Often on our walks we would come across an Indian hut, so hidden away in the depths of the dense forest that its discovery was merely a matter of chance. Most of these huts consisted simply of four poles covered by the rudest sort of a palm-thatched roof. The house furnishing was as primitive as the house itself—a hammock for each member of the family; varying in size in proportion to that of their owners, like the chairs of the historic nursery characters—the “Three Bears.” One or two calabashes or gourds, several hand-woven baskets of cassava bread, some strips of dried fish and a smoky fire completed the picture. [Illustration: FIG. 81. THREE GENERATIONS OF CARIB INDIANS.] The entire domestic life of these Indian establishments went on perfectly openly and quite unaffected by our curious scrutiny. We rarely saw the Indian men at home; they were off hunting, or fishing, or perhaps employed by the mine as woodcutters. The women were always busy, cooking, planting cassava, spinning cotton, weaving hammocks and baskets and bead aprons, necklaces and bracelets. We could never resist the temptation to stop and make friends with them. The gift of a cigarette won their hearts and we invariably found them very gentle and kindly. Their costumes were extraordinary. Those who had been presented with the garments of civilization proudly wore them, though they were nothing more than short, loose slips. But the majority wore their native dress—consisting chiefly of beads; certainly far more healthful and suitable for them than the unaccustomed clothing given them by the missionaries. The children were lovable little pieces of bronze, very smooth and glossy. They would often come softly up and slip their small hands in ours, looking up at us with shy wonder. In one of the huts we watched with amusement the wee-est of Indian girls trying to drive away a huge rooster who was pervading the hut. The child could not have been more than two years old—but she was already thoroughly feminine, waving her small arms valiantly at the intruder and then running away terrified to bury her head in her mother’s hammock, until she could summon courage for another attack upon the enemy. As time went on and news of our arrival spread, Indians from huts far distant in the forest made expeditions to come and look at us; as curious about us as was the small boy living up on the Essequibo River who saved up his “bits” and took a long journey down the river to see a horse. He had heard that there were such creatures but he wished to investigate for himself. So tours were made to see us and we were inspected by wondering eyes to whom white women were as strange as were horses to the little “bush” lad. [Illustration: FIG. 82. MR. WILSHIRE AND CRANDALL WITH DEAD BUSHMASTER.] [Illustration: FIG. 83. THE TERRIBLE BUSHMASTER.]