After a two hours run on a straight course, we came to the roots of the first hills; the river narrowed to a width of a hundred yards, the stream grew stronger, and became very winding. We passed several small villages, and soon left the main stream to turn into a little river, with a current of four miles an hour against us. There we cut the flowers of the _Astrapæa_. After a four hours’ pull in the canoe, we landed, and began our climb over the hills. The first hills were low; were beautifully rounded by water; and every hollow and valley was filled with fine specimens of the rofia palm and of the traveller’s tree. We made our first pause at Mánambonináhitra. This little town is the residence of the Lieutenant-Governor of the district, and as his brass band must live, they take the opportunity afforded by an English visitor’s arrival to do a stroke of business. The whole village turned out to welcome us, and the band played effectively and with energy, “See the conquering hero comes: sound the trumpet, beat the drums.” The incident would be remembered with feelings of satisfaction, both by my colleague and myself, if we had not learned that several other “conquering heroes” have passed through the village since our visit. Still surrounded with the rofia palm, having fronds thirty feet long and beautifully tinted with red, we continued our journey to Ránomafána, with its well-known hot springs, which we reached at sunset. Here the church table being in a dilapidated condition, I amused myself by mending it, and was caught in the act by a deputation, which arrived to offer us a welcome, and which watched with grave interest the progress of the repairs. Around Ránomafána the country has many beauties. There is a fine amphitheatre of hills, from which here and there rise one or two lofty cones. The streams run deep and strong, over beds of quartz pebbles; the traveller’s tree grows in enormous numbers, and large patches of rich black soil appear amid the general masses of red clay. West of Ambátoerána, and about ten miles from Ránomafána, we ascended a fine hill of bright red clay, which projects like a vast buttress into this amphitheatre of hills, and furnishes the road by which the next ridge is crossed. On reaching the summit of the pass and looking back over the undulating plain, I asked the bearers what the name of the hill was. With deep interest I heard their reply: “It is Tániakova, the weeping place of the Hovas.” I at once asked, “And where is the sea?” Without hesitation they pointed it out on the horizon, and showed us the houses of Andevoranto.