The Mysterious Sun Dogs

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The Science Behind Paiwari Making

The Science Behind Paiwari Making by Indians

From Earliest Recorded Use of Biotechnology Procedures in Guyana by. Seelochan Beharry PhD. http://www.pantribalconfederacy.com/ and specifically, http://www.pantribalconfederacy.com/confederacy/News/pdf/Earliest_Recorded_Biotechnology.pdf

The late Sir Everard F. im Thurn (MA. Oxon, b1852 - d1932) published (1883) a work entitled: “Among the Indians of Guiana: Being Sketches Chiefly Anthropologic from the Interior of British Guiana.” I have in my possession a copy of the Dover Publications Inc, New York, 1967 (Library of congress #66-30384). This Dover edition first published in 1967 is an unabridged and unaltered republication of the work originally published by Kegan, Paul, and Trenton Co, 1883.

There are detailed descriptions of how Cassava bread is made, with variations under different conditions when the cassava is scarce. However, we want to focus on the earliest recorded incidence of ‘Biotechnology’ procedures in British Guiana. (This is from my contemporary readings of our national historical documentation – I am of course subject to correction by evidence to the contrary by the experts in this field.)

On Page 263 of the abovementioned work (over a century ago), we read: “Much cassava, after being made into bread, is further transformed into paiwari, the chief Indian beverage. Astounding quantities of this are consumed at special drinking bouts, of which we shall hear more presently. But paiwari is also largely used at other times; and indeed as long as there is any cassava to be had, a stock of this liquor is always kept ready. Whenever the men return from hunting, and whenever a stranger comes into the house, it is drunk. And women and children – even the youngest babies – drink it.”

“Cassava bread which is to be transformed into paiwari, is made as that for other purposes; but it is thicker, and is baked, or rather burned, until it is quite black. It is then broken into smaller fragments, and is mixed with water in a large jar or pot. The larger fragments are picked out and chewed by the women, who do this while moving about and performing their usual household work; and the masses are again replaced in the jar. As soon as this jar is sufficiently filled, its contents, after being well stirred, are slightly boiled, and are then poured into the trough. More and more is added to the liquor in the trough. More and more is added to the liquor in the trough until it is full.”

“The mixture is then allowed to stand for some days, until it is sufficiently fermented – a process which is said to be much accelerated by the mastication of the bread. Sometimes a little juice of sugarcane is added to sweeten the liquor. The result is a brownish liquor –looking like coffee with a great deal of milk in it - with a sub-acid, but not unpleasant taste. Some of the True Caribs, it is said, and some of the Brazilian tribes, manage to prepare paiwari, and to procure a proper degree of fermentation, by simply boiling, without resorting to the very disagreeable but more orthodox chewing process; but paiwari produced in this way is said to be of very inferior flavour.”

“In some parts of the country, instead of paiwari, both for festivals and for ordinary occasions, a much pleasanter drink is used. This is casiri, which is made of sweetpotatoes and sugar-cane. A little cassava is sometimes added. Generally, though not always, it is prepared simply by boiling the ingredients, and allowing them to ferment. It has a pretty pink colour, due to the sweet potatoes; and when well made it tastes not unlike thin claret. ……”

For those who love to eat and have done some science, we would remember that digestion of food begins in the mouth – i.e. chewing breaks down the size of the food particles to smaller and smaller-sized ones. This chewing is necessary so that we can have the maximum surface area of the food exposed to the saliva – produced by the salivary glands in the mouth. This chewing therefore also maximises the efficiency of the catalytic process that occurs in the presence of saliva. The saliva produced in the mouth contains an enzyme called human salivary amylase also called ptyalin (among other chemicals) which is mainly called alpha amylase that breaks down a complex carbohydrate such as starch (polymer of glucose) into simple sugars (monosaccharide, disaccharide or trisaccharide e.g. such as glucose, maltose, maltotriose, respectively, and “limited dextrin”). The alpha amylase enzyme is present in very small amounts in the saliva. Usually, in any biological enzymatic process only a small amount of the catalyst is needed. The alpha amylase enzyme (like other enzymes) here works best at a particular pH (i.e. a measure of acidity or alkalinity) range (in this case slightly alkaline, 7.4). (Incidentally, the saliva also contains another enzyme called lysozyme that lyses (breaks down) bacteria, in addition to other anti-bacterial compounds.)

This saliva helps to sterilise any bacteria that would remain on any improperly washed or handled cassava. Hence the saliva destroys any bacteria present as well as breaking down starch to form glucose, maltose, maltotriose and “limited dextrin”- done by alpha amylase and lysozyme, respectively.

The stirring mentioned above also allows for maximum exposure to the enzymatic processes – thereby maximising the efficiency of the catalytic breakdown of starch into maltose. The heating to a slight boiling denatures (kills) the enzymes - thereby stopping the catalytic action of the enzyme (alpha amylase). This phase of the production process is over. The heating to a boiling also acts as sterilization step – since heat kills bacteria, viruses, and other living micro-organisms that may also be present.

The sterilised maltose is now ready for the next step - fermentation of simple sugar i.e. maltose into alcohol. (Incidentally, from cane sugar we extract the sucrose (a disaccharide) which is then fermented to give alcohol.). Unfortunately, I found no detailed record of how the fermentation process was/is initiated, controlled, and stopped. Maybe those with this knowledge or experience can kindly let us know.

We see from the above that the old making of paiwari is indeed complex science - and the participants involved intuitively must have some understanding of the biological chemistry or biochemistry involved. Today such a complex process would be in the realm of applied science i.e. biotechnology, since it involved the use of biological materials in a complex production process.

Next time, we see Amerindians I hope that we have more respect for their immense knowledge. If we look carefully without prejudice, we can learn a lot from them. They do have a lot to teach us – we just have to be open-minded.

I taught biochemistry at UG, regrettably I was not aware at time that there was a good local example of the application of early biotechnology in Guyana. I never learnt about this until I was doing some research about the ‘Rupununi Uprising.’ Who knows what other gems are there to be discovered and record before they are lost.

These liqueurs (paiwari and casiri) can probably be produced for commercial exploitation using alpha-amylase. Besides the use sweet potatoes in casiri, fruits such as ‘jamoon,’ goose-berry, tamarind, and/or other local fruits can be used to make flavoured liqueurs. This would provide an additional market for cassava–based products. This would be a good enterprise for DDL or some adventurous group of young entrepreneurs.

Hope that next time we can all celebrate Amerindian Heritage month with a new found respect for their contribution and knowledge – in addition to their knowledge in forestry, botany, zoology, and their environmental awareness.

Seelochan Beharry PhD.

also another article, Access previous issues at JSTOR

Economic Botany

Volume 36, Number 1

Traditional cassava-based foods: Survey of processing techniques

P. A. Lancaster, J. S. Ingram, M. Y. Lim and D. G. Coursey

His Vain Search for Adventure

I thought I had put this in my blog months ago, as I was entertained by reading it. The quality of the scan was so bad that it went through the digitizing processor very poorly so I just read the PDF document, never creating a proper blog entry. Enjoy!/drf

His Vain Search for Adventure

Slept With Escaped Convicts and Hunted Outlaws, Had Murderer For an Escort,

Etc, Etc, But Couldn't Find a Thrill Anywhere

By A. Hyatt Verrill

The Boston Sunday Globe - August 24, 1930. Researched by Alan Schenker; digitized by Doug Frizzle, Mar. 2012.

 

Whenever I read narratives relating the astonishing, thrilling, not to say hair-raising adventures of explorers who have ventured for a brief time into some untamed portion of tropical America, I wonder how they do it

Is adventure, like art or music, a gift or a talent with which one is born? Or is it, like so many things nowadays, a specialized profession? Is real adventure pure luck or—perish the thought!—all imagination?

For the better part of 35 years I have been knocking about in the jungles of South and Central America, in the high bush of the West Indies, on deserts and pampas, on the bleak snow-capped Andes. I have tramped hundreds of miles through jungles supposedly infested with wild beasts, venomous serpents, noxious insects and hostile savages. I have traveled for weeks on tropical streams filled with rapids and whirlpools, my craft a frail bark or dugout canoe, my boatmen native Indians.

I have journeyed thousands of miles on horseback, muleback and afoot through the wildest country in South America. I have dwelt among scores of Indian tribes who were as primitive and wild as in the days of Columbus. I have traveled and camped, eaten and slept with chance companions who were murderers, bandits, outlaws, escaped convicts and out-and-out scoundrels, black, white, red, brown, yellow and all intermediate shades. But never yet have I had what I would call a real adventure.

All Part of the Day's Work

Of course I've run risks. I've been in tight places and have had close shaves and I've had my full share of hardships and the inevitable results of tempting the Tropics—such results as yellow, typhoid, dengue, blackwater, breakbone, Chapres and ordinary malarial fevers. Such things are all part of the day's work for an explorer in the Tropics.

But I have never been held up, threatened, robbed nor molested by any one. I have never been attacked by a wild beast; never bitten by a poisonous snake; never treated with anything but friendliness by Indians; never shipwrecked; never held for ransom nor inconvenienced by revolutionists (although I have been in the vortex of several revolutions); have never been obliged to keep my men under control at the point of a gun, nor have I ever slept with a revolver under my pillow while plots and counterplots buzzed about my camp.

Possibly I've missed a lot. Very probably many persons will feel that in confessing to the above I have knocked the romance out of tropical exploration or will assume I am lacking in imagination. On the contrary, I possess a highly developed imagination and an intensely romantic disposition.

But as regards adventure in the accepted meaning of the term, I take much the same stand as the countryman who for the first time gazed at the giraffe.

Form Your Own Opinion

Yet perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps after all I have had adventures. Possibly what I consider experiences might be classified as adventures by others. Honestly, I would like to know, and the best way of finding out may be to relate a few of my most interesting experiences and let the reader judge.

There was Jose and the jungle trip, for example. I was in the interior of Costa Rica at the time. My headquarters were in a frontier settlement in the midst of the jungle.

As there was no other habitable building available, the Alcalde cleaned out one-half of the jail and informed me that the house and all it contained were mine.

As a rule I carry my own guide and servant with me on my expeditions, but on this occasion I was without in A. D. C, for I had expected to find a satisfactory man in the village. But none of the able-bodied males could be induced to work and I turned to my friend, the Alcalde, in my dilemma. He scratched his nose in perplexity.

Then a brilliant Idea came to him.

"There is Jose. Senor!" he exclaimed. “He knows the jungle like an Indian; he knows the ways of the birds and beasts and he is an honest man."

"Excellent." I agreed: "And who is Jose?”

His Faithful Murderer

"He is only a murderer," the Alcalde assured me. "He is here awaiting the police who are to take him to San Carlos, where he is to remain in prison for life. But the police will not arrive for two weeks. In the meantime the senor is welcome to him. The senor need pay him no wages and each night he will sleep in the jail, so he will be no expense to the senor."

Jose, a stocky half-breed, grinned when the Alcalde explained matters. The tiny jail was vermin-infested and crowded with rascals each night, and he was overjoyed at the idea of spending his days in the jungle.

He proved a veritable treasure to me. Never have I employed a better bushman, and he was as faithful as only a dog or an Indian can be. From dawn until dark we tramped and hunted the jungles, Jose, the condemned murderer, carrying my loaded rifle and alone with me in the heart of the tropical forest.

He was booked for lifelong incarceration in San Carlos Prison—there being no capital punishment in Costa Rica—and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to have shot me in the back. Provided with my guns and ammunition, he could have lived for months in the jungle without fear of capture; he could have escaped to Nicaragua or to Panama, and even had he been taken and his act proven be would have been no worse off.

But I don't believe the idea ever entered his head. At any rate I never gave it a thought and I never considered it an adventure.

In the Guiana Jungle

From Costa Rica the scene shifts to the Guianas. I had been traveling by canoe for weeks up one of the big jungle rivers and had penetrated far beyond the last outposts of civilization, where only the primitive Indians dwelt in widely separated villages and where few white men had ever been.

I had been visiting an Indian village in the jungle-covered hills and had returned to my camp beside the river with my five Indian boatmen, my half-breed captain and my Negro camp boy.

Darkness had fallen; we had finished our dinner of broiled monkey and cassava bread when the grizzly-headed Boviander captain raised his hand warningly, listened intently and remarked:

"Bateau she been comin, Chief."

"Maybe an Indian family coming downstream." I suggested.

The Captain shook his head.

"No, Chief," he declared, "she not Buck (Indian) bateau. She been white man or mebbe black fellows."

The rattle of paddles on gunwales was now plain and a moment later a large boat filled with men appeared silhouetted against the pale shimmer of the river. Our camp fire threw a ruddy light, and from the strange craft came a hail in broken English, asking if we were Indians.

Then the voice inquired if he and his comrades could camp with us. Seeing no reason to refuse and knowing there was no good campsite elsewhere for several miles I assented.

Asking for Tobacco

A moment later a big bateau grated on the bank and fully 20 men scrambled ashore. Who or what they were I could not be sure, but by the faint light from the fire I could see that some were black, others brown and one or two white, that all appeared to be ragged and wild looking and that they jabbered among themselves in patois French.

The fellow who had first hailed us—a big gaunt, bewhiskered fellow in short canvas breeches and ragged shirt, strode forward, thanked me for permission to camp and asked if I could spare any tobacco. I did not have an oversupply, but knowing how a smoker craves tobacco in the bush I told Sam to open the provision chest and give the fellow a couple of tins.

As he watched Sam, he unquestionably saw the other tins of tobacco, the trade goods, the supplies, the matches and other articles. He knew, too, that we had arms and ammunition, fishing tackle and money. But he asked for nothing else and, expressing his thanks, joined his comrades, who had lighted a fire and were spreading palm leaves for beds.

Wondering at this, for no one dreams of going into the Guiana bush without hammocks, I strolled over to their camp and, to my surprise, I noticed that there was no sign of the inevitable rice and coffee being cooked. Only a miserable bony sunfish was being prepared.

The leader evidently read my thoughts and remarked that he and his friends were short of provisions, having journeyed a long way.

Not a Thing Missing

In the bush one shares what one can with the other chap and, returning to my camp, I had Sam break out sugar, coffee, rice, beans and pork, and adding a haunch of peccary to this, I sent the food to the strangers.

The food put them in gay humor, and far into the night they sang, laughed and joked. Our supplies, our arms, our equipment remained unguarded and unwatched as we slumbered in our hammocks, until, as usual, the first streaks of dawn, the clattering of toucans and the squawking of parrots and macaws aroused us.

Our unknown companions of the night had already broken camp and were embarking in their big, battered and patched canoe.

Never have I seen a tougher appearing crowd than they, but they were good-humored; they shouted thanks and farewells, and noisily pushed off and vanished around a bend of the river. Not an article of ours was missing, not a thing had been disturbed— and yet, as I knew, the fellows must have been desperately in need of provisions, arms and equipment.

Already I had begun to suspect who and what they were, and, later, I found my suspicions confirmed. They were escaped convicts from the penal settlement in French Guiana, the most desperate and ruthless Apaches and thugs, and their bewhiskered leader was thrice a murderer.

Poor devils! they never won through. Ignorant of the treacherous river, its currents and its rapids, they took a wrong turn, went over a cataract and perished to a man within a few hours after they had left our camp. It was the great adventure for them, but hardly an adventure for me.

The Soul of Hospitality

At another time I was in the interior of Santo Domingo, in a wild, unsettled district. It was raining in torrents, the night was coming on and, having expected to reach a village before dark, I was not equipped for camping. My only companion was a West Indian colored boy and it looked as if we would pass a miserable night in the saddle.

Presently, to our joy, we came to a tiny clearing with a palm-thatched hut. At our approach a man appeared in the doorway of the hut. He was a swarthy, fiercely-mustached fellow with bushy brows and reddened eyes, and was far from prepossessing. He was clad in patched cotton garments, wore a battered sombrero, carried a long-bladed, cross-hilted machete and a heavy revolver at his belt. For a moment he peered at us and then, as I asked if we could stop for the night, he grinned, doffed his hat and declared that his house and all it held were mine.

He was the soul of hospitality. Humble as was his hut, he did his best to make us comfortable. His woman, a plump, good-looking half-breed, fanned the smoldering fire into a blaze, prepared coffee and baked tortillas while our host brought out chicha and cleared a space in one corner and spread a cowhide and palm trash for our beds.

With our garments dried and our stomachs lined, we chatted with our fierce-visaged host.

Proved to Be El Lobo

At that time revolutionists and bandits were as thick as ants throughout the republic.

It was not wise to express an opinion for or against a political party, but as our host appeared to take a keen interest in the situation and explained he had kept out of sight for fear of being drawn into the forces of one side or the other, I related all I had seen or heard.

He, too, had had experiences and he told of service in the last revolt, showed an ugly bullet wound on one leg and a livid scar made by a machete on one shoulder, and conveyed the impression—though without bragging—that he was something of a firebrand himself. But I noticed he did not mention names or places in his stories.

When I left his home the following morning he refused to accept any payment for his hospitality; gave me directions as to a short cut across the mountains, and with a hearty "May you go with God. Senor," he waved his hand in farewell.

A few weeks later there was great rejoicing throughout the province. The most feared bandit in the country, a murderous rascal named Galvin, but more widely known as "El Lobo," had been taken. He had put up a savage fight and was brought in literally cut to pieces. He was a shocking sight; but I recognized the blood-stained, pallid face of the dying bandit as the face of the fellow who had given me shelter that stormy night.

By all recognized rules of adventure tales he should have cut my throat while I slept, should have held me for ransom, or at the very least should have robbed me. But he did neither, and so, again, adventure passed me by.

Another time, while in Central America, I was starting forth from a tiny wayside inn long before dawn. My way was over an unfrequented road across mountains with no houses for miles, and I foresaw a lonely ride.

As I entered the patio where my horse stood saddled, the mozo inquired if I would object to having a companion on my journey, explaining that another caballero was traveling in my direction. Presently the caballero appeared—a burly figure whose features were unrecognizable in the darkness.

He expressed his pleasure at the prospect of a companion on the lonely road and mounted a splendid white horse. For hours we rode side by side, talking and chatting, and I found my unknown comrade a most delightful and interesting individual.

When at last the gray light of dawn enabled me to see his face I discovered that he was a gigantic, atrociously ugly-looking Negro with a huge scar-across one cheek, which had twisted his thick lips into an evil leer.

We breakfasted beside a spring on the mountain side and, an hour or two later, reached the summit of the pass. Here the fellow halted, and, informing me that his way led over a trail to the south, he shook hands cordially, wished me a safe journey and rode off through the forest.

Late that evening I reached San Mateo, and threw myself with a sigh of relief into a hammock swinging at the inn. The proprietor plied me with questions as to my trip and asked casually if I had met anyone on my ride. As I spoke of my chance companion and described him, the face of the easy-going innkeeper paled and he glanced nervously about.

"Madre de Dies!" he exclaimed, crossing himself. "The Americano senor bears a charmed life, then. Know you not that you rode with the Evil One himself? No other bears such a scar on his face. It was Panchito Gomez, senor—the outlawed leader of the last insurrection. There is a price of 3000 gold pesos on his head!"

Lola's and Valerie's Pets

Lola's and Valerie's Pets

By A. Hyatt Verrill

Photographs by the Author

From Everyland magazine, Nov.1918; researched by Alan Schenker, digitized by Doug Frizzle, Mar. 2012.

OF course many readers of EVERYLAND remember Lola and Valerie, the girls who traveled through the West Indies and wrote about their trip for Everyland. Since then they have lived for nearly two years in British Guiana in South America, and while in that faraway land, they had some of the most interesting and curious pets you can imagine.

Of course they had parrots, for Guiana is famous for its great variety of parrots. Even right about the big city of Georgetown and in the public gardens, you can see wild parrots and parrakeets flying about among the trees. Lola's and Valerie's parrots were not the common green Pollys which most people see, but were gorgeous birds of many colors and with the funniest and most interesting ways.

First there was Caesar, a little green and orange parrakeet that Valerie bought in the big Georgetown market on her first visit to South America. Caesar has made the long journey back and forth between New York and South America four times; and when his mistress is in the United States, Caesar travels everywhere she goes in the motor-car; so he has toured all over New England. He is so accustomed to traveling that he knows he's going on a trip just as soon as his mistress commences to pack her trunk, and he gets excited as a child. Unlike most parrakeets Caesar is a great talker. He's never tired of saying “pretty boy," "bad boy," and "pretty, pretty, pretty." and when he's excited he cries "Hurry up! Hurry up!" or "Come on! come on!" over and over again. He also yells, "Hip, hip hooray!" and whenever he sees wagons passing he calls, "Cash paid for rags." He is very tame and likes to be petted and fondled, but he is terribly jealous and is as peevish as a spoiled child if he doesn't receive enough attention.

Lola's first parrot was Boy Blue, a lovely bird with blue back and purple breast, and with the most beautiful scarlet and blue wings and tail. He has traveled almost as much as Caesar, and he talks almost as well, and he whistles like any schoolboy. But while Caesar's voice is shrill and harsh, Boy Blue's is soft and low. He has great, mild, brown eyes and looks very gentle, but he has a bad temper and snaps and bites at strangers although he lets his mistress handle him and play with him by the hour. Then there was Robert, a huge blue and yellow macaw, who was a perfect baby in his love for being petted and who constantly begged everyone to "scratch pretty Robert."

But the funniest parrots of all were two roly-poly creatures which the girls called Tweedledum and Tweedledee. These little chaps had green backs and white breasts with orange-yellow necks and black caps, and a little band of yellow across the chest and on the legs; so that Valerie used to say they looked exactly like little dwarfs dressed in green coats, yellow trousers, and yellow cravats. Tweedledum and Tweedledee couldn't talk, but they mimicked every bird, beast, and sound they heard like regular mocking-birds, and they were as frolicsome and playful as little kittens. They rolled over and over, pretending to fight each other: they hung head down by one leg and spun round and round, and chased their own tails in the funniest way. But strangest of all, they always slept snuggled down side by side on the floor of their cage.

Last, but by no means least, was Juanita, a magnificent sun parrot. Juanita had a green back and a purple breast and a gray head, but on the back of her head was a wonderful crest of crimson and blue feathers which she could raise until it formed a gorgeous, fan-like crown. Juanita could not talk well, but she was very gentle and lovable, and best of all, she could do all sorts of funny tricks. She stood on her head when told to, or she lay on her back and played dead, and then, when she was told to "come to life," she hopped up and raised her lovely crest and whistled, as pleased as could be at the fun.

But the parrots were not the only bird pets which Lola and Valerie had in their South American home. There were Toto, the toucan, whose story has been told in Everyland, and two other big, black, white, and scarlet toucans, besides two smaller ones with soft green and brown dresses. The toucans were always amusing, for they looked very droll with their enormous beaks, and the girls never tired of tossing them bits of food or paper balls, which they always caught in their big bills. Toucans are very funny birds and sleep with their beaks buried in the feathers of their backs and with their tails folded up over all, so they look for all the world like round balls of feathers. They are very lively, active creatures and make the funniest barking and yelping sounds, just like puppies, and they are always hungry. They are fond of bananas, and it is very funny to see one of these queer birds swallow a whole banana at one gulp. Whatever a toucan eats he first tosses into the air; then he catches it in his beak and gulps it down, and he is just as expert in doing this with a tiny seed as with a big banana.

Another funny bird the girls owned was the sun bittern, a dainty creature with mottled brown, yellow, and black feathers, and red, yellow and black wings which he spread out until they looked like a rising sun. He had long, slender, yellow legs and the slenderest neck you could imagine, and he walked mincingly about like a dainty lady. When frightened, the sun bittern crouched down, opened his sharp bill, and swayed his neck and hissed just like an angry snake, but he was really a very gentle, harmless creature. The sun bittern loved insects, and he spent most of his time catching flies. It was very funny to see him stalk silently toward a fly until within striking distance; then out darted his slender neck like a streak of lightning, and Mr. Fly disappeared as if by magic. Sometimes, too, the sun bittern stood for hours motionless, with the tip of his bill against the ground, or he would stand quietly and sway back and forth on his slender legs like an elephant in the zoo.

Valerie didn't care so much for the sunbird as for Peter. Peter was a funny, white-headed tree-duck, a real live "Quacky Doodles" only he never quacked like ordinary ducks but whistled in a queer, plaintive way.

But the most interesting of all the bird pets was Warri, the trumpet-bird. He was a very sleek, genteel-looking creature with a soft, gray back and velvety black head, breast and neck, and with a little spot of metallic green and purple feathers on his breast. He was about the size of a Bantam hen, with long slender legs and a slender neck and with the biggest, brightest, black-eyes you ever saw.

He was very tame and wandered at will about the yard and house, and whenever any one appeared, he came racing forward with his wings half spread and making a queer, deep, trumpeting noise in his chest. He loved to take charge of the chickens and bossed them about like a regular tyrant, and strangest of all, he was terribly feared by even the most pugnacious old roosters. If a strange rooster appeared, the trumpet-bird instantly rushed at him, and although he didn't have spurs, he could strike so hard with his big feet and peck so viciously and was so swift in his motions that no rooster could resist him. He would attack a marauding hawk, or even a dog or cat, just as readily. For this reason the natives of South American countries always keep trumpet-birds with their chickens, for they feel sure that as long as one of these creatures is on guard, no enemy will dare molest the fowls.

Besides all these birds and several others I have not mentioned, there were the four-footed animals, some of which could scarcely be called pets at all. First, there was the armadillo, a stupid but funny beast. His only ambition was to be left alone, and he slept nearly all the time. It made every one laugh to see the queer chap burrow into the ground, for he could dig so quickly that he disappeared almost instantly, and it was all a person could do to pull him out again.

Then there was the huge ant-bear which the girls named "Fluffy Ruffles." I doubt if there is any stranger animal in all the world than the ant-bear. It has no neck, and its head is all nose, while it walks with its huge front claws bent back, and when it sleeps it wraps itself in its enormous bushy tail. The ant-bear has no teeth, but it has a slender snake-like tongue nearly a yard long; with this it laps up the ants upon which it lives, while its powerful front feet and strong claws are used in digging out the ants and tearing their nests to bits. Nature created the ant-bear to feed on ants, and it is proof against their bites. It also has a very ugly and unsociable disposition and a most uncertain temper. Sometimes Fluffy Ruffles would let a person stroke her head, but at other times she would rear up on her hind legs and strike viciously with her front claws. When an ant-bear does this, it is very dangerous. Even the big, spotted jaguars fear it; so you can imagine that Fluffy Ruffles was not a favorite pet with the girls and that they always kept well out of her reach.

Very different was Jimmy, the tapir. Jimmy was only a baby a few weeks old, a fawn-colored chap spotted with white, and the dearest little fellow you ever saw. He followed the girls about like a dog, answered to his name when called, and just loved to be petted and stroked. The only sound he could make was a low, shrill whistle, and his favorite food was bread and milk. His body was short, but his head was large and it tapered into a flexible nose that was shaped something like an elephant's trunk, only very much shorter. Do you wonder that Jimmy was a constant source of amusement and pleasure for the girls?

Of course Lola and Valerie could not take all these strange pets with them to the United States; so they decided to keep just Caesar and Boy Blue, and the others were sent to the Zoological Park in New York. If any of Everyland's readers visit Bronx Park, they will see Juanita and Robert and Toto and all the rest—even Jimmy the tapir, although you'd never recognize him, for he has lost his pretty white spots and has grown to be a big, brownish-gray beast altogether too large for any girl to hold in her arms.

Toto the Toucan

 Just a reminder that there is an index to all of Verrill's stories here.

Toto the Toucan

By A. Hyatt Verrill

From Everyland magazine, May 1917. Digitized by Doug Frizzle February 2012.

IN a deep hole far up in a dead tree Toto the Toucan was hatched—an ungainly, bluish, naked, pot-bellied chick, the ugliest little creature you can imagine.

But his mother and father thought him the finest and most beautiful baby in the world and clattered and croaked the news of his arrival to all the denizens of the forest round about. They had little time to think of his appearance, however, for Toto was a very hungry little chap and his parents were kept busy, flying back and forth from the nest to the vast green forest and bringing bits of fruit and squirming insects to fill their baby's ever-open mouth.

Toto grew rapidly, and very soon he was able to crawl to the edge of the hole where, sticking his funny big beak through the opening and cocking his bright blue head on one side, he could look about at the world far below. For the toucans' nest was a hundred feet and more above the earth, and Toto could gaze upon many miles of the wonderful jungle and the great, winding, silver river that flowed near. Overhead in the blue sky he could see great black vultures wheeling on motionless wings and looking for all the world like aeroplanes. Beneath him in the tree-tops he could see monkeys scampering about and chattering, and gaudy red and blue macaws flying hither and thither, and with his sharp ears he could hear the screams of parrots, the songs of countless birds, and the wild howling of the babboons.

It seemed a very wonderful and beautiful world to Toto, as indeed it was, for the toucans' nest was in the heart of the great Guiana forest in South America, where there are many wonderful and beautiful things to be seen. But it was a very dangerous world, as well, for while the baby toucan was quite safe from furred or feathered foes, far above their reach in the hole in the dead tree, yet there were plenty of hungry creatures ready to gobble him down should he tumble or scramble from his lofty home. The squawking, complaining Caracara hawks would have thought him a welcome breakfast; the great boas and anacondas would have seized him in an instant; the prowling ocelots would have licked their chops as they crunched such a tidbit in their sharp teeth, and even the lazy green iguanas and the ugly alligators beside the river would have snapped him up before he had time even to squawk for help.

There was one danger, however, which Toto's parents had not thought of and against which the high dead tree was no protection. This danger came paddling down the river in a narrow dugout canoe, a bronze, naked figure with keen, black eyes and with a scarlet loincloth about its waist and a long bow and arrows by its side. In other words, this danger was an Indian, and his sharp eyes, seeking among the forest trees for game, soon spied the baby toucan's beak projecting from the hole in the dead tree-trunk.

With a smile of satisfaction the Indian ran his canoe ashore, and stepping upon the bank, hewed his way through the jungle to the foot of the tree. It seemed impossible that any man could climb that great, bare, polished trunk, but to the Indian it was a simple matter. Cutting a piece of tough vine, he tied loops in the ends, passed the ropelike creeper around the tree and slipped his feet through the loops. Then, grasping the trunk with his hands, he jerked up his feet and the rope, braced his toes against the tree, and straightening up secured a new hold with his hands.

Over and over again he repeated this funny froglike motion, and each time he rose higher and higher on the tree.

Hardly had he commenced to climb before Toto's parents realized that their baby was in danger, and with loud cries and clattering, snapping beaks they flew anxiously about with a queer, jerky flight, arousing all the toucans far and near. But the Indian gave no heed to them, for the baby toucan would mean a new knife for himself or a string of beads for his own brown baby, for at his village was a white man who bought all manner of strange things from the Indians and who particularly wished a live toucan.

At last the Indian reached the nest and thrusting his hand in the hole drew Toto forth, squawking and struggling. Tucking the frightened toucan in his deerskin pouch, the Indian slid quickly down the tree. An hour later Toto was eating bits of banana from the white man's hand while Komahri sharpened a brand new knife and gazed fondly at his fat, brown baby with a string of shiny, glass beads about its chubby neck.

But Komahri and his wife were not half as pleased with what they received for Toto as were the white man's daughters when, on returning from his long journey through the "bush," he brought them the funny bird with the wise, brown eyes and gigantic bill.

And a very funny and interesting pet he was, or rather is, for Toto is a real bird and while I am writing his story he is hopping about and begging to be petted and played with, as much at home as if he were in the South American forest, and far safer than he would be there.

No longer is he an ungainly, ugly, naked baby, and I doubt if his own mother or father would know him if they saw him now. His body is covered with a coat of glossy, blue-black feathers, there is a patch of yellow over his tail and a patch of scarlet below, and his throat is snowy white with an edge of crimson, which makes him look, as Valerie says, "like a man in evening clothes with a white shirt bosom and fancy red vest." About his eyes the skin is bare and sky-blue, and his enormous bill is gay with scarlet, orange, yellow, green, and blue.

But funny as he looks, his appearance is not half as comical as his ways are. He barks like a dog and whistles like a boy and sometimes makes a sound like a bell, and when he wants to be petted or fed he makes a queer, complaining little noise in his throat which sounds precisely like a dog barking a long way off.

He is very fond of being petted and loves to play, and if you could see him, hopping about on his big, blue feet and investigating every thing by tapping it with his gaudy bill, you would burst out laughing, for Toto doesn't walk or hop like other birds, but moves by great leaps, more like a kangaroo than a bird.

Perhaps you think that his big, bright-hued bill is clumsy and a nuisance. Not a bit of it. Toto can pick up the smallest object in the daintiest manner and can move so quickly and use his bill so deftly that he captures flies in mid-air and, large as it is, he can use his bill as well and can preen his feathers as readily as any other bird.

How do you suppose this funny bird eats? He seizes his food in the tip of his bill, tosses it in the air, and with bill wide open catches the food in his throat. A wonderfully elastic throat it is too, and Toto makes no difficulty of swallowing a whole banana at a single gulp; but whether it is a banana, a spider, an ant, or any other tidbit, he never thinks of swallowing it without first throwing it up and catching it in this way.

There is nothing he loves better than to have some one stand at a distance and toss him bits of fruit or dainties so that he can catch them. Very seldom indeed does he miss, and if he is not hungry, he is just as fond of catching a wad of paper or any other light object, for Toto never tires of playing ball and showing his skill as a catcher.

 Perhaps the funniest thing about Toto is his tail, for when he is excited or pleased it snaps up over his back as if it worked by a spring. When he goes to bed, Toto places his big beak upon his back, spreads his tail like a fan, snaps it up over his bill, and standing on one foot goes to sleep, looking like a big, round, black ball.