_January 15th._—To-day finds us on our way down the Amazons in the “Ibicuhy.” The day before leaving Manaos we paid a last visit to the great cascade, bathed once more in its cool, delicious waters, and breakfasted by the side of the fall. Before many weeks are over, the cascade will have disappeared; it will be drowned out, as it were, for the igarapé is filling rapidly with the rise of the river, and will soon reach the level of the sandstone shelf over which the water is precipitated. Already the appearance of the spot is greatly changed since we were there before. The banks are overflowed; the rocks and logs which stood out from the water are wholly covered; and where there was only a brawling stream, so shallow that it hardly afforded depth for the smallest canoe, there is now a not insignificant river. Indeed, everywhere we see signs of the changes wrought by the “enchente.” The very texture of the Amazons is changed; it is thicker and yellower than when we ascended it, and much more laden with floating wood, detached grasses, and _débris_ of all sorts washed from the shore. Wild-flowers are also more abundant than they were when we came up the river in September; not delicate, small plants, growing low among moss and grass, as do our violets, anemones, and the like; but large blossoms, covering tall trees, and resembling exotics at home, by their rich color and powerful odor. Indeed, the flowers of the Amazonian forests always remind me of hot-house plants: and there often comes a warm breath from the depths of the woods, laden with moisture and perfume, like the air from the open door of a conservatory.