like fin’ out what it say ’bout dem dam Indians what ain’t to be found when dey’re wanted, keeping English and American gentlemen waitin’ about in de burnin’ sun, ’bout near as hot as de hell fire he sure to go to.” “Shut up, Harvey, and don’t talk so much.” “What God give me tongue for, eh, massa, and what have I brains for if not to use?” he asked plaintively. At last the missing boatman put in an appearance, and we gingerly entered the long dug-out, which was very leaky, and about one-third full of water, and pushed off for the opposite bank. The Indian, who seated himself in either the bow or stern, I fail to remember which, both ends seeming so exactly alike, skilfully propelled the long, wobbly craft to the other side, and we climbed up the steep, muddy bank, aided by the long lianas which hung down from tall trees towering overhead. We were soaking wet, as it had been necessary to sit down in the canoe to prevent overbalancing it; but after a little experience of the trail we had now got to, I realised that to be wet through was a normal condition to be in when travelling through the bush. The first mile or so we kept by the bank of the river along a trail which had been cleared by the ever useful machete. This trail was narrow, and necessitated our walking in Indian file, and for a part of the way I found myself in front of the loquacious Harvey, who, slightly sobered by the recent exertion of climbing up the bank with his load, continued babbling about Biblical subjects with ludicrous effect. His mind was greatly exercised in trying to recollect what really was the punishment to be meted out to rum-drinkers, and also as to what the sin could be which admitted of no possible forgiveness. It was marvellous how he managed to keep jabbering with his tongue while occupied with balancing the great bundle on his head and evading the pitfalls which beset his feet. When at last the trail led into the gloomy forest, it was a welcome escape from the heat and glare of the sun, the fierce rays of which had been pouring down upon us for over two hours. Charles Kingsley says that the first feeling he had on entering the primeval forest was one of helplessness, confusion, awe, and all but terror. Most of these feelings did come over me in the course of the journey, but the first emotion [Illustration: HARVEY.]