We drop to earth in this country, landing in the heart of the forest. Now there is no trace of an outlet to be seen. Surely we are prisoners--but which of us, at this moment, would care to escape, even were we shown a way? In the wildest revels of dreamland we have never beheld anything so luxuriously beautiful as the scene of reality which now surrounds us. Multitudes of giant trees burst the bonds of thickly tangled undergrowth, only to be fettered again up to their very summits, a hundred feet or more above our heads, by the endless twistings and turnings of gnarled vines and stout-stemmed creepers. Clinging to the trees are choice orchids, weird in form and fantastic of colour; the dense undergrowth of browns and greens is thickly patterned with brilliant blooms; from the rich overgrowth hang vivid-hued floral streamers and festoons; gaily plumed birds are roosting amidst deepest shadows; bright blue butterflies are holding carnival in odd spots, whither stray rays of the blazing sun have been able to penetrate through chinks in the leaf-thatched, flower-strewn vault. Evidently there are people living within these forest confines; for see, a tawny form is breaking through the bush. Come, let us hide quickly. “This naked savage might be a cannibal!” Possibly, but not for that reason alone have we slipped into a nook where we can watch him without risk of being discovered. Primitive man is frequently more shy than dangerous; if this aboriginal caught sight of us, perchance he would quickly plunge out of sight. “Why does he go about with a parrot perched on his right forefinger?” The bird is his favourite pet, and master and parrot like to be together as much as do you and your dog. “Why does he carry that very long bit of cane? And he doesn’t seem to have a bow with him, so of what use are those arrows in that pouch which is strung round his waist?” The long cane is a very simple weapon called a “blowpipe”; the arrows are the missiles for it. Whenever yon savage sees anything he wants to kill, he loads his pipe, puts it to his lips, blows, and out flies an arrow with terrific force and deadly aim. Maybe this son of the wilds is out on a hunting jaunt on behalf of his tribe. Just as likely he is taking a walk; for quite possibly he has been suffering of late from an attack of wander-thirst--a common complaint among barbarians, to whom freedom is one of the most blessed possessions in life--so he has left the camp to roam it off. Weeks, months even, may elapse before he returns to his fellows. Meanwhile, he can easily supply all his wants, for he can shoot his meat, trap his fish, and gather an abundance of tasty and nutritious nuts and roots. Also, he can amuse himself by making a fine collection of pretty seeds and gay feathers, wherewith to adorn himself on the next festival occasion at the camp.