Fires are frequently lighted for a more useful purpose on the banks of the stream, as they never fail to attract a number of large fishes, which the dexterous Indians know how to strike with their harpoons. While some are thus engaged, others are lurking for the tortoises that pay their nightly visits to the bank, anxious to bury their numerous eggs in the sand. Thus almost every landing on one of these river-islands furnishes fresh provisions for the continuance of the journey; for the captured tortoises are bound to the raft, where, in the enjoyment of water and shade, they continue to live for a long time. As soon as the supper is finished, the Indians, after throwing an additional log upon the watch-fire, all stretch themselves on the ground, under their dark-coloured toldos, or mosquito covers, which on the white sand have the appearance of as many coffins. Their tranquil breathing soon tells that they are enjoying the deep repose peculiar to their race; but sleep forsakes the European amid scenes so novel and so grand. The soul is struck with impressions which compel it to reflection. The ripple breaks lightly on the bank; no noise, save the crackling of the fire, breaks the stillness of the night. Only from time to time the splashing of a fish is heard in the distant centre of the stream. The same stillness reigns in the skies; for not the slightest cloud dims the brightness of the stars. But suddenly the waters begin to rustle at a distance, as if wave were rolling after wave, and as the strange sound draws nigh, an unusual agitation becomes apparent in the water. The awakening Indians whisper anxiously, for they imagine an enormous reptile to be the cause of the phenomenon. They also believe the lagunes of the great stream to be the seat of a prodigious serpent, equal in size and power to the fabulous sea-snake; for the yacu-mama, or ‘mother of the waters,’ as this imaginary monster is called, attracts by a single inspiration every living creature-- man, quadruped, or bird--that passes within a hundred feet of its jaws. As the maelstrom sucks down the helpless boat that comes within its vortex, thus the mighty air-current forces its prey into the wide mouth of the monster lurking in the thicket. For this reason an Indian will never venture to enter an unknown lagune without blowing his horn, as the yacu-mama is said to answer, and thus to give him time for a speedy flight. The ‘mother of the waters’ is said to be at least fifty paces long, and to measure ten or twelve yards in circumference. Thus fancy is as busy in creating imaginary terrors in the lagunes of the Marañon as on the rocky shores of Scandinavia.