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winds and waves. Even in this desert spot it had been possible to give it, after years of toil and care, a look of home; it was protected by high sand-banks from the winter storms, and open to the southern sun; in summer a few hardy creepers trailed their green vines and displayed their blossoms up to the low eaves, and bright flowers made the little garden gay; and even in winter the carefully-tended plants in the window, and the canary with his cheerful song, reminded one in the midst of present desolation of both past and future joys.

Their life was simple. Old Nancy superintended household matters, and had been successively nurse and governess, and was now companion, to her young charge; the lad performed the rough labor, and assisted in the work of the light-house; André's oceupations were in the summer to cultivate the garden, to fish, and to lay in the stores for their long winter captivity; and in the short winter days to educate his daughter, which, as she had now reached woman's estate, was a task nearly at an end. At night, summer and winter, there was always the care of the light.

Virginie Duroche was eighteen years old. She was, if not exactly beautiful, possessed of that charm which youth, health, and innocence combined must always give, and to the father who idolized and the nurse who worshiped her she was of course simply perfect. In infancy her merry voice and thoughtless happiness had made the gloomy dwelling cheerful; as she grew older, and sense and wit awoke, her bright sallies and artless endeavors had won her father back to smiles; and now the whole charm of graceful womanhood was shed over her home.

It was no doubt a somewhat dull and secluded life for one so young and naturally so gay; but Virginie never thought of complaint-she knew no other. As a child she assisted (or hindered) in Nancy's household work, she played her solitary games among the sand-hills, and learned faithfully the lessons set her by her father as soon as under Nancy's guidance she had mounted the first painful steps in the ladder of knowledge. Her grand delight was to accompany her father when he went to the light-house on his nightly duty. She loved to see the lamps trimmed and the reflectors burnished; to look out over the heaving sea (invisible from her home) and think of the safety the friendly light afforded to those upon its treacherous depths; to listen to the wind which, however calm it might be inland, always sounded in that exposed spot; to put in order the few books and papers which employed her father during his lonely watch, and arrange for him the couch on which he took his rest; or to sit for a few minutes on the outer balcony while the darkness fell, and the solemn hush of night came down over land and sea. But she was never permitted to remain long. Her father always took her home, and left her with a kiss and a blessing in Nancy's care; while he returned to watch the beacon till morning paled its friendly rays.

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ceived a dread of the sea, and employed and amused herself as much as possible out of its sight and sound. She learned from Nancy, for private reasons of her own, all the arts of house-keeping which the latter could impart; she had mysterious tasks of needle work, over which she bent with blushes and soft, happy smiles; her books, her birds, and her flowers, were to her both occupation and delight. I claim for her no wonderful loveliness, no extraordinary mental exaltation; she was neither a grace nor a muse, but a sweet and simple maiden. No rude toil had ever fatigued her, no rough contact with the world had damped the joyous nature or chilled the loving heart. Her own carnations were no brighter than her blushes, her bird's songs were not gayer than her own. Few beyond her home ever saw or knew her; but, to the fishermen who sometimes visited them, and to those inhabitants of the island with whom the long summer days permitted occasional intercourse, her bright smile and sweet voice were as paintings and music. The name by which she was known-given her by an old sailor, and readily adopted by others -was the Flower of Sable Island.

Perhaps Virginie might not have been so contented in her lonely life had she not had her own romance to occupy her mind and heart. The visitor, almost as hard to exclude as death from human homes, had found Virginie in her seclusion; and she not only loved and was beloved, but was betrothed. Two years before, the sole survivor from a wreck had been a young sailor, washed ashore near the light-house, and found by André insensible and apparently dead. His restoration was long and tedious, and perhaps, when Virginie became his nurse, he was not desirous to hasten a recovery which must necessitate his departure. He was young and impressible, Virginie was soft and fair, and became known to him while fulfilling for him those offices of womanly care and kindness which are of themselves quite sufficient to excite gratitude and almost enough to kindle love. The result could not long be doubtful. Human nature and the human heart are the same everywhere, however different the surroundings; and the world-old drama was enacted, and the world-old story told over again, in the wastes of Sable Island.

André Duroche made no objection. He learned to like Floyd Lossing, as the young man was called, and was perhaps not averse to his child's securing an efficient protector by whom she could be cared for and beloved. So, on ascertaining that the account Floyd gave of himself was true, and on being assured that his daughter's young affections were irrevocably fixed, he gave his consent, and Floyd and Virginie were solemnly betrothed.

But Floyd could not marry at once, even if André would have allowed it while Virginie was still so young. His small savings had been invested in the wrecked vessel, and were lost, and he must begin the world again. That, with youth, hope, and love on his side, was not much; but the separation it must entail on the young people was a great deal. Yet it could not be helped. Floyd could not make the means to support a wife on Sable

Island, and Virginie could not become his wife until he had done so; so, as the surest way to a final meeting, they resolved to part, and did so with many kisses, protestations, and, on Virginie's side, some tears, and, for sole comfort, the hope of the future, and Floyd's assurance that they should meet as often as could be.

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That was two years ago, and three times Floyd had redeemed his promise and visited his betrothed. On the first two occasions the wished for fulfillment of their hopes seemed no nearer than before; but the third time he left Virginie with a fluttering heart, a blushing cheek, and downcast eyes. He had a sure prospect of permanent employment on shore; he had saved sufficient to establish a home for his bride, and perhaps before winter, certainly in the succeeding spring, he would return and claim her. Here was the secret of Virginie's trembling happiness and shy bloom; here was the impulse that led her to cultivate housewifely arts, the object of the work that occupied her delicate fingers with an industry unknown before. It was all for Floyd-that she might be a good and useful as well as a loving wife to him.

Floyd had left her in May, and, as the summer waned and the autumn drew on, Virginie's anxiety and unexpressed excitement grew more and more intense- - unexpressed but not unobserved. Old Nancy,

who watched her nursling with devoted interest and care, would sometimes, sore against her inclination, warn her of the instability of all human happiness. "Ye think too much of him, honey," she would say in her homely speech, while the soft look and tone, and the tender touch of the rough hand on the bright hair, contradicted the words. "There's no' a man in all the world that's deserving of all thought ye give him. Dinna build too much on it, darling of my heart. God knows I pray night and day for his safety and your happiness; but the sea's treacherous and may be his grave yet, and the heart of man is deceitful and he may forget ye still."

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The sea's treacherous, I know, Nancy," Virginie would reply, with her head upon her nurse's knee, as they sat before the winter fire or in the soft spring sunshine at the door. "The sea is strong, but God is stronger than the sea, and will hear my prayers; and, as for forgetting-" the happy, trustful face supplied the unuttered words.

But the time was too near now for any more of Nancy's warnings. She would not for the world have dashed her darling's hopes by look or word. August came and went; September passed, with all its autumn glory of sea and sky; October, veiled in cloud-wreaths, joined the long procession, and also vanished in the past. The hope deferred calmed Virginie's fever of expectation, but no shadow of fear or doubt found entrance to her mind. If ever Nancy wondered why Floyd had not yet appeared, "He will come when he is ready," Virginie would reply; "he said it might be spring." And when October had departed, when the last vestiges of autumn were gone and undisguised winter had set in, she resigned herself to wait again. Waiting is women's work;

they know it, and they do not find it hard. "I shall not see him now till the spring," said Virginie. "He will come for me when he has made my home. I would not have him come through the rocks and the surf in the winter. He will come in the spring."

It is daily expectation that wears the mind. It is daily disappointment that barasses and makes life a burden to be borne. It is a definite time in the future, however distant, and patience is easy. When Virginie had settled to the satisfaction of her own mind that Floyd could not come in the present, she could calmly and contentedly wait for the future. She felt no doubt and no fear; and the Flower of Sable Island had bloomed no more brightly under the June sunshine than in November's blasts and

snows.

November is never, at the best of times, a cheerful season, and this year it was especially bleak and wild. Masses of dark, snow-laden clouds trailed their heavy folds across the sky; the fierce northeast wind hurried over the island, bearing with it sheets of sleet and sand, and the roar of the breakers was never silent. The frost-king wears a grim aspect sometimes, and he had assumed his darkest frown this year on Sable Island.

One dark and gloomy day toward the end of the month was drawing to its close, and André Duroche was preparing for his night's watch. He had been restless all day; a nervousness he was unable to control appeared to have taken possession of him; his words were few and hasty, and his face was haggard and worn. The evening meal had been prepared, but he had tasted nothing; and, when he rose to go to the light-house, it was in the manner of a man who dreads what he is about to do.

"What ails you, father?" asked Virginie, when he came in for the third time after an examination of the sky. "The wind is high and the clouds are threatening, but we have had such nights before."

"Nothing, my child, nothing," he answered, quickly. Then he hesitated, turned again to the door, and again drew back. "There'll be a storm to-night such as we seldom see," he said, slowly, and as if against his will. "Did you see the yellow stain in the south as the sun went down?" Nancy nodded, and as she looked at him a strange expression came over her face, and she put down her work and gazed fixedly.

"Is it snowing, father?" asked Virginie. "Your sleeve is white."

He shivered.

"Ay, it's as thick as a blanket already, and the snow's driving fast."

"Ye must make the lamps do their duty, and burn their best," said Nancy. "Ye'll maybe never know the good they do this night. And, see ye, keep Rody with ye till the morn; we hae nae need of him here."

André again took up his lantern and turned away. Then, apparently by a sudden and painful effort, and with a strange light in his eyes, he glanced back and beckoned to Nancy. She instantly and eagerly obeyed his summons, and they went out together into the snow.

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"That I may never sin! Tell me how. Did ye dream it?"

"No, Nancy, it was no dream, all the worse for me. I had been asleep, an uneasy sleep of a few moments, and when I opened my eyes she stood before me, as plain as I see you now."

"She is dead, then," said Nancy, solemnly. "The heavens be her bed! I hope 'tis no sin to say it, for say it I must and will! I believe she was as sinless as the darling child within there."

"Bless you for that, Nancy; but-o my God!" he suddenly exclaimed, as he dropped the light and lifted his clasped hands-" to have striven with temptation so long, and to yield now! to have baffled Satan for so many years, only to fall his prey at last! In this last corner of the habitable globe hast thou found me, O mine enemy!"

"André Duroche, the night is falling fast. Be still, and tell me what ye want and what ye mean."

"She stood before me, Nancy, as though she had risen from the grave." The woman crossed herself. "I could not speak or stir, but she spoke to me; I heard her words as clear as I hear yours now: 'André Duroche, you did me foul wrong. I sinned a little, but I suffered much; and who made you my judge? I am at peace now; but I come to remind you of your cath. He has crossed your path at last; let the light out to-morrow night, and I shall be avenged!' That was all, Nancy; but the horror of it has been on me ever since; I see and hear her now."

"Ye dreamed it. If she is dead (rest her soul!), she is in peace too great to trouble herself with this world and its revenges. Let it be."

"I did not dream. To-night he will be in my power. Am I to forget my oath-forego my righteous vengeance, and let him go?"

"For him I say nothing. He brewed his ain cup, and it fits that he sud drink it-and in God's time so he will. But revenge is an awfu' thing, André; do not ye take it in your ain hand."

The man did not seem to hear her. His gaze was fixed on the leaden sky, now fast darkening, from which the snow was falling soft and thick.

"It would be so easy," he said, musingly and as if speaking to himself. "I have but to put out the light, and the ship-"

Nancy saw his meaning at last. Her eyes dilated with horror, but her old, spare form grew erect with dignity, and her voice took the majesty of stern rebuke.

He made no answer, but suffered her to take the light from his hand, turned away, and entered the house. She noticed that he moved in a dull, heavy, stupid way, and fol lowed him, to inform Virginie herself of the change of plan. It was nothing but the truth to say that André was not quite himself, and that she thought it better to take the watch; on one or two rare occasions of illness the same change had been made, and Virginie was quite satisfied. She undertook to cheer her father out of his gloomy mood, and Nancy was soon on her way, accompanied by Rody, to the light-house.

The room in which André kept watch was just as usual. His perturbation had not interfered with the discharge of his daily duty. The lamps were all in order, and, with the boy's assistance, Nancy had soon kindled the glow which was at once a warning and an assurance of safety. When the coals in the brazier were lighted and the room had grown warm, she took the Bible from the table and began to read, while the boy Rody sat in one of the windows and watched the snow-flakes falling in the gleam outside.

But Nancy could not rest. André's strange delusion, as she tried to believe it, dwelt on her mind, and she repented having left him in his present state alone with Virginie. There was no help, so far as she was concerned; the lamps must be watched, and as certainly André must not on this night be allowed to approach them; but she could per form the easy task alone, and, however lonely she might be, she resolved to do so. She dismissed Rody; she went with him to the lower door, impressing on him to be very careful of his young mistress, and warning him that it might be well to keep an eye on his master if he could do so unobserved. The lad promised fidelity and departed, and Nancy returned to the upper room alone.

It is a lonesome thing to sit alone in a lighted room, whose black, uncurtained windows stare at you from all sides, while the snow falls and the wind wails without. Darkness falls early in the end of November; the hands of the little clock on the shelf bad barely reached five when Nancy had lit the lamps, and by the time they pointed to nine she felt convinced the night would never come to an end. She read her Bible devoutly, but, alas! the sacred words soon swam before her eyes; she plied her knitting-nee dles nervously, but their industrious click only served to soothe her into a more drowsy state than before. She paced the room, and listened to the wind; it was not high-André's prognostications of storm had not been verified, and she trusted that the remainder of his dreams would prove equally untrue. "After all, why sud not I rest a wee?" she thought. "I shall never wake all night; the lamps are all safe, and I may as well close my eyes now as later on."

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She went the round of the lamps to see that they really were safe-she descended the stairs and carefully locked the outer door-and returning she disposed herself, not on the couch where André was accustomed to take his rest, but, in order that she might not sleep too well or too long, in a most uneasy posture, with her arms upon the table and her head upon her arms.

It was a little past nine when Nancy's eyes closed in heavy sleep. The timepiece traveled its round once, twice, and Nancy had not awakened. The third hour was nearly ended, the hands of the dial pointed almost to midnight, when cramped, and stiff, and dizzy, she came back from her dreams to the knowledge of the things of this world. Where was she? What had happened? She had closed her eyes on an atmosphere of warmth, and on a glow of light; she opened them in black darkness, and full upon her poured a chill blast of the winter, midnight wind.

She rubbed her eyes. Was she dreaming? Alas! it was no dream. No gleam enlightened her from the extinguished lamps, but by the faint gleam of the dying embers in the brazier she discerned the form of André Duroche opposite to her on the other side of the table. His presence explained all -the darkness, the open window, and the blast which had aroused her, and suggested what might be the awful consequences of her fatal sleep. Was he madman or demon? He might have been either, as he sat before her, beating the table with his restless fingers, and with the triumphant malice of gratified vengeance in his face. Nancy saw at a glance the uselessness of speech, and rose, sick at heart, to return to her neglected duty; but André stayed her for a moment. "They have winked long enough," he said, "and you may light them when you will; but listen-I have heard it twice already-when the third time comes I shall know that I have fulfilled my oath." He raised his hand, and, horrorstricken as she was, Nancy could not but obey his command.

And it came, and Nancy heard and understood it but too well. The wind had died away, and through the open window came a long, despairing cry, more like the shriek of lost spirits than the utterance of any thing on earth. The roar of the distant breakers, and the dash of the waves at the foot of the tower, stifled the wrench of splitting timbers and the crash of falling spars; but they could not drown that piercing cry of human agony -the wail that went up from the pitiless midnight sea to the relentless midnight heavens, from the doomed and dying crew.

The woman fell upon her knees. “‘And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh!' God forgive you and me, André Duroche, the blood of those we have sent this night to their marriage-bed in the sea!"

Spring comes, even to Sable Island, and there as elsewhere in her genial smiles the gloomy cruelty of Winter is all forgotten. April breezes, May sunshine and showers, work their will everywhere, and bring buoyancy to drooping hearts, smiles to sombre

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faces, and brightness to faded eyes. Virginie Duroche, who was neither faded nor drooping, and to whom this spring was to be the most eventful and the happiest season of her life, welcomed each day with a fresh hope and a brighter bloom.

André, gloomy as was his wont, showed but little the influence of the cheering season; but even Nancy shook off to some extent the oppression that had hung over her like a cloud through the winter, much to Virginie's wonderment and distress. For many a long week, indeed, after that terrible November night, had the remembrance of it haunted the old woman like a phantom horror never to be shaken off: day after day had she feared to approach the sea, lest it should cast at her feet the ghastly tokens of the wreck night after night had she trembled to close her eyes, dreading to live again those awful moments in her dreams. But time passed and brought no sign. No fragment, not the smallest, ever came to shore to tell that a goodly vessel had been swallowed by the waves. Home was as peaceful as ever; Virginie smiled her gay smiles and trilled her gay songs; the bird warbled and the flowers bloomed; till at last Nancy was tempted to think, and tried hard to believe, that the fearful cry which was the only evidence of the consequences of her sin (for so she deemed her almost involuntary slumber) had been but the invention of her fancy, or the wail of the winter wind.

It was far on in May before Virginie, glad as she was to escape from her winter bondage, ventured to extend her walks far from home. Indeed, she rarely left home now, for every day brought nearer the chance of Floyd's coming, and suppose she were away when he arrived! She sometimes climbed the sand-hills to gaze out over the sea; but more frequently she busied herself in some employment that would be either pleasurable or profitable to Floyd. Floyd-nothing but Floyd now-filled her thoughts and her heart. She came one day to Nancy dressed for a walk.

"I am going down on the shore, ma bonne," she said. “ "Something tells me I shall see him to-day-but I am restless-I cannot wait at home. I want the foam on my cheek and the breeze in my hair. Kiss me-I am going down on the shore where the north wind blows."

Nancy watched the lithe figure disappear over the nearest hill. "God grant he may come!" she said; "but the time grows long. My mind misgives me - he sud hae been here before."

The day wore on, and the sun shone and the wind blew; but no Floyd came, and no Virginie returned. The mid-day meal was over, the sun was already sinking, the shadows of the sand-hills grew long and dark, and at last Nancy became alarmed and summoned André.

"Ye'll have to gae seek the child, André," she told him. "She's been gone since morn, and no sign. She'll hae lost her way amang the rocks, ere now."

and dark along the shore. If ye dinna gae, I'll gae mysel'! 'Tis late enough now."

André prepared to start, his own face assuming a look of anxiety when he heard how long Virginie had been absent; and Nancy, who, once alarmed, felt her fears gather fresh force by expression, resolved to accompany him. It was a walk of some length to the north shore. They knew all Virginie's favorite haunts and searched them, but Virginie was not there. They called, they examined every sheltered nook, André ascended the highest point he could find and gazed eagerly round, Nancy wrung her hands and made the rocks resound with hoarse cries for her darling, but all in vain. No answering call reached their listening ears, no flutter of her garments met their watchful eyes. "We must search the caves one by one, Nancy; she has most likely fallen asleep in one of the caves."

Nancy strove to agree, but she could not utter the words. She felt in her heart how unlikely was the supposition.

And by this time the sun was low, and the caves were growing dim. In and out, among the rocks, through the sand - hills, and among the water-worn caverns, went the seekers, with hearts growing heavier and hopes growing fainter each moment that flew. They separated, they met again, they searched apart and together, till they thought they had examined every inch of ground.

"Is it best to look here, Nancy?" They had stopped before a narrow aperture in the rocks, almost drifted up with sand. "Is there room for her to have passed in, do you think? Shall we search here?"

"What sud take her into that hole?" demanded Nancy, who spoke roughly to conceal the indefinable dread that had crept over her. 'But, maybe, 'tis as well to look. Hae ye a light wi' ye?"

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Yes," he answered, and passed in, she following close upon his steps. The cave was quite dark, for, though the entrance admitted them, they in entering excluded the faint daylight that yet remained. André struck a light, but his hand shook, and he dropped the feeble spark upon the ground. "Call, Nancy," he whispered. "I thought I saw some one there."

She called, "Virginie!" but no answer came. "The cave's empty," she said, "but strike another light." Then, as she felt him tremble, she took it from him, and in her firmer fingers its blaze illuminated the cavern with a faint glow, and the seekers saw that their search was ended. The cave was not empty it contained two figures. Before them, where the winter waves had cast him, and the winter winds had drifted his tomb around him, Floyd lay stretched, stiff and silent; and beside him lay Virginie, where she had fallen senseless, clasping his cold hand. His promise and her presentiment were both fulfilled they had met in the spring!

Did Virginie die? No. Did she go mad? No. To soft and gentle natures such as hers, resignation comes more naturally than rebellion, and youth and health are "She went north, and the caves are deep hard to kill. She never knew that to the

"No fear, Nancy. She knows them as well as you or I."

hand of her own father she in all human probability owed her lover's death and the desolation of her life. She never knew that Floyd's anxiety to be with her had led him, in the fatal winter season, into the fated ship supposed by her father to contain his mortal foe. She never knew that all those winter months, when she with gay songs and happy heart, was preparing for the life they were to share together, he had lain so near her, icebound, stiff, and silent, with the wind singing his requiem and the sand for his shroud. Nancy guessed it all; the terrible mystery was clear to her; but she kept the secret, as the winds and waves bad done.

But the Flower of Sable Island drooped and faded; her day was ended ere it had well begun. Smiles and songs were laid aside with the marriage-garments she was never to wear, and her life henceforth knew but one task-the tendance of the poor, foolish father, who never, from the moment that he saw the destruction which his hand had wrought, recovered sense again. Virginie believed it was grief for her alone that had so afflicted him, and Nancy never undeceived her; her one duty was the care of him, her one mournful pleasure the rearing of flowers with which to deck Floyd's grave.

Nancy still inhabits the cottage, but the light-house is in other hands. She stays, she says, in the hope that dragging out her life in the haunted scene of her sin and sorrow may expiate the past. She is alone; and in the sheltered nook where Floyd was buried there are now three graves instead of one.

THE PERUVIAN AMAZON AND ITS TRIBUTARIES.*

NOTES FROM A JOURNAL OF TRAVEL.

IV.

June 1st.-To-day reached the mouth of a

small, rapid river, entering into the Pachitea, on the right side of the latter. This, one of our old poperos told us, was called " Yuyu Pichis," or "False Pichis," from the fact that it had once been mistaken for the river Pichis by a priest, who was traveling up the Pachitea. There was a fine sand-bank here for a camping-ground, and it had certainly been used as such by some padre on a former occasion, as he had stuck out a few plantaintrees for the benefit of himself and crew on some return-day. This old popero, as well as several other Indians among our canoe-crews, belongs to one of the missionary stations on the Ucayali; and, on a former occasion, when some of the padres had passed from the Ucayali to Ocopa in the Andes Mountains, had accompanied them up the Pachitea and Palcazu to the mouth of the Mayro. For this reason they were procured to accompany our expedition. The remarkable manner in which Indians recollect landmarks and measure distances would, at first, before reflecting that they have little else with which to charge their memories, strike one with wonder. And, as these long miles had been

wearily toiled over before, and measured by

* Continued from JOURNAL, No. 347.

the falling of many a dis- honest drop of sweat, it was not strange that they now remembered every gravel-bed and turn in the river. We endeavor always to stop for the night on a sand-spit, or on an island, so that the view will be unobstructed for at least a

few yards around us. These suitable camping-points occur at long intervals on the Pachitea; but our old Indian recollects them every one, and so regulates the speed of the canoes that we almost invariably reach one in time to prepare for the night.

Our manner of asking for and receiving information from these ancient mariners is very interesting. One of our party is of rather a restless disposition, and at least a dozen times a day inquires of the popero in his canoe, in bad Spanish and worse Inca, how far we have to go before coming to the next stoppingplace. The old "aborigine " looks at him for a while in silence, and then, if deigning any reply at all, does it by majestically extending his bony arm in the direction we are going up the river, and then, slowly waving his hand back and forth an interminable number of times, makes a downward swoop toward his feet-all of which signifies that we will change our direction as many times as he has waved his hand-and then make a straight pull for the camping-ground.

A few days since we met with a serious misfortune in the upsetting of the pilot's boat, causing the loss of his gun and fishing-tackle. This man is a Brazilian Indian, but the regular pilot of one of the Peruvian steamers, and is accompanying us on this expedition in order to become acquainted with this river, so as to bring his boat up. In addition to his knowledge of sand-banks, currents, etc., he is one of the most magnificent huntsmen I ever saw, and, up to the time of his loss, kept us supplied with an abundance of fine game. Of course, the variety of animal life differs with the country through which we are passing. For a considerable distance after enter

ing the Pachitea the banks were steep, and the country elevated, as a general thing; and in the space of three days this Indian gave us at least fifteen varieties of game, all delicious eating. Now, we are dependent upon our salt-fish and rice, with an occasional meal of canned meat, helped out by such large animals as can be struck by a ball from an army-carbine shot from a canoe; or such game as can be killed along the bank by one of the commission who fortunately possesses a breech-loading shot-gun. So far, there do not seem to be many turtle in this river. There is, however, one reptile, highly prized as food in this country, the iguana. In the last few days we have seen a good many of them, but have not succeeded in capturing any. It is an immense green lizard, with a notched back and a pouch under the throat, and from nose to tip of tail measures from six to seven feet. The other day, while ascending some rapids, we shot one on an overhanging tree. We could not stop; and, although the blood was trickling from it, it held on until the last canoe had passed, and then dropped into the water. The Indians, when they catch loop in the tail and hanging it over a stake. the iguana, frequently secure it by making a

Strange to say, we never find any fruit fit

to eat growing wild in the forest. The only approximation to an edible fruit which I have seen since entering the Pachitea is a variety of the palm- nut, known as the vegetable ivory, and which, in its soft state, tastes like a piece of slippery-elm bark, and is about as tempting. As our time is limited in consequence of not being able to take many supplies, and as we can form no idea as to the distance we may have to traverse, every minute has to be devoted to the legitimate duty of pushing the survey as rapidly as pos sible up the river; and, therefore, we cannot enter the forest for any distance from the river-bank. Consequently, my remarks em brace only a narrow belt of country on both sides of the river, and about a mile each in width. But, from the position of the moun tains and the character of the banks, I should think that there was a similarity in the coun try far back from both banks, a great deal of high land, never overflowed, and suitable on the Pachitea for farming and grazing.

June 4th.-This morning, at eleven A. M., we arrived at the confluence of the Palcazu and Pichis Rivers, which form the Pachitea. The Pichis is a fine, deep-looking stream; and, as soon as we obtain observations at this point, we will commence its explora tions. As it is an entirely unknown and unexplored river, we look forward to it with great interest. Since our experience at "Chonta Isla," we have tried no more flat-top houses, always stopping for the night in time to allow the Indians to build a sharp-roofed one. They erect it in an incredibly short time. Each Indian carries a big knife at his waist; and saplings for frame work, palm-leaves for thatch, and bark to supply the use of nails, are all close at hand. In fifteen minutes they would put up a shelter large enough to accommodate the whole commission, and proof against a hard shower. As we might have to remain for several days, we constructed quite a substantial shelter at this point, with the hope of finding it in good preservation upon our return down the river.

June 6th.-Mouth of river Pichis-latitude 9° 54′ 9′′ south; longitude 74° 58′ 45′ west of Greenwich; distance from Brazilian frontier, twelve hundred and fifty-six miles; elevation above sea, 188.365 metres. After hav ing remained here for two days, for the purpose of determining the position of the mouth of the river, at 10.50 A. M. we entered the Rio Pichis, and took up the line of sail for its head-waters. Here, our Peruvian doa, after having taken charge of our letters for the United States, with many protestations of friendship and good wishes for our brilliant success, left us. His destination was Lima, by way of the city of Huanuco; and which in order to reach he had to go thirty miles up the river Palcazu in canoes, and then take the trail kept open by the padres

in their annual visits from the stations on the Ucayali to and from the College of Ocopa. the headquarters of the Franciscan Order, in Peru. The water of the Pichis is, at this particular time of the year, quite clear; and the current, and the appearance of the banks. indicate a bold stream flowing through a pampa country. The indications of animal life

have certainly increased, both banks being covered with enormous tracks, while the woods seem to be alive with monkeys. One variety, a large, ugly, black monkey, seems to be very abundant. They are considered a great delicacy, and are much sought after by our Indians as an article of food. They usually kill them during the interval between our stopping for the night and dark. The crew of my canoe were particularly good huntsmen; and after they had feasted all night on monkey, there were generally three or four of our ancestors with singed skins, and agonized and distorted countenances, scattered about in the bottom of the canoe for lunch next day. They had, moreover, been cooked woodcockfashion. The water is so clear that we can see the fish three or four feet below the surface, and our Indians are constantly punching and hitting at them with their poles and paddles. One fish, called the vaza, we find very common in shallow water close to sandbanks and islands. It furnishes a good target for a fishing - spear, and, when landed into a canoe, creates quite a commotion until its tail is chopped off. The Indians report the sting of this fish to be extremely painful. In appearance it is something like a beef's liver when spread out. It belongs to the species known as ray.

At about four o'clock P. M. we stopped for the evening on a smooth, hard sand-spit, running out into the water from the vertical forest-wall, and commenced the erection of our shelters for the night. For, from the frequency of showers, now that we had reached the hills, and as a protection against the dew also, we found these to be indispensable. I don't think any of our party experienced that glorious sensation said to be produced by standing where the foot of white man has never trod; and, after posting our guard, with rather more careful instructions than usual, we were soon wrapped in slumber. About midnight I was awakened by hearing some one run rapidly by my head, and was immediately brought to consciousness by hearing the sergeant report that a canoe and Indians were absent. We were soon all fully aroused, and, upon the rolls being called, found that eight of our Indians had deserted. But what we were most concerned about was to ascertain what quantity of our small stock of provisions they had taken with them. Upon examination, we found that they had taken the smallest canoe, stocked it with supplies necessary to take them down to the mouth of the Pachitea River, and had carried off some knives and axes. In many respects this was a most unfortunate occurrence for us, from the fact that it took away not only our lightest-draught canoe, but that we lost some of our oldest and most experienced boatmen also; and its demoralizing effect upon the other Indians was very great. They deserted through fear of the Campa Indians, who, report said, inhabited the shore of this river. This desertion necessitated our leaving still another canoe, in order to have crews sufficient for those we carried; for the increasing swiftness of the current compels us to strengthen each boat's crew. After this some of our party remained awake until

morning. Then we held a council of war, and determined to rely no more upon our Indians and soldiers, except for propelling the canoes and for building shelters. Even these duties we expected to force from them only by keeping constantly before them the fear of being thrashed or shot. At present our situation is this: six gentlemen are penetrating a country of which nothing is known, except that it is inhabited by the most powerful and warlike tribe in Peru, which, for the last seventy years, has killed all persons who have attempted to come among them; that our only mode of entrance or retreat is in canoes, these canoes being manned by halfbreeds and Indians, who are seeking an opportunity to run away with them and our provisions; thus leaving us two hundred miles within the territory of a cannibal tribe, and with no supplies. In other words, we have a foe within the camp as well as one without. So, from this time forth, until we return, there will be a regular watch kept by the younger members of the commission.

June 10th.-The river is holding its own splendidly. It is a deep, clear stream, and the banks are becoming higher and better defined. There are numerous playas of white pebbles and quantities of fish. The scenery is beautiful, numerous blue and dark-green mountain spurs and ranges being visible in the distance. There is not much change in the vegetation. The forest-trees are possibly a little taller and of harder fibre than those lower down the river. The woods are filled with turkeys and ronsocos. The turkeys are not timid, and we kill quite a number of them some days without its interfering with our progress.

The ronsocos are sleepy-looking beasts, and we often catch them napping close to the water's edge. Even when you can approach within a few feet, it is almost impossible to kill them, so great is the amount of vitality that they possess. I have often seen them, with several large army-bullets in their bodies, jump into the river, dive out of sight, and swim a long distance, and, when attempting to crawl up the opposite bank, fall back dead.

To-day, when we stopped for dinner, there was a herd of eight feeding on a playa, the largest weighing some two hundred pounds. They had never seen the face of a white man, or had heard the report of a gun; but instinct seemed to warn them of danger, and they all ran away before we could get within range.

On account of the serious illness of one of our party, we had to lie over to-day; and to-night experienced the furies of a tropical thunder-storm, accompanied with some wind. For a considerable time we were kept in a state of uneasiness from fear of the falling of some immense trees standing around us, for along the river's course, both above and below, there was constantly borne to us the resounding crash of some huge forest-king as he fell and was buried in the soft alluvium. After the storm had passed, and quietness reigned in the camp, we were visited by a huge ronsoco that, in snuffing around, put his cold snout into a man's face, and immediately the whole camp was aroused by two

shots from a double-barreled gun. The animal took to the water, but, that being very shallow at this point, we succeeded in capturing it.

To-day we found the first traces of man on this river-a log, evidently cut with some sharp instrument.

June 11th.-At an early hour we got under way. We saw a great deal of game to-day, and tested most satisfactorily the superiority of breech-loading arms and fowling. pieces. Passed a hut and several signs of Campa Indians, and stopped for the night on a gravel island with a few stunted bushes in the centre. This, at first, appeared to be a mal paso; but, upon examination, we found a sufficiency of water on one side of it. Here we found a small red-deer, but he swam the river, and disappeared into the forest before we could get a shot.

We found some handsome specimens of agate and jasper, and the Indians said that there was gold in the sand; but we saw none. Although the current has increased, we find that we make the same number of miles each day, owing to the fact that the men in each crew are becoming more accustomed to working together. Ten miles is about an average day's traveling up-stream. The men are becoming more and more frightened every day; and we know that at the fall of the first arrows among them they will all attempt to go overboard.

June 13th.-The current has increased considerably, and the banks in some places are quite rocky. We are now among the hills, and the mountains appear not far distant. One at first sight would not be struck with any very great difference in the vegetation of the mountains and lowlands.

To-day we saw two large snakes, one of which we killed. Early in the day we seemed to get into a thickly-inhabited region, passing several Campa huts, one chacra, and five balsas. The balsas are nicely made, and apparently with knives or axes. Along the banks are very fresh footprints of Indians and the remains of fires but recently abandoned.

About three P. M. we heard the Campas in the woods, beating on their tambours; and their huts and balsas increased in number as we advanced. Our Indians were here seized with more than an ordinary panic, and things generally had a squally look. At six P. M. we stopped for the night at some deserted huts on a small playa. A large tributary empties into the Pichis here; and, as we expected, we found that we were near the head of canoe-navigation. We named this tributary Herrera-yacu, in honor of a Peruvian major who accompanied the expedition, and we determined its mouth, which was six miles above the head of steam-navigation on the Pichis, to be in latitude 10° 20' 3" south; longitude 74° 54' west of Greenwich; distance from the Brazilian frontier, thirteen hundred and thirty miles.

The place where we heard the tambour is only two miles distant. It seems to be a kind of outpost or headquarters for their fishing-parties when they come down from the hills, as there are signs of a path and a kind of yard for building balsas. These bal

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