Early on the morning of our last day, April 15th, I awoke and peered out through the dimness of my muslin hammock net to catch the first hint of dawn. The east soon became lighter and the warp and woof of the cloth softened and disguised the scene which stretched before me from the edge of the veranda. As I lay there half awake, I seemed to see great towering moras, with their masses of dependent parasites, stretching high into the air. This passed, and the savanna became more distinct—the whistle of Ducks’ wings overhead was almost incessant, with now and then the note of a Hoatzin. Dull thuds indicating some one at labor behind the bungalow and the sound of low negro voices added to the imagery and I seemed to be with the black men three score years before, laboring at their island, fighting disease and starvation—harassed by heat, insects and reptiles; ever on the watch for their pursuing masters while the orange headed Vultures soared overhead, waiting for their turn which sooner or later would come. A bit of comedy broke in upon my dream—the voices of the negroes from their hammocks at the other end of the porch became audible for a moment. “Wont you tak’ a drink of sompfin to interact de cold?” “No tanks, ah doesn’t stimulate.” [Illustration: FIG. 160. YOUNG SPUR-WINGED JACANA.] Parting my hammock net, I found my vision of jungle growth had been prompted by a great bank of black cloud, out of which the sun leaped at that instant and lighted up the beautiful green and blue of savanna and river. Little Green Herons[38] were fishing at the water’s edge and a Jacana[23] was leading her brood of three small chicks within a few feet of my hammock, down to a causeway of trembling lily pads. The youngsters were very tiny, clad in gray with a large black mark on the nape. Even in comparison with their mother their toes were of enormous length. They kept at her very heels and when she stopped for a moment crept beneath her wings. But at this concentration of weight the water would begin to trickle over the rim of the fragile pads and the mother would hurry on, flashing out the yellow of her wings every few steps, perhaps as a signal to her brood. Why every chick is not snapped up by hungry crocodiles or other aquatic ogres is a mystery. Every morning this and several other bands, all of three, would thread their way across the lagoon to the reeds beyond.