From the mouth of the San Carlos to the first rapids, those of Machuca, the river seemed to increase in beauty. The banks were higher and firmer, and hills appeared, at intervals, in the background. The country here is evidently one well adapted for cultivation, and must ultimately become populated. At present a few Melchora Indians roam through its forests, deriving their support from the river and its tributaries. They are generally very shy of the boats, and retire upon their approach. One or two families, however, have overcome their fears, and from their communication with the boatmen, have picked up sufficient Spanish to enable them to carry on a broken conversation. Two of these Indians, an old man and a boy, came to us in their canoe, and offered some dried pieces of a large fish, which abounds in the rivers, called _Savalo_, in exchange for bread, plantains, or any other articles which the sailors might have to spare. Both were naked, and the old man was wrinkled and drooping, his gray hair matted on his head and shoulders, while the boy was lithe, bright, and sleek as a young panther. They looked curiously at our party, and frequently exclaimed, _blancos, blancos_, whites, whites! I gave them some fish-hooks, in return for which they insisted on my receiving a portion of their dried fish. Pedro endeavored to make them understand that we were from “El Norte,”—but they knew nothing of El Norte, and only shook their heads. They stand in great dread of firearms, as they have been wantonly shot at by passengers ascending or descending the river. And when they glanced under the _chopa_, and caught sight of our armament, they pushed off hastily into the stream; the boy standing in the bow, and striking with his paddle alternately on one side and the other, while the old man guided the boat. I did not succeed in procuring any words of the vocabulary of these Indians, but they are undoubtedly of Carib stock.