolles to the nearest settlement—a two days' journey away—to secure a fresh supply of food. Agoutis, pigeons and other game were abundant, and we still had enough flour, cassava and other provisions to serve Leon, Beche and myself for four or five days, so we felt perfectly safe on that score. But we had not thought of unforeseen contingencies arising. On the second day rain fell in torrents from morning until night, and by the morning of the third day the stream was a raging torrent roaring around the little point of land, tearing at the banks, sweeping great trees along with it, and filled with branches, logs and tree-trunks that were tossed about like match-sticks upon the turbid flood.

Even then we did not realize the danger that threatened us. The hut was dry and comfortable, it was high enough above the stream to be safe, and though I chafed at the inclement weather, which prevented me from collecting, we were not worried. The fourth day found us practically out of food, but Rolles we felt sure would be back in a few hours, and all was well. But Rolles did not appear. Then for the first time matters began to look serious. We had eaten our last provisions, but as the rain had slackened Leon suggested that he should go on a hunt for game while I gathered the plantains that grew about the house, and waited for Rolles, whom we felt sure would be back, even if a little delayed by the rains.

But ten minutes after Leon set out he returned, a strange expression upon his face. And as in broken English he explained matters I felt we were in a dilemma. Unsuspected by us, the river had cut across the neck of land at the back of the house and we were on an island completely cut off, and surrounded by a raging, impassable torrent. Our only food was the few green plantains; and Rolles was still absent! But even had he appeared it would not have helped us in the least, for he could no more reach us than we could escape from our temporary prison, and there was no sign of the rain ceasing or the river falling. That day we dined on green bananas and land crabs, and very few of these. The next day our rations were reduced to snails, a couple of stray lizards and an unwary snake. Snails, snakes and lizards might sustain life and satisfy hunger if in sufficient numbers; but our supply was woefully limited, and three half-famished men sat gloomily speculating on whether we would be forced to resort to cannibalism in the end.

The next day we carefully gathered the remains of previous meals; parrot and pigeon bones, plantain and yam rinds, and any other garbage we could find and, quite oblivious of the thick mould and the numerous insects feasting upon it, we used the offal for a soup which, I must confess, tasted better than any soup I have ever had before or since. That day, to add to our misery, Rolles appeared on the opposite side of the stream. There he was, not five hundred feet distant, laden with food and yet as far from us as though on another planet. We shouted to him, told him our plight and, after a time, decided to attempt to get the provisions by means of a liana or "bush rope" as a last resort. Working feverishly, we gathered lengths of tough vines, knotted them together, and attaching one end to a billet of wood we waded into the eddies and threw the stick as far as possible into the rushing waters. Leon had calculated the flow of the current to a nicety, and as the bobbing billet rushed down stream and the coil of lianas unwound it moved steadily nearer and nearer to Rolles, who was waiting for it up to his armpits in the river. With a wild hurrah we saw him seize it, and, a moment later, he had fastened his basket to tin-improvised line. We were elated. At last food was within our grasp, and we were already licking our chops in anticipation of the feast we would have. The food was well covered and tightly bound in plantain leaves which were practically a waterproof covering. But even if the provisions were wet, what did it matter? The cassava could be dried or made into cakes, the salt meat and codfish would not be injured by a little wetting, and the canned goods and lard were impervious to water. Lustily we hauled in the precious cargo. It was more than half-way across. It was almost within reach when, just as we felt sure that it was safe, a huge log came leaping, hurdling down the stream, and with horror we saw it launch itself upon our rope. It was all over in an instant. Throwing its length half out of water, gyrating madly as if in demoniacal joy at what it had done, the log went careering down stream, carrying our precious food and the severed rope with it.

Utterly discouraged, feeling more famished than ever, we sat down regardless of the pouring rain and gazed hopelessly across the river. Rolles shouted to us, waved his hands, and turning, vanished in the forest. He, too, was foodless or nearly so, and it behooved him to make the best speed back to the settlement in his own interests.

For the next three days we were marooned on a desert island. Not even a snail nor slug could be found; not a nut, root, fruit nor tuber that was edible, and I learned then what hunger really is. But the third day was clear, no rain fell, and on the morning of the fourth day the river had appreciably fallen. To be sure it was still high, it ran like a mill-race, and branches still covered its muddy surface. But it was as well to drown as to starve, and with stout staffs to aid us we took our lives in our hands and waded into the stream. Slipping, bracing ourselves to the rush of the current, dodging floating limbs by hairbreadths, half-swimming at times, we forced our way across and at last clambered safely out on the opposite shore.

Half-drowned, wholly famished as we were, yet we made better time through that forest than ever men had made before. Bad as the trail was, and made inexpressibly worse by nearly a week of steady rain, we scarcely noticed it, for before us, shutting out all other thoughts, all other sensations, was the vision of food. Once Leon stepped upon a thorn that penetrated an inch into his bare foot. But he scarcely hesitated. With a curse he jerked the thorn from his flesh and hurried on. Twice I barked my shins against rough logs, but I did not even feel the pain and was utterly unaware of the fact until, at the end of the journey, I discovered my trouser legs red with blood.

Five hours of this, and with a wild shout Leon pointed ahead to where bright sunlight showed through the trees. Breaking into a run, we raced forward towards a solitary hut in a small clearing. No one was at home, but within the deserted house we found a jug of molasses and a slab of rank salt codfish. And never, in all my life, has any food tasted as delicious, as welcome as that odorous salt fish and black, sticky treacle that we gulped down like ravenous wolves. Then, the first pangs of our hunger satisfied, we took matters more calmly. A single coconut tree towered above the hut, and Beche climbed this and threw down a dozen or more green nuts. Having finished these, and having thus completely exhausted the edible resources of the place, we headed for the nearest settlement in the Layou Valley, arriving at the estate of Mr. Alec Riviere at sundown.

It was while I was staying with Mr. Riviere that I heard of some of the inexplicable occurrences I have already mentioned. Unlike most of the coloured islanders, he had absolutely no faith in the supernatural and scoffed openly at Jumbies and Obeah. Neither could his veracity and trustworthiness be questioned, and yet he told me of events which he had personally witnessed which were positively uncanny. For example, there was the story of Papá Kali, an old African Obeah man who dwelt in the near-by village. Riviere was a cacao planter, and for a long time he had been greatly annoyed by thieves who had helped themselves almost nightly to the finest of his ripe cacao pods. Every effort to catch or even to discover the rascals had failed, and Riviere had about made up his mind to stand the losses as best he might when one of his friends suggested employing an Obeah man.

"Even if he doesn't find the thieves he can frighten them," the man argued. "They all believe in Obeah, you know, and if they find an Obeah man is on the job they'll be too jolly well scared to steal any more pods. Just call in old Papá Kali, and see if I'm not right."

Rather averse to apparently recognizing the Obeah man's powers, Riviere decided to try the experiment, and the old African was duly summoned. Having heard the case, he asked that all the employees of the estate should be called. When all had gathered about the front of the house, the wizened, big-footed (to be a proper Obeah man one must have a foot or leg affected by elephantiasis) old negro mounted the high front steps and peered with his red, ape-like eyes at the sea of black, brown and yellow faces of the thoroughly frightened crowd before him. Then, mumbling some unintelligible words in his African dialect, he waved his horse-tail wand (another essential part of the Obeah man's equipment) and fumbling in his wallet (supposedly made of human skin) he drew out a little bundle of red rags and feathers. Holding this up so that all could see, he cried, "Garde bien! Garde bien! See what Papa Kail holds. Eh, Eh, some one here is the thief. Papá Kali knows but will not tell. No, no, if Papá Kali told, M'sieu Reviere would not believe. But Papá Kali will throw this little friend of the devil into the air and the one it strikes will be the thief."

As he finished he tossed the charm forward, while a terrified half-smothered cry arose from the assembled people. Riviere was watching every movement and smiling to himself at such tomfoolery. But as the Obeah charm left Papá Kali's hand he uttered an exclamation of amazement and stared incredulously. As if endowed with life and purpose, the bunch of rags veered to one side, sailed over the heads of the people, and struck the mulatto overseer who unexpectedly appeared from beyond the building at that moment. With a curse he leaped aside and then broke into a hearty laugh. Picking up the charm he hurled it back at the old African. "That much for you and your Obeah," he cried in patois. "Try it again, you old humbug!"

Papá Kali cackled, nodded his head and stretched a claw-like hand towards Riviere for the half-crown he demanded as his fee. "Eh, eh, M'sieu," he exclaimed, as he turned to hobble away. "Papá Kali knows. Papá Kali never fails."

"The old rascal!" cried Riviere as the overseer joined him and the assembled labourers dispersed. "Pocketed a half-crown just for tossing a few rags into the air. And hitting you, Noel, at that! Wonder what he would have said if you hadn't bobbed up and his rags had fallen on the ground."

But the next day Noel, the trusted overseer, was missing and a week later Riviere received a letter from St. Thomas. "Papá Kali was right," were the words Riviere read. "I was the thief and I have left Dominica for ever. I could not be easy until I confessed to it.—Noel."

"I don't know what to think," Riviere replied when I asked him how he accounted for it. "I suppose it was just a coincidence, but it was a most astonishing coincidence that Noel should have appeared at the precise moment he did, that the charm should have veered so far out of its course and should have struck him, and that he should have been the thief. I don't believe in Obeah, but sometimes I feel that perhaps, after all, Papá Kali knows something of which you and I know nothing." Then, after a few moments' thought, "I suppose you have heard of the showers of stones?" he asked.

"More or less," I replied. "But I've never believed the yarns—all the natives' superstition, of course."

"I wonder," he observed with a laugh. "I thought so myself until I actually witnessed one of the showers."

"The devil you did!" I exclaimed, my interest aroused. "Where was it, and what was it like?"

"It was in Roseau," he replied. "About three years ago. I was walking along a side street one evening when I noticed a crowd gathered at a corner and all watching a little hut a few rods away. Wondering what had happened, I pushed my way into the throng and was told that a shower of stones was falling on the house and that the same house had been showered several times previously. Laughing at the idea, I pushed forward until I had an unobstructed view of the house and—well, you may believe me or not, I gasped. It was a perfectly clear moonlight night, not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind, and yet stones or some solid objects were pattering down from somewhere upon the shingled roof of the house. I could hear them, and what is more I could see them. They glittered in the moonlight, bounded off the shingles, and fell tinkling on to the cobbles of the street. It was the most uncanny, most incredible thing I have ever seen. I felt much as I expect I should feel if I saw a ghost, and I had a strange tingling of my scalp. It was incredible, absolutely impossible, but it was happening just the same.

"I stood there fascinated for fully five minutes, and then the shower of stones suddenly ceased, a sigh of thankfulness and relief arose from the onlookers, and very quietly and swiftly they dispersed. As I turned to leave, feeling as if I had been dreaming and wondering if I and the others had been subjected to some hypnotic influence, I glanced at the pavement. Little objects glistened on the cobbles, and, stooping, I picked up a handful of them. Just a moment and I'll show them to you."

Rising, Riviere entered another room and returned with a small paper box which he handed to me. It was filled with clear quartz crystals, which, as far as is known, do not occur anywhere upon the island. I could not, and never have been able to, offer any theory in explanation of the phenomenon. I could not doubt Riviere's word—and yet; but later I had an almost identical story of the shower of stones related to me by the resident British doctor, and the Governor of the islands assured me that he too had witnessed such showers in Grenada. More, he actually had spent a night in company with his brother in a house subject to the mysterious showers. But in this case the stones fell inside the house instead of on the roof. Several times in one night the two were awakened by stones falling upon them and, so numerous and large were the stones, that the Governor and his brother were forced to beat a hasty retreat and to seek refuge in the open. When morning came they re-entered the house and gathered more than a peck of pebbles.

Finally, there was a most mysterious and inexplicable occurrence that came under my own observation on a subsequent visit to Dominica.

An elderly gentleman who was suffering from chronic asthma had come to the island for his health. He lived at the only hotel, a few blocks from the market place, and was somewhat eccentric. He invariably wore tweed clothes, knickers, a Panama hat with a pugaree, and hence was a conspicuous and well-known figure. And as he was fond of conversing with the negroes, and was given to bestowing pennies upon every ragged beggar he met, he was a great favourite with the natives. It was his custom to leave the hotel each morning, take a short walk to the market, the water-front or the post office, all within three or four blocks of the hotel, and, when the condition of his health warranted he would sometimes stroll as far as the Goodwill Bridge, the fort or the library. So, when on a certain morning he remarked to the proprietress of the hotel that he was going to the post office, it occasioned no comment. But as it was rather later than usual for his stroll she cautioned him to be back in half an hour for breakfast. As he started up the street she remarked to her son that he appeared unusually feeble, and she wondered if she should not have sent a boy along with him. Then the matter dropped from her mind, until at breakfast time he had not returned. Even then she was not worried; but, thinking he had absent-mindedly forgotten the hour, she sent a servant to find him. The servant went to the post office, walked the length of the water-front, searched the market, hurried to the fort and library, and made inquiries of every one she met. But there was no sign of the missing man, and no one had seen him. Alarmed, she hurried back and reported matters. Feeling sure her guest had been taken suddenly ill and had sought refuge in some house, the proprietress of the hotel reported the matter to the police, and a house-to-house search was at once started. But without result. Then the search was extended.

There are but three roads leading out of the town, one passing over the Goodwill Bridge, the second passing over the Bath Bridge, and the third passing the fort, which is used as a police barracks and where a sentry is constantly on duty. The constable here knew the missing man well, but he swore he had not passed the fort. At the Goodwill Bridge an aged beggar, to whom the missing man had frequently given pennies, insisted he had not been that way, and his statement was substantiated by a constable on duty and by other persons. On the last road a truck laden with limes had broken down and had completely blocked the approach to the bridge since six o'clock. A bevy of labourers had been working there since the accident and not one of them had seen the man, although, had he gone that way, he would have been forced to clamber over the spilled limes in order to reach the bridge. It appeared as if the missing man had vanished into thin air; but the search was continued diligently until two o'clock. Then, utterly at a loss, the searchers, myself included, together with the inspector of police, met in the fort and discussed matters, trying to form some theory to account for the mysterious disappearance. While we were talking, a policeman arrived and, saluting the inspector, reported that he had just come in from Rosalie, a town on the opposite side of the island, whence he had been transferred to Roseau. Then, having made his report and having been dismissed by his inspector, he hesitated.

"There is something I would like to mention, sir," he said. "Just as I was passing the Mountain Lake I noticed a gentleman standing by the lake's edge, and poking at the water-weeds with his umbrella. Thinking he was a stranger and did not know the danger, I shouted to him, warning him not to go too near the edge of the lake. He looked up and nodded, and just then a cloud drifted by and I lost sight of him and came along. I've been feeling I should have made sure he heeded my warning, sir."

"What time was that?" asked the inspector.

"At 7.30, sir," replied the constable promptly. "I had glanced at my watch as I came over the ridge by the rest-house and it was then 7.25. It would be about five minutes later that I passed the lake."

"What sort of a man was he? How was he dressed?" I demanded the inspector.

"An elderly man, sir. He was dressed in tweeds—short trousers, and wore a palm hat with a pugaree, sir."

We looked at one another and gasped. Here was this policeman, just in from Rosalie—a man who could never have seen the missing man, who did not even know he was missing—calmly giving us an exact description of the man we sought and claiming he had seen him at a spot a full four hours from Roseau by horseback, and that he had seen him within ten minutes after he had left the hotel that morning.

It was absolutely impossible, incredible and uncanny. No human being, much less a weak, sick man scarcely able to walk a mile, could have gone from Roseau to the Mountain Lake in less than five hours, not to mention ten minutes.

And yet, so obviously sincere was the constable, that we set out at once for the distant Mountain Lake. Needless to say, there was no sign of the missing man, and from that day to this no trace of him has ever been found, despite the fact that his family offered huge rewards for any information regarding his fate.

No doubt there are some perfectly natural and perhaps simple explanations for these and many more seeming mysterious, even occult, occurrences in the islands. But no one has ever been able satisfactorily to explain them, and it is little wonder that the credulous and superstitious coloured people attribute them to Obeah, witchcraft and supernatural agencies. And it is not strange that, under the circumstances and conditions, the Obeah men and women thrive and prosper, for anyone who has lived long in the islands must admit that they do perform some remarkable feats.

Personally I am convinced that they are usually, if not always, natural hypnotists capable of greatly influencing the coloured folk, and by auto-suggestion and hypnotism causing them to do, see and hear things desired by the Obeah practitioner. And equally there can be no doubt that they are past masters of poisoning and possess a wonderful knowledge of poisonous native herbs, roots and seeds, many of which are unknown to science.

But somehow their charms, their spells and their powers appear to be utterly worthless when applied to white persons. I never found an Obeah man who could tell me where to secure a certain species of bird I desired, nor did a most potent charm—presented to me by a most horrible-looking old Obeah man to whom I had tossed a shilling out of pity for his big feet and ulcers—prove efficacious in protecting me from illness and harm, as he had claimed it would. Despite the fetish, I contracted yellow fever, although the natives of course felt convinced that it was the amulet that saved my life. But I prefer to think that it was the kind, unremitting and tender care of the Laudat people. Realizing I was suffering from the dread malady—contracted in the swampy land near Prince Rupert's Bay—I hurried to the little village in the mountains.

More dead than alive after the arduous trip made despite my high fever, I threw myself upon my hard bed in the humble hut, fully expecting that my bones would find a resting-place in the little cemetery on the mountain-side. Too ill to care what happened, tortured by burning fever and bursting head, I stared dully, half-consciously at the hewn rafters and thatch of the roof. Poised ready to spring, an immense wolf-spider was directly above me, while a few inches distant a huge "drummer" cockroach was waving his long antennae as if suspicious of his mortal enemy lurking so near. Listlessly wondering whether the cockroach in his fright would fall upon me or whether the spider would miss its mark and drop on to my face, I closed my eyes. When I again opened them and glanced up to where the insect tragedy was being enacted, neither spider nor cockroach was there. A faint sound near me caused me to turn my head. Le Brun stood beside my bed, her face beaming and holding a bowl of steaming broth in her hands.

"Eh! Eh!" she exclaimed. "M'sieu is well; le Bon Dieu has heard our prayers. Oui, M'sieu, every day have I prayed and so hard, so very hard that M'sieu should live. And now M'sieu is better; he knows Le Brun and he must eat. Oui, M'sieu, it is the will of God and the fever has gone."

It was true. I was weak, weary, emaciated, but free from pain and fever, and I marvelled at the miracle, for not until later did I learn that six weeks had passed since I had seen the spider and its prey above me. Six weeks of oblivion for me; six weeks of delirious ravings, raging fever, sleepless nights, unremitting care and constant prayers by the kindly Laudat people among whom fate had cast my lot. Yet after all it was Le Bon Dieu who held my fate in His hands and—well, I like to think that He did hearken to Le Brun's "so hard" prayers.

Many a land have I visited since then. I have roamed every fair island in the Antilles, and jungle and jungle life have become old stories. I have had many an adventure far more exciting than any of my experiences in Dominica, and I have come nearer to death's door than when I lay for six weeks unconscious with "Yellow Jack." But still my first trip to the jungle remains most vivid in my memory, and I have a warm spot in my heart for lovely Dominica. Many times have I returned to the island, many times have I gone hundreds, thousands of miles out of my way to again visit it. And always I have been welcomed like a king by the Laudat people and the golden-skinned Caribs. Old Andre and his wife passed away years ago. Smiling Beche is a dignified chief. Rolles is grey-headed, and Leon's broad shoulders are bent with the years that have passed. Laudats whom I first knew as naked brown kiddies have grown to men and women with kiddies of their own, and buxom Le Brun is a stout but still beaming grandmother. But despite the changes that forty years have wrought in the island, and the people, Laudat remains almost unaltered. The same houses are occupied by members of the same families as of old; the mountain stream still tumbles in a flashing cataract into the rocky pool where the girls frolic and swim like wood-nymphs in the shade of the drooping tree-ferns and Bois Riviere trees. The people still gather of evenings to tell Jumbie tales and singe the wings of the hapless "La Belles," and, when we meet, Leon, Rolles and I again live over the old times and laugh together over my Carib girl "bargain," and the meal of mouldy bones and plantain rinds on which we dined when marooned in the forest. And good-hearted, jolly old Le Brun, who nursed me back to life and health, declares that she still "so hard" prays to Le Bon Dieu that M'sieu may live for ever. But I am afraid that even her Bon Dieu cannot grant that prayer.

Chapter 4            Off to Central America

THERE is a strange, mysterious lure to the tropics; an irresistible fascination to the jungle. Rare indeed is the man who does not return again and again, once he has breathed tropical air and has tasted jungle life.

So, once having got the tropics in my blood, having experienced the mystery, the fascination of the jungle, I longed for the dazzling sun, nodding palms, dim, cool forests, rank jungles and the indescribable feel and smells of the tropics. And I again set sail for lands where civilization was but a form, where Nature was in the raw, where vast untamed jungle was still untrod by human feet, and where danger and death lurked behind the smiling mask of Nature.

This time, Central America was my destination, my object zoological collections as before. I sailed on a Spanish ship, a bark-rigged steamship that, whenever the wind was fair, spread her broad white wings and sailed far more knots than she steamed.

To the easy-going Iberians time and schedules meant little or nothing. We were supposed to remain in Havana harbour two days; but a week slipped by before the Panama steamed out past grim old Morro.

Time did not hang heavily upon our hands. Havana in those days was a very different Havana from the Havana of to-day. The "blood and gold" of Spain flew above forts and public buildings, the houses were pink, blue, mauve and buff; there were no cinemas, no electric signs, no trams, no motor-cars, no tourists and no sanitation. The narrow cobbled streets were sinks of iniquity and filth, an occasional sputtering oil lamp glimmered faintly at the corners, leaving the surroundings in inky blackness. And when one strayed from the vicinity of the plaza and its gay night life of the cafes, one carried a ready pistol in hand and kept to the middle of the street if one did not wish to be found a huddled, stripped corpse with a dagger thrust under the collar-bone when the morning dawned. Havana, in short, was redolent of Old Spain where romance, adventure and vice stalked hand in hand, where thugs and yellow fever were equally prevalent, and where blindfolded patriots and firing-squads were far more regular occurrences than daily papers. But, taken as a whole, I found Havana a far more fascinating city then than it is to-day.

The same could not be said of Santiago de Cuba, for it was an unspeakably filthy, unkempt, fever-ridden town; steaming hot, odorous beyond words, and festering in the sun like some foul ulcer. Few spots that I know in the tropics have so greatly changed in the past forty years, for to-day Santiago is a model city in as far as cleanliness and sanitation go, although still as hot during the summer months as of yore.

Crossing the azure Caribbean, our next port of call was La Guaira, where our accommodating skipper offered to hold his ship for an extra day in order that some of the passengers might journey across the mountains to Caracas.

At Cartagena we took on a deck-load of negroes and negresses, together with their chattels, livestock, fruit and vegetables which they were taking to the Colon market, for a disastrous fire had almost completely destroyed the Isthmian port, and the dusky Cartagena profiteers were taking advantage of their next-door neighbours' distress and intended to make hay while the sun shone. Unfortunately for them, we ran into rough weather after leaving Cartagena, and men, women and children, fruit and vegetables, fowls and pigs, cattle and parrots, monkeys and goats, steamer-chairs and household utensils, were hopelessly, inextricably mixed.

Colon at that time was a smouldering mass of charred ruins, with less that a dozen buildings left standing. Among these was the stone customs house, the stone church, De Lessep's house, and a flimsy native restaurant which, by some miracle or freak of fate, had remained unscorched as the flames roared on every side of it. But even without the fire, Colon would have been a sad-looking spot.

The French had abandoned their efforts at digging the Canal, great skeleton-like dredges lay rusting and deserted beside the banks of the big ditch; rank jungle had overgrown workshops and railway lines; hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth of machinery lay neglected and abandoned everywhere, and endless rows of tiny crosses on Monkey Hill testified to the appalling number of human lives the ill-starred attempt had cost. No white man cared to stop longer than he was forced to in a spot so notorious for yellow fever, and while I had no fear of the malady, being of course immune, yet I was not sorry to leave the devastated town. Little did I think that I would yet see the great Canal completed and would see Colon rise, phoenixlike, from its ashes to become a bustling, important port; that I would ever see the miasmic swamps and rank jungles replaced by asphalt roads, delightful parks and gardens with immense modern docks and imposing buildings where the forsaken machinery had lain rusting in the sun; that I would ever see the pestilential Isthmus transformed to one of the most healthful localities in the world, with dread Yellow Jack stamped out for ever.

Twenty-four hours after leaving Colon we came to anchor off Port Limon, and my voyage was at an end.

Few railways can compare with that of Costa Rica in as far as scenery and engineering feats are concerned, and as we crossed the level coast lands, with their dense jungle and teeming wild life, and climbed steadily up the foothills of the Cordilleras, there was plenty to hold the interest of the most blasé traveller. Parrots, macaws, parroquets, tanagers of gorgeous colours, humming-birds, orioles, troopials, toucans, kingfishers, cotingas and scores of other tropical birds of gaudy plumage were on every side. Spoonbills, herons, egrets, boatbills, ducks and waders rose in clouds from jungle pools and lagoons. Gorgeous amazing flowers blazed amid the greenery. The vegetation was a riot of palms, ferns, bamboos, strange trees, vines and tropical plants. Troops of white-faced capuchin, long-limbed red spider-monkeys and tiny squirrel-monkeys raced chattering through the trees at the approach of the snorting locomotive and roaring train.

Frequently, graceful deer would dash a few yards from the tracks and stand gazing curiously but unafraid at the passing train, and over and over again, as we roared over a bridge or swung around the borders of a dismal black bayou, huge alligators would scramble from their resting-places on logs and banks and would splash like amphibian tanks into the depths of the water. In such places, too, where the surface was freckled with lily leaves and water plants, we caught glimpses of the dainty jacanas—trim, brown-bodied, yellow-winged birds whose long toes enabled them to run nimbly over the floating leaves until, taking flight, they fluttered off like great yellow-winged butterflies. Insects were not lacking, either. Immense blue or emerald-green morphos sailed majestically through the shadows, velvet-black butterflies with wings splashed with scarlet, green or orange flitted about, immense brown and steel-blue owls'-heads, phantom-like ghost-moths and other gorgeous Lepidoptera were ever in sight, and among them were the strange, piebald butterflies that, alone of all the butterfly tribe, emit a curious, musical, clicking note.

As the train climbed higher and higher, struggling up long steep grades, swinging about sharp hairpin curves, rumbling over spider-web-like bridges spanning torrents hundreds of feet below, or roaring through long tunnels, and ever with the vast green sea of jungle on every side, I realized for the first time what a real tropical wilderness was like. I had thought Dominica's high bush marvellous, but the whole of that island could have been dropped bodily between any of these Costa Rican mountains and would have been completely lost to view. Seen from the train the jungle appeared like a solid wall of green of a thousand shades, set off here and there by towering trees gorgeous in masses of bloom forming splotches of orange, gold, magenta, lilac, scarlet and while against the green background. Hundreds of acres of crimson and orange wild plantains blazed like tongues of flame at the forest edge, and wherever there was a cleared space beside the railway there was spread a dazzling carpel of scarlet salvais.

Upon my first visit to Costa Rica things were pretty primitive, and one took the "rough with the smooth," as my Jamaican camp-boy used to put it. And most of it was rough!

In those days there was no extradition treaty in force between Costa Rica and the United States, and as a result every crook and criminal who had found Uncle Sam's territory too hot for comfort, and who could get away, had turned towards Costa Rica as a safe spot in which to be free and unrestrained. Among the men I met were Mississippi River professional gamblers, train robbers, "Wild Western" gunmen, highwaymen, murderers, and a member of the famous Jesse James gang. To their credit be it said that the majority had reformed and were peaceful and honest citizens. Several of the most notorious bandits and gunmen were employed by construction companies as guards for their pay-cars and cashiers; others had become ranchers or had taken to railroading, while a few lived a life of ease on their ill-gotten spoils. The ex-member of Jesse James's gang was the most thoroughly henpecked man I have ever seen. His diminutive wife ruled him with an iron hand, and, on one occasion, when in a fit of boisterous hilarity he began shooting bottles off the shelves in a bar, his better if not bigger half arrived on the scene, seized him by the ear, and cuffing him like a misbehaving small boy, led him off to bed.

San José, when we arrived, was rather the worse for a recent earthquake, and a good portion of the facade of the cathedral, many walls, the larger part of a church, and a few houses had been demolished, giving the really charming city the effect of having been subjected to shell fire.

At that time, too, Costa Rica was one of those comic-opera republics where revolutions are served with morning coffee, and almost as regularly. During my stay at San José we had three revolutions within three months, but they were far more amusing than serious, although to the outside world they were pictured by the Press as riotous insurrections accompanied by fighting and bloodshed.

The first of the trio was so quiet, peaceful, and so thoroughly well organized that very few realized it had taken place until it was over and a new President was occupying the palace.

It was the custom for the President of the Republic to attend Mass in the cathedral on Sunday, accompanied by a body-guard of picked troops and the officers of the army in full fighting equipment, rifles and all. On this particular Sunday, as the troops passed out of the church they found themselves confronted by a crowd of rough-looking campaneros (countrymen) with cocked pistols, who immediately disarmed the surprised soldiers, whose guns were not loaded, and with profuse apologies made the President a prisoner. The cuartel or barracks, the palace and other Government buildings had already been seized, a new executive was already enjoying his predecessor's wines and cigars in the palace, and without a shot having been fired the Government changed hands, and every one seemed satisfied.

The second revolution was more noisy and obvious, but almost as innocuous as the first. A few desultory shots were exchanged here and there without visible results, and the federal and insurrecto troops met face to face in a small plaza near the centre of the town. One side of this plaza was occupied by the Hotel Frances, the opposite side by the remaining front wall of a church which had been demolished by the recent earthquakes. Instantly firing began, and for nearly an hour there was a continual fusillade of musketry. Just how many rounds the rebels fired will probably never be known, but the federals succeeded in discharging something over two thousand cartridges. Then, the ammunition of both sides having been exhausted the two factions cast aside their useless rifles, and drawing machetes, engaged in a hand-to-hand, free-for-all fight. The net result of the fireworks exhibition was one waiter in the hotel shot in the knee, and the entire annihilation of the stucco on the church wall from ten feet above the earth to the summit. Half a dozen soldiers slashed and cut, several score uniforms torn to ribbons, and a few fingers chopped off, were the total casualties of the second phase of this "desperate battle," as the Press called it.

Throughout these disturbing (?) times, foreigners were never threatened nor molested, and with few exceptions were free to go where and as they pleased. Indeed, the officers of both sides were most solicitous for the safety of foreigners in their midst. During the third political upset my wife and I were stopped by an officer, who might have been a brigadier-general or a field-marshal judging from the magnificence of his uniform, and who, with the most profuse and abject apologies, begged us not to enter that particular street, explaining that a machine-gun was trained on the thoroughfare in expectation of an attack by the opposition, and that, should we be in the line of fire when the raid took place, we might be injured.

In short, the Costa Rican idea of warfare savoured far more of entertainment than of hostilities, while the "army" was a perfect farce. The soldiery was entirely composed of conscripts, mainly young Indian or half-caste boys who, previous to being drafted, had never worn shoes, had seldom worn what might be called clothing, and who had never handled a gun in their lives. They had no idea of politics, no interest in presidents or governments, and could never be made to understand why they should be expected to shoot, bayonet or otherwise injure or kill some friendly young paisano just because some ambitious Caballero wished to feather his nest with the fat pickings of a corrupt and easy-going Government. They were miserably fed, more miserably housed, and were never paid, and their only "outfit" consisted of a cheap shako, an ill-fitting "uniform" of blue drill and a pair of heavy cowhide boots which were so uncomfortable that they were usually worn suspended by a thong over the shoulders.

Far too considerate of their magnificent attire and highly polished boots to walk in the streets, the officers would stroll along on the sidewalks, twirling their moustaches, clinking their spurs and ogling the women, while the little "calico army" would come trotting along a block or two behind, guns at every angle, bare feet pattering through the dust, talking and laughing like schoolboys on a holiday, and making no attempt at keeping time with the diminutive drummer and even more diminutive fifer who invariably played or attempted to play two different tunes, and whose chief object in life seemed to be to drown the other out. Discipline, of course, was non-existent.

But despite this, the little "calico army" could give a mighty good account of itself when it came to guerrilla warfare against an hereditary foe. Personal courage was not lacking; the soldiers, like all Indians, were intensely patriotic and cherished hatred of an enemy, and in the jungle they were thoroughly at home. In repeated set-to's with the Nicaraguans they had come off with flying colours, and, in later years, when a few years ago there was a brief state of war between Costa Rica and Panama, the one thought of the Panamanians was to put as much space as possible between themselves and the Costa Rican troops.

Moreover, even if Costa Rica at the time of my first visit could not enforce peace and could not maintain a stable Government, it could and did enforce sanitation and cleanliness, which, in a tropical land, arc far more important matters. I have never seen a cleaner nor more orderly city. All the streets were swept, scoured and flushed daily, and anyone who by accident or design dropped a fruit skin, a bit of paper or any other litter in the street was liable to instant arrest by the lynx-eyed secret police. And it was in striking and delightful contrast to Cuba and Venezuela in as far as law and order were concerned. The city was well lit by electricity; thugs, footpads and robbers were unknown, and a man or woman could go anywhere at any hour of the day or night in perfect safety. Despite the presence of many notorious foreign crooks in their midst, the Costa Ricans were the most honest and unsophisticated of people. I have seen a countryman, in the market, place a roll of bills amounting to hundreds of pesos upon a table and wander off to gossip and dicker with friends and acquaintances, feeling perfectly sure that his money was as safe as in a bank, as was the case.

Chapter 5            In the Costa Rican Jungles

HAVING conferred with a number of people—both native and foreign—who were familiar with the country, and having studied the collections in the really excellent Museo National in San José, I selected Jimenez as the most promising locality to start collecting.

Jimenez was surrounded by jungle. On one side was the jungle of the level land bordering the river, on the other the jungle of the mountain-side.

The lowland jungle was dense, almost impenetrable, a true jungle of tangled vines, saw-grass, thorny shrubs and palms growing breast-high beneath the immense trees with their wide-spread, sprawling roots and dangling network of lianas. Close to the river it was thicker than anywhere else, with growths of great canes so strong, tough and dense that they formed almost a solid wall. But in spots there was some open ground beneath the trees, and here was a splendid collecting ground. Here, too, were deer, ocelot, peccaries, jaguar, puma and tapir; there were crocodiles and boas, and here I first came into contact with the army-ants.

I had noticed an unusual number of ant-thrushes and flycatchers hovering about, and having shot two that I wanted I hurried forward to retrieve them. The place had been roughly cleared, and the felled tree-trunks, the branches and broken limbs littered the ground.

Stepping upon a log the better to search for my specimens, I glanced about and caught sight of one of them lodged among some dead branches a few yards away. Never dreaming of any danger, I jumped from the log and the next instant fairly howled. I felt as if I had sprung into a pot of boiling lead. A thousand red-hot pincers seemed to be searing the flesh of my ankles and legs. Yelling with pain, I glanced down to find my legs almost hidden under a moving black mass, while between the branches and trash underfoot the ground seemed to heave and move and undulate. Instantly I realized what had happened. I had jumped into a column of army-ants! And I lost no time in jumping out. Fortunately for me it was only a small army—scarcely a regiment—perhaps two feet in width, and yet, although scarcely ten seconds elapsed between the time I leaped from the log until I was back on it again, ants were swarming over me from feet to waist, and my legs were dripping blood from thousands of bites. Fortunately, too, the bite of the army-ant is not poisonous, and aside from the pain of the innumerable wounds no ill results followed. Of course I made no further attempts to secure my birds, which, within five minutes, were unquestionably reduced to a few feathers and clean-picked bones. And to add to my troubles I had to watch hundreds of birds which I particularly desired as they flitted from perch to perch above the ant army and snapped up the insects that rose in swarms at the ants' approach. I could have shot scores of birds which I had never seen previously, and which I never saw again; but to do so would have been needless, inexcusable slaughter, for once they fell within the range of that resistless, ravenous column of ants they were gone for ever.

Later I had many encounters with the army-ants, and on one occasion, while spending the night in a shack on the mountain side, the hut was visited by an army of the creatures while we slept. As we were in hammocks we were not molested, for an ant will not travel over a rough hair rope. But every living thing within the house was utterly destroyed. Not a roach, fly, moth nor wood-ant remained, and a good-sized tapir, which we had killed in the afternoon and had hung up outside the hut, was completely devoured. Only the ragged hide and bones remained to tell of the ants' visit. As silently as they had come they had vanished, and I shuddered to think of what might have been our fate had we been sleeping on cots instead of in hammocks. Personally I have never known of human beings being killed and devoured by army-ants, but I have heard well-authenticated reports of such cases. One was in Brazil, where two Brazilian officers of a river gunboat, returning to their vessel after an hilarious evening in a village, decided to take a rest by the wayside, and fell into a drunken slumber. When they did not put in an appearance in the morning the crew of the gunboat started to search for them and found only their skeletons and clothes, mute testimonials to their horrible fate.

To anyone not familiar with the army-ants and their habits, such things may seem incredible. But it must be remembered that these ant armies are often several hundred feet in width and extend for miles across country. They are strictly carnivorous and will devour anything in the way of animal matter, and they arc as thoroughly well organized and trained as any human army. They have scouts, shock-corps, engineers and even a hospital-corps. Although blind, they act with perfect precision and coordination, and nothing but a good-sized stream or fire will check their advance.

In case an obstruction, a gulley or even a small stream, is met, the engineers hurry about seeking some spot to surmount the obstacle, tearing down obstructions and even forming living bridges of their own bodies over which the army crosses. In case of an injury or a wound to one of the members the hospital corps hurries up and examines the disabled ant. If his wounds are slight, he is taken to one side or the rear and cared for. Broken legs are amputated, and in case of serious injuries which render it impossible for the individual to proceed, he is promptly put to death. Just what sense guides them, or how they communicate with one another, is not known; but apparently they are devoid of the sense of smell, for frequently some insect, such as a walking leaf or walking-stick insect, or even a reptile or toad, when unable to escape from an army of the ants, will remain motionless, and the voracious ants will crawl over the creature without injuring it, and without realizing that it is a living thing and legitimate prey. Needless to say, after my first experience with these insects, I looked before I leaped in future, and proceeded very cautiously whenever I noticed unusual numbers of birds gathering in one locality.

It was not long after my painful experience with the ants that I came very close to putting an abrupt end to my adventures through another piece of carelessness on my part.

I had been collecting in rather swampy ground near the river and was watching a bird feeding in a tree-top near. Close to where I stood was a good-sized palm tree of a species which is entirely supported by a truss-work of roots springing from the trunk several feet above the earth. Wishing to study the bird through my glasses, I reached back and rested my gun against the palm tree. Presently, having made sure the bird was a species I wished to secure, I replaced my glasses, and without taking my eyes from the bird, reached behind me for my gun. Something, some sixth sense or intuition or "hunch" or whatever one might call it, warned me that something was wrong and forced me to turn. And just in time. Coiled among the roots of the palm, his broad, arrow-shaped, flat head drawn back to strike, and less than six inches from my outstretched hand, was a huge moccasin snake, one of the most venomous of reptiles. An inch more and his fangs would have been buried in my hand and, without antidotes and miles from any human being as I was, my case would have been hopeless. But as a rule snakes of any kind are by no means common in the jungle, and are probably the least of all dangers one must face.

This particular part of the jungle was a favourite haunt of tapir, for these beasts are fond of water and spend a great part of their lives in the streams. They are almost amphibious in habits, and when pursued or frightened invariably seek refuge in the water. As a rule they are very shy and wary, and although so large and apparently clumsy, yet they can move with astonishing quickness, travelling rapidly and noiselessly through the thickest jungle. I often saw their trails, but as it is almost hopeless to track a tapir and secure a shot, unless aided by trained dogs, I paid no attention to them. In the type of jungle inhabited by the tapirs, sun-bitterns are abundant, and the natives claim that the tapirs are warned of man's presence by these birds. Whether or not this is so, I cannot say, but as the sun-bitterns usually flit off like huge butterflies when they see a human being, there is no reason why an animal as intelligent as the tapir should not profit by the signal conveyed by the birds’ flight. The only trouble is that, as a matter of fact, the tapir is even more shy than the sun-bittern, and possesses far keener eyesight and sharper ears than any other denizen of the jungle.

Although I have since shot many a tapir, I shall never forget my first hunt here in the lowland jungles near Jimenez. On that particular morning Juan and I had been hunting near the bank of the river, and as we approached the water Juan suddenly halted, beckoned to me and pointed to a patch of soft bare earth.

"Danta" (tapir), he whispered. Sure enough, clearly imprinted in the soft ground, were the deep marks of a tapir's feet. Also, they were evidently very fresh, for the water had not yet oozed into the impressions, and in whispers Juan assured me the beast had passed within ten minutes.

Here at last was a possible chance of coming upon the beast unawares, and with cocked and ready weapons we set off along the trail, which led towards a dense growth of canes and bamboos a short distance away.

Every few yards we could pick up the tapir's spoor, and at any instant I expected to catch sight of the big beast. At the edge of the cane-brake the tracks led into the dense growth along a narrow but well-marked game trail.

How such a big-bodied, clumsy creature as a tapir could have traversed that narrow pathway was a mystery to me, for it was barely wide enough to permit us to pass, and I felt sure that, if the tapir were near, we should presently hear him crashing through the canes ahead. But a query to Juan brought only a caution for silence in reply, and with all my senses and energies devoted to avoiding stepping on dead canes or causing the close-growing bamboos to rustle, I followed in Juan's footsteps.

That the beast was only a very short distance ahead of us was obvious. In one spot the leaves pressed into the mud by the tapir had not begun to wilt, in another a big black and yellow beetle, crushed under the tapir's foot, was still feebly struggling. And where the animal had crossed a tiny rill the water had not yet smoothed over the imprint of his feet in the sandy bottom of the brook. But no sound of the big beast's passage, no cracking or rattling of canes was audible, although Juan, sniffing the damp heavy air, declared that he could smell the creature. For fully an hour we trailed that elusive tapir through the cane-brake. A dozen times I saw birds that I wished to add to my collections; but I refrained from shooting in the hope that we might eventually bring down the tapir. Twice, small brocket deer sprang up and fled like shadows into the depths of the labyrinth of giant grass, and once a small herd of peccaries rose from their wallows and, grunting and squealing, trotted off.

At last Juan stopped and pointed to the trail. There were the footprints of two tapirs instead of one, and beside them the imprints of a human foot and a boot. We were going in circles and following the same tapir over the same trail we had travelled before!

Evidently this was an endless job, and we conferred in whispers as to our next move. A short distance back we had passed a small open glade, and I suggested I should take my stand there and wait while Juan continued along the trail, the expectation being that the tapir would continue to move on ahead of Juan and would eventually arrive at the opening again.

This seemed an excellent plan, and one I had often found successful with deer and other game that use regular runs, and so, retracing my steps, I entered the glade, seated myself on a log well hidden in the canes, and prepared to wait for the appearance of the tapir.

It was very quiet and very warm. Insects chirped and trilled among the canes; a tiny, red-crowned mannikin uttered its odd grunting squeak as it sought industriously for food among the bamboos; a black and white ant-thrush complained querulously as it minced about; and a saucy flycatcher scolded at me from a trail tag vine. Slowly the minutes dragged, and no sound of either tapir or Juan came from the impenetrable depths of the cane-brake. I was getting decidedly drowsy, and was on the point of shouting to Juan and abandoning the hunt, when something caused me to turn my head. With a startled exclamation I sprang to my feet, tripped, and sprawled backward among a bunch of dead canes. Within six feet of where I sat, appearing gigantic to my amazed eyes, the long-snouted head and heavy forequarters of a tapir had burst from the canes! It was so wholly unexpected, so surprising, that it seemed more like a dream than a reality, and while I knew perfectly well that the beast was harmless there was something decidedly terrifying in his appearance.

His little red-rimmed pig-like eyes gleamed viciously, his proboscis was drawn up and wrinkled, exposing yellow ugly-looking teeth, and the ridge of stiff hair on his neck fairly bristled with anger. I had but the fraction of a second to note all this, for the tapir, far more surprised and frightened than myself, was rushing directly towards me.

Struggling to extricate myself from the tangle of canes and to cock my gun, I regained my feet only to be knocked backwards by the snorting, fear-maddened beast, whose mud-caked body seemed as big as that of an elephant as he tore past me. Rising to one knee, I levelled my rifle and fired twice as the beast vanished in the canes on the opposite side of the glade.

The next instant Juan appeared where a moment before the tapir had materialized. Hurrying forward, we soon found blood-stains on the earth and leaves, and hoping to come upon the wounded creature and finish him, we cautiously followed the ever-increasing red splotches. Suddenly Juan, who was in advance, gave a triumphant shout. Lying upon its side, sprawled across a projecting root, was the tapir—stone dead.