Jamaica, the land of wood and water, is rich in the possession of countless streams of clear, rushing water. Each of its mountains and rocky hills contains at least one or two fine waterfalls; each of its peaceful valleys is streaked with a silver band of river-water flashing in the sun. To say which of all the rivers might be counted the most beautiful would be to offend a thousand streams, and all the Jamaican districts save one. But this at least can be said. No stream in Jamaica is more beautiful than that part of the Rio Cobra River that flows from Spanish Town, seawards, through the country called by the islanders, Bog Walk. I know a man who was sent by his English doctor to Jamaica for rest and change. He landed in Kingston and, falling in love with the island, determined to stop for many weeks. After three days he left Kingston for Spanish Town, and there he saw Bog Walk. His intention had been to stop in Spanish Town one night and then journey farther inland in order to thoroughly explore the country. Spanish Town delighted him; Bog Walk fascinated him. He bought a fishing-rod and sat in a punt, anchored in the centre of the Rio Cobra River at Bog Walk, smoking his pipe and catching fish for five weeks. He could not tear himself away. And that was all the Jamaica he ever saw. He had seen Kingston and Spanish Town and Bog Walk, and that he counted quite enough. And who, knowing these places, knowing the Rio Cobra River at Bog Walk especially, would be foolish enough to count my friend foolish. At any rate he saw enough to enable him to say that Jamaica is the most beautiful country in the world. That is his unqualified opinion. To him Jamaica is a white city filled to overflowing with bungalows and coloured people; and a glorious golden valley rich in tropical trees and fairy flowers which shelter a clear river alive with fish and brilliant weed. For five weeks he lived in Paradise, at peace with all the world. His Jamaica is the memory of that time. For our part we saw the rich Cobra River and drifted down along the shores of Bog Walk in a flat punt, listening to the music of the birds and the melody of the insects; watching the shadows of heavy trees flirting with the river ripples; shivering along the dark stretches where the sky was blackened by the heavy bamboo clumps, and listening, awe-stricken, to the noise of their clicking stems. The beauty of the bamboo is a melancholy beauty; the high canes, fluttering with wavy foliage at their heads, look cold and miserable along their stems. Our sporting friend, Large, said they reminded him of those unpleasant [Illustration: DRY HARBOUR, JAMAICA]