Follow up the vines for fifty feet and you meet with the parasites in countless variety. They are grouped, massed and interwoven; they cling to the trees wherever there is a chance, and feed on the moist air. There are hundreds of cord-like air-roots which dangle in the air, and others send a branch down to mother earth for sustenance. Delicate orchids bloom among the other plants on the branches. Many trees depend more on the air than soil for sustenance. Cut a tree, and it will probably remain green and throw off new branches. Then further up one will see the green roof composed of the matted leaves and vines, which almost exclude the light from the ground below. Some of the largest trees spread over the others a wide, thick roof of verdure, like a vast umbrella. The mighty columnar stems, which bear aloft this solid roof of lofty green, would make the proudest of earth’s beings feel awed and humbled. The visitor to these forests feels his own insignificance. It is almost impossible to keep in a straight line, for in some places the thickets are too dense to be passable. You feel your loneliness. At sea or on the desert one has a definite horizon, a fixed boundary. Here you are absolutely separated from the world. The thicket is so compact that oftentimes it is impossible to see more than a score of feet. An army of men could not find you, and, unless an experienced woodman, it would be almost impossible to find the way by yourself. One can only tramp along hour after hour, cutting the narrow path as well as possible, but seeing only an interminable stretch of unbroken forest ahead as far as the eye can penetrate.