Our trips to the pitch lake on the early morning engine will never be forgotten. A warning toot from the diminutive whistle hurries us through our breakfast, and we hasten to the track and see our cameras and guns loaded on one of the little square wooden “empties.” We mount the wood-filled tender of the engine, which with many complaining creaks and jolts get under way, backing slowly around the curve which hides the last sign of civilization and buries us in the jungle. For nearly twenty years these little toy engines have bustled and elbowed their way over the snaky rails, until the jungle and its people have come to look upon this narrow winding steel path as part of the general order of things. The underbrush creeps close, and only the constant whipping of the engines and cars beats down the growth between the rails. [Illustration: FIG. 27. THE JUNGLE RAILROAD.] As we start, the last bats of night dash into the dark jungle, and their diurnal prototypes, a flock of graceful Palm Swifts,[71] swoop about overhead. To our ears there comes the _finalé_ of the morning chorus of distant red howlers and the first deep-toned boilings of the giant Cassiques. All along the line, beasts and birds show their lack of fear of the rumbling cars. A party of chattering little monkeys sit and gibber at us and rub their dew-drenched fur. Their parents and great-grandparents had found nothing to fear in this strange thing which, five times each day, crawls back and forth on its narrow trail, and why should they do more than look and wonder? As we come in sight of the muddy banks of the little river, a great Parrot shrieks in derision at us from the top of a dead stub by the track, executing slow somersaults for our benefit. Instinctively we look for a chain on its leg and a food cup near by! A splash draws our eyes downward, and from a maelstrom of muddy water shoots a villainous sting ray. A school of little staring four-eyes skips over the water, and near the swampy, farther bank, a sprawling half-grown crocodile watches us—as quiet as a stranded log. [Illustration: FIG. 28. SPIDER LILIES NEAR PITCH LAKE.] The air blows cool and damp on our faces, and we long for the keen power of scent of a dog. Even to our dull nostrils every turn of the road is full of interest. A swamp, thickly starred with dainty spider-lilies, comes into view, and we inhale draughts of sweetest incense; Easter Sunday is at hand, and the very wilderness reminds us of it.