CHAPTER I.

THE LAND OF A SINGLE TREE.

One day late in March, just as the tropical sun was sinking from view, our barefooted Spanish crew pulled up anchor from the muddy bottom of Port of Spain’s harbor. Slowly the sails filled, and the spray began to fly from the bow as we steered straight into the crimson path of the sunset. Behind us the lofty Trinidad ranges glowed softly; great velvety peaks and ridges, purpled by distance, gilded by the last rays of day. Then the twilight passed swiftly as if the sun had been quenched by the waters which covered its face; the mountains became merged into the darkness of the sky, and the city of busy life behind us melted into a linear constellation of twinkling lights.

We had chartered a little sloop of twenty-one tons, the “Josefa Jacinta” (_Ho-say’fah Hah-seen’tah_) manned by a captain, a cook and a crew of three. At her masthead flew the flag of Venezuela. With a month’s provisions in the hold and all the varied paraphernalia of a naturalist, we were headed for the northern part of the Orinoco delta in search of the primitive wilderness of which we had dreamed.

Jamaica, Colon, Savanilla, La Guayra had passed in quick succession, and we were surprised to find Trinidad the most modern and wide-awake of all. The well-appointed hotels, the trolleys, electric lights, museums, and newspapers of Port of Spain, the wireless station even now flashing its aërial messages from yonder peak,—all boded ill for our search for primeval conditions. Was there no spot left on earth, we wondered, which could truthfully be called an untrodden wilderness!—jungles untouched by axe or fire, where guns had not replaced bows and arrows; where the creatures of the wilderness were tame through unfamiliarity with human beings!

* * * * *

The Southern Cross rose and straightened its arms; the Pole Star hung low in the north. As the night wore on, an ugly sea arose and half buried our little craft in foam and spray. A cross-wind disputed our advance and the strong tide drove us out of our course. But our captain had navigated these waters for more than half a century, and we had no fears.

The following day was as wild as the night, and no living thing appeared in sky or sea, save a host of milky jelly-fish (_Stomolophus meleagris_). They kept below the surface, and seemed to suffer no damage from the roughness of the water. In an area of a square yard we counted twenty, and for hour after hour we passed through vast masses of them, extending to the farthest waves visible on either hand and as deep down as our eyes could penetrate—myriads upon myriads of these lowly beings, each vibrating with life, and yet unable to guide its course against the tide, or to do aught but pulsate slowly along.

Later in the day, although the water grew less rough, the whole company sank lower in the muddy depths—muddy, because the brown waters of the great Orinoco hold sway over all this gulf and scatter out at sea the sediment washed from the banks far inland.

Finally the storm passed and we saw a blue cloud to the north, hinting of the great mountain ranges of the Spanish Main. Ahead, a low green mist along the horizon told us we were nearing shore. This became more and more distinct until we could make out individual trees. By noon we had left the tumultuous waters of the Gulf of Paria, and were floating quietly on a broad stream between two majestic walls of green; we had entered our wilderness, and the silence and beauty of our reception seemed all the more vivid after the noise and turbulence of the wind and water behind us.

[Illustration: FIG. 2. OUR SLOOP ENTERING THE MANGROVES.]

Our first impression was of a vast solitude. It was midday, and the tide was almost at its height. With limp sails we drifted silently onward, not a sound of life coming from the green depths about us. We skirted the mangroves along the south bank, moving more and more slowly, until at last we rested motionless on the water, between the blazing sky overhead and the muddy depths beneath. The tide had reached its highest, and, like the living creatures of the jungle, rested in the midday heat. The captain gave a gruff order in Spanish, and the anchor splashed into the water, dragging the chain after with a sudden roar and jangle which echoed from shore to shore—jarring the silence as would a shriek of pain in a cathedral.

A chatter came from the mangroves near at hand, and high up among the dense foliage we saw the first life of the continent—a wistful little human face gazing out at us, a capuchin monkey striving with wrinkled brows to make out what we were. At his call two others came and looked; then, as our sail came down with a rattle of halyards, the trio fled through the branches with all the speed which four hands and a tail could lend.

We spent the afternoon in getting our floating home ready for use. No more waves would be encountered, so everything was unlashed. Stereo-glasses, camera-plates, and ammunition were placed ready to hand; the galley stove was moved far forward, and a mosquito-proof tent of netting was erected under the tarpaulin in the stern.

The sun had sunk low in the west when we saw a long, narrow dug-out canoe coming downstream. An Indian woman and her baby were crouched in the bow, while in the stern a naked Indian paddled swiftly and silently. His skin shone like coppery bronze in the sunlight, his long black hair was bound back from his face by a thong of hide. In front of him rested a bow and arrows and a long fish-spear. Silently he approached and in silence he passed—unheeding our salutations.

[Illustration: FIG. 3. SCARLET IBISES IN FLIGHT.]

One more beauty of this wild wonderland was vouchsafed us before night fell. We had been disappointed in the birds. Where were the myriads of water-fowl of which we had heard? We had seen nothing—not a single feather. But now the scene slowly changed. The tide was falling rapidly, swirling and eddying past the boat, and the roots of the mangroves began to protrude, their long stems shining black until the water dried from them. Mud-flats appeared, and suddenly, without warning, a living flame passed us—and we had seen our first Scarlet Ibis[27].[A]

Past the dark green background of mangrove foliage the magnificent bird flew swiftly—flaming with a brilliance which shamed any pigment of human art. Blood red, intensest vermilion, deepest scarlet—all fail to hint of the living color of the bird. Before we could recover from our delight a flock of twenty followed, flying close together, with bills and feet scarlet like the plumage. They swerved from their path and alighted on the mud close to the mangroves, and began feeding at once. Then a trio of snowy-white Egrets[32] with trailing plumes floated overhead; others appeared above the tops of the trees; a host of tiny Sandpipers skimmed the surface of the water and scurried over the flats. Great Cocoi Herons[31] swept majestically into view; Curlews and Plover[18] assembled in myriads, lining the mud-flats at the water’s edge, while here and there, like jets of flame against the mud, walked the vermilion Ibises. Terns[14] with great yellow bills flew about the sloop, and Skimmers[17] ploughed the surface of the tide in endless furrows. Macaws[61] began to pass, shrieking as they flew, two and two together—and then night closed quickly over all. From the zenith the sun had looked down upon a stream as quiet as death; it sank upon a scene full of the animation of a myriad forms of life.

As dusk settled down and hid the shore from our eyes, another sense was aroused, and to our ears came the sounds of night in these tropical jungles—a thousand cries, moans, crashes; all mysterious—unexplainable. In time we became so accustomed to them that we could distinguish repetitions and details, but this first night brought only a confused chorus of delightful mystery, now broken by a moment of silence, now rising to an awe-inspiring climax. One sound only remained clear in our memory, often repeated, now uttered in lower, now in higher tones—a terrible choking sigh. It might have been the last death gasp of some great monkey, or the pitiful utterance of hopelessness of a madman.

With the turn of the tide we raised anchor and drifted through the night—mile after mile for six hours, and then anchored again. And thus it was that we came to our wilderness.

* * * * *

Not until we had been in the mangrove jungle for many days did we begin to realize its vastness, its mystery, its primeval character. Just four hundred and ten years ago Christopher Columbus sailed through the gulf we had left and gazed on the dark forest in the heart of which we now were. Throughout the whole extent of the mangrove wilderness we found no hint that conditions were not as they were in 1498.

One of the most astonishing things about the mangrove forest is the apparent diversity of its plant life. Until one actually comes within reach of trunk and leaves it is impossible to believe that all this forest is composed of a single species of plant. The foliage of some of the trees is light, of others dark; here stands a clump of pale beechlike trunks, there a dark, rough-barked individual is seen. The manner of growth of the young and old trees is so different that a confusion of mingled trees, shrubs, and vines seems to confront one. But everywhere the mangrove reigns supreme. It is the only vegetable growth which can gain a footing in this world of salt water. In fact, it makes its own footing, entangling and holding mud and débris about its stems, and ever blindly reaching out dangling roots, like the legs of gigantic spiders.

Far out on the tip of a lofty branch a mangrove seed will germinate, before it falls assuming the appearance of a loaded club from eight to fifteen inches in length. One day it lets go and drops like a plummet into the soft mud, where it sticks upright. Soon the tide rises, and if there is too strong a current the young plant is swept away, to perish far out at sea; but if it can maintain its hold, roots soon spring out, and the ideal of the mangrove is realized, the purpose for which all this interesting phenomena is intended: the forest has gained a few yards, and mud and leaves will soon choke out the intervening water.

The mangroves have still another method of gaining new territory. Aërial roots are thrown out from branches high in air, swinging downward and outward with a curve which sometimes wins three or four yards ahead. Like hawsers thrown from a vessel to a wharf these roots clutch at the mud beneath, but where the current runs swiftly they swing and dangle in vain, until they have grown so heavy that they touch bottom some distance downstream. We made use of these dangling roots as anchors for our canoe, bending the elastic unattached end upward and springing it over the gunwale.

Throughout all this great region there is not a foot of solid ground. In one place we pushed a tall shoot some eight feet in height straight down through the mud, and it went out of sight. A man falling on this mud, out of reach of aid, would vanish as in a quick-sand. So the wild creatures of the mangroves must either swim, fly, or climb. No terrestrial beings can exist there. We once selected a favorable place, and for fifty yards made our way over the roots and branches before exhaustion and an impassable gap of mud and water stopped all progress. As never before we realized how safe from man are the denizens of these strange swamps. Monkeys fled swiftly before us, birds rose and flew overhead, while we painfully crept and pulled ourselves along over the slippery stems.

[Illustration: FIG. 4. YOUNG MANGROVE PLANTS.]

More wonderful even than the coral polyps are these mangroves, for by this plant alone all this region has been rescued from the sea and built up into land. In future years, as the mud banks become higher and are fertilized by the ever-falling leaves, other growths will appear, and finally the coast of the continent will be thus extended by many scores of miles of fertile soil.

A network of narrow channels stretches through this wilderness and allowed us to explore the far interior in our shallow curiara or dug-out. Thus we spent days and weeks in search of the creatures which lived in this land of a single tree, and here we learned how delightful the climate of such a region can be. Every night we slept under blankets, and during the day the temperature ranged from 66° at five and six o’clock in the morning to about 86° at noon, although we were within nine degrees of the equator.[B] One could paddle all day with more comfort than on a hot summer day in the north. By day mosquitoes were generally absent, and only a few biting flies reminded us of the “terrible insect scourges” of the tropics. Life was delightfully new and strange, with the spice of danger ever attendant upon the exploration of unknown lands.

[Illustration: FIG. 5. THE CRUCIFIX IN THE CATFISH.]

The fishes attracted our attention from the first. When we came on deck before sunrise for a plunge, our little vessel would be surrounded by hosts of catfish (_Pseudaucheniplerus nodosus_) all, like our sloop, headed upstream against the tide. They would bite indifferently at bait, a bit of cloth, or a bare hook, and were delicious eating. On the bottom our hooks would sometimes be taken by great fierce-whiskered cats, bedecked with long streamers, which gave no end of trouble before they were quieted. They were pale yellow, and the head and back were encased in bone; Maestro—the cook—called them the crucifix fish, and later showed us why. On the under surface of the bony armor is a large cross with a halo about it just above the arms. The crew never caught one of these fish without making the sign of the cross in their right palm.

When the tide was half down the funniest of puff-fishes (_Calomesus psittacus_), or tambourines as the Captain called them, would take our bait. They were from three to five inches long, white below, and pale greenish above crossed by seven black bands, the first across the mouth and the seventh at the tip of the caudal fin. There was also a black patch at the base of the pectoral fins. The iris was bright lemon yellow. When gently scratched on the lower parts, or sometimes even when just lifted from the water they would swell up into a round ball. They were covered with short, stiff bristles which stood on end when the fish was inflated, and their comical appearance was increased by the four rodent-like incisor teeth in the front of the mouth. When thus inflated with air they were helpless for a time, and if thrown back, floated belly upward at the mercy of the wind and current, until they were able to collapse to normal size.

On one of our first excursions among the mangroves in our small canoe we made a most interesting discovery. Here and there, sprawled out on the mud-flats, were small crocodiles, and occasionally a large one would rush off into the water at our approach. Hugging the edge of the tide where the ripples lapped back and forth on the black ooze were many other living creatures. For a long time we could not make them out, but finally, drifting silently upon a whole school, we knew them for four-eyed fish (_Anableps anableps_)—strange creatures which we had hoped to see.

[Illustration: FIG. 6. PARROT PUFF-FISH.]

We came to a tiny bayou, shaped like a bottle, from which four Little Blue Herons[34] flew as we approached. We placed our dug-out corklike athwart the mouth and anchored with our crossed paddles. The air was warm, bees hummed about the tiny four-parted flowers of the mangroves, and a great blue morpho butterfly flapped past, mirrored in the water beneath. Then came tragedy—never far off in this land of superabundant life. A small clay-colored crocodile made a sudden rush at a ripple, and a quartet of four-eyes shot from the water in frantic fear. One was slower than the rest, and the fierce jaws of the diminutive reptile just grazed him. Another fell back downward in the ooze, and in a twinkling was caught and dragged into the depths. No wonder the poor little four-eyes are ever on the lookout for danger and spend most of their time where they merge with the ripples along the shore, when such enemies are on the watch for them!

A whir of wings sounded, and a Kingfisher[69] alighted within arm’s reach. But such a Kingfisher!—the veriest mite, clad in a robe of brilliant emerald and orange. So small was he that it seemed as if the tiniest of minnows must choke him. He seemed to be of the same opinion, for while we watched him he caught only the insects which passed him in mid-air or which were floating on the water.

[Illustration: FIG. 7. FOUR-EYED FISH.]

By far the most numerous, and in their way the most interesting of the mangroves’ inhabitants, were the crabs. There were untold millions of them, all small, all active and keen of vision. If we sat quietly, they would appear from everywhere, peeping out like little gnomes from their perches on the mangroves, forever playing their noiseless little fiddles. These tiny tree-folk not only played, but danced. Let us picture a scene constantly enacted, so close to us that we could all but touch the performers. Two crabs approach each other, now fiddling vigorously, now waving their diminutive pincers back and forth over their heads as a ballet-dancer waves her arms. They move never in straight lines, but sideways, now running back a few steps, now forward, until at last they meet, and each grasping the other’s claws, raises them aloft, and then for five minutes they circle about in most ludicrous imitation of a waltz. All this usually takes place on the _lower_ surface of a mangrove trunk, the inverted position apparently making no less secure the footing of the little dancers. We could not decide whether this performance was in the nature of courtship or just pure play.

What we did discover concerning the lives of these crabs was full of interest. Hundreds of the smallest-sized ones lived in holes in the mud, and when the tide went down they came out and ran about—intent on some all-important business of their little existence. Another class of larger individuals had their holes near the roots of the mangroves, one (rarely two) good-sized crab apparently taking possession of each root. Here he disported himself, running up and down, from the water into the air with no change in speed, and here, strangest of all, he grew to resemble his home root. There was as great diversity among the roots as among the larger trunks—whitish, black, mottled, and all intervening shades. It was a fact, of which we had hundreds of daily proofs, that the crabs were so like their particular root that often we could not detect the quiescent crustacean when within a foot of our faces.

There was one group of five black roots forming a rough circle about a single mottled root. As we approached, a crab ran down each stalk into the water, and as we peered down and saw them go into their holes, we could at a glance tell the mottled crab from the five black ones. Even the roots which were as yet a foot or more above the bottom mud each had their occupant, which thus had to swim upward from his hole before he could grasp his swaying perch.

[Illustration: FIG. 8. OUR FLOATING HOME AT LA CEIBA.]

A third class of crabs lived among the higher trunks and branches of the mangroves, and, except where there was a highroad of some large trunk dipping into the water, these less fortunate fellows had to scamper in frantic haste up the roots of their larger brethren. The indignant owner would rush at the trespasser with uplifted pincers, sometimes forcing him to leap for his life. Where an unusually large tree was frequented by many crabs, their carapaces bore a close resemblance to its pattern and hue, but among these more aërial and roving crabs the mimicry was, on the whole, less striking than among the sedentary class. In the latter, protective coloration was carried to a greater degree of perfection than I have ever seen it elsewhere. These were loath to leave their roots and swim, preferring to run swiftly down until they reached the mud. This habit made it easy to catch them, merely by taking the end of the root aboard and shaking it, when the unsuspecting crab would rush down in all haste into a pail or jar held at the bottom.

They have many enemies, not only among fish, reptiles, and birds, but even some of the mammals, such as opossums and monkeys, catch and devour them in large numbers. We saw a beautiful Hawk,[54] bright chestnut in color, with a pale creamy head and black throat, dashing at them and skilfully catching the unfortunate crabs in one outstretched foot.

Scores of other beings of still more lowly degree swarmed about us, but as the tide lapped out of our little bayou, the four-eyes again attracted our attention. They began to get restless, swimming back and forth and shuffling over the mud, until at last in desperation at the ebbing of their element, they made a dash to get past us into the open water of the caño. Some dived, but so buoyant are they that they can scarcely stay below a second, and soon popped up on the surface again. Others scrambled, rolled, and squirmed along over the ooze on each side of us, many making good progress and escaping. We caught several and placed them in an aquarium for study. When hard pressed in deep water these curious fish progress by a series of leaps—up on their tail end and down again, up and down again, describing a series of curves and making very fast time.

When examined closely we see that these fish have only two eyes, but these are divided in such a way that there appear to be double that number. There are two distinct pupils, one elevated above the head like the eyes of a frog, the other separated by a band of tissue and below the water-line. So when the fish floats in its normal position at the surface the upper pupils, fitted for vision in the air, watch for danger above, while the lower pair keeps a submarine lookout for insect food and aquatic enemies.

Monkeys are perfectly at home in this land of branches, the ever-cautious capuchins and now and then a long-limbed spider monkey swinging through the trees with as easy a motion as the flight of a bird. Biggest of all are the great red howlers, who keep to the deeper, more narrow channels, and in the evening and again at dawn send their voices to the farthest limits of the mangroves. They do not howl, they roar, and the sound is perfectly suited to such a wilderness as this. Before the first signs of day light up the east, a low, soft moaning comes through the forest, like the forewarning of a storm through pine trees. This gains in volume and depth until it becomes a roar. It is no wind now, nor like anything one ever hears in the north; it is a deep, grating, rumbling roar—a voice of the tropics; a hint of the long-past ages when speech was yet unformed. We grew to love the rhythm of this wild music, and it will always be for us the memory-awakening sound of the tropical wilderness.

The wealth of life in this region was evident when we began to explore a river flowing down from the highlands in the far-distant interior of Venezuela. One could spend a year here and not begin to exhaust the wonders on every hand.

With every high tide the Captain would pull up anchor and shift our craft a little upstream, until at last our keel touched bottom and we could go no farther. We anchored firmly and buoyed ourselves by ropes to the nearest trees so as to keep on an even keel. This, our home for a time, was in a little bight of the Guarapiche (_War-ah-pee’chy_) River, where two tumbled-down, long deserted Indian huts still retained the name of La Ceiba. We were so close to the left bank that at low tide we could walk ashore on oars laid down over the mud. Here the birds came and fed and bathed, here the howling monkeys roared over our very heads and Macaws swung and shrieked at us.

[Illustration: FIG. 9. EXPLORING THE CAÑOS IN A DUG-OUT.]

One night, during a heavy downpour of rain, we were suddenly awakened by a medley of cries, imprecations, shrieks and yells. Flashing the strong electric bulb we saw through the sheets of rain a very large curiara run afoul of our shore line; piled high with luggage, with several screaming women perched high on the bundles and boxes. Four pigs, tied feet upward, swelled the chorus in their fear of a watery grave and four men told us what they thought of us in the present and where they hoped we would spend the future centuries until the world’s end. Our Captain was out of his hammock in a moment and in tremendous basso profundo he silenced all, save the pigs, and rapidly gave directions to our crew to row upstream against the swirling current, clear the curiara and shift it outside the danger zone. Between breaths, he incidentally described minutely to the terrified natives what he knew would be the ultimate fate of such fools as tried to descend a river on the wrong side. It was a miracle that the whole outfit did not overturn—a narrow dug-out, measuring about twenty feet in length by two in width, striking full force against a rope in the blackness of the storm.

Early in the morning the roaring of the monkeys would awaken us, and after a hasty breakfast we would start out in our little boat. At this time everything is dripping and fresh with dew, and there is a bite and tang in the air which reminds us of Canadian dawns. It is still dusk, and the lines of mangroves on either side show only as black walls. For some minutes hardly a sound breaks the stillness except the distant roars and the drip, drip of our paddles. Then a sudden splashing and breaking of branches shows that we are discovered by a pair or more of capybaras (_Hydrochoerus capybara_), those enormous rodents which would pass as guinea pigs in Gulliver’s land of giants. Now an overhanging branch drenches us as we brush against it, and as it is pushed aside a whole armful of orchids comes away, the pure white blossoms (_Epidendrum fragrans_) filling the caño with their sweetness. Now the delicate foliage of a palm is silhouetted for a moment against the brightening eastern sky, and a mass of great convolvulus blossoms shines out from the shore. By this we know that we are not many miles from dry ground, and other growths are already beginning to dispute the dominance of the mangroves.

[Illustration: FIG. 10. WHITE ORCHIDS.]

Silence again, to be broken by one of the most remarkable and startling outbursts of sound which any living creature in the world can utter. A series of unconnected sighs, shrieks, screams, and metallic trumpet-like notes suddenly breaking forth apparently within thirty feet, is surely excuse enough for being startled. The hubbub ceases as abruptly as it began; then again it breaks out, now seeming to come from all directions, even from overhead. The author of all this is the Chachalaca[7]—a bird not larger than a common fowl, but with a longer tail. It spends most of its time on the ground or among the lower branches of the trees in the swamps. It was seldom that we caught sight of one, but we shall never forget the first time we heard their diabolical chorus.

The sun’s rays now light up the narrow path of water ahead of us, and a thousand creatures seem to awaken and give voice at once. Two splendid Yellow and Blue Macaws[61] fly high overhead, their screams softened by the distance; a flock of great white-billed, Red-crested Woodpeckers[88] drum and call; from the bank comes the rolling cry of the Tinamou and the sweet, penetrating double note of the Sun-bittern[24]; Hummingbirds squeak in their flight as they shake the dew-drops from the orchids above us; squirrels with fur of orange and gray scramble through the branches, fleeing before the little capuchin monkeys. Then, one after another, three splendid Swallow-tailed Kites[58] dash past us at full speed, brushing the surface of the water and floating upward again.

Swallows,[119] emerald and white, catch the flies which hover near us; a big yellow-breasted Flycatcher alights for a moment on the bow of our boat—and a tropical day is fairly begun. These and a hundred other creatures about us bathe, sing, and seek their food during the fresh hours of early morning. Then, as the sun rises higher and its heat draws a hush over all, the notes of the birds die away, leaving the insect vocalists supreme. Butterflies click here and there, a loud humming tells of huge wasps winging their way on murderous missions, but above all rises the chant of the cicadas. The commonest of these grinds out harsh, reverberating tones—whir-r-r-r-r-r! wh-r-r! wh-r-r! wh-r-r! wh-r-r! rolling the r’s in the first utterance for a minute or more, then ending in a series of short, abrupt whirs.

Then another cicada, a giant species, sends his call through the jungle; he has two strings to his bow, one a half-note higher than the other, and on these he plays for five minutes at a time. It is Chinese music to the very tone. Sometimes his tune ends in a rising shriek, and we know that one of the big blue wasps has descended on him and stabbed him in the midst of his love-song.

[Illustration: FIG. 11. SUN-BITTERN.]

The day wears on, and even the cicadas become quiet. The sun is overhead and the air full of tropical heat. In the shade it is always comfortable, and in the full glare of the sun one perspires so freely that the heat is hardly felt.

As we paddle lazily along, a great Tegu Lizard (_Teius nigropunctatas_) scrambles slowly along the bank; now crawling over a muddy expanse, now taking to the water to avoid a bushy tangle, folding back his legs and swimming with long graceful sweeps of his tail. As we watch him he leaps at several little crabs and catches them before they can escape into their holes.

We eat our luncheon in the shade of a clay bank, the first hint of dry land we have seen along the caño, and here we watch the little crocodiles basking in the sun and the crabs scuttling over the mud. A bird of iridescent green and orange swoops down to our very faces, and hangs swinging in a loop of a tiny liana on the face of the bank. The next instant it vanishes into the earth, darting into a hole hardly larger than the crab-holes around it. We have found the home of a Jacamar.[86] At the end of the short tunnel are four round white eggs laid on the bare clay.

While examining the nest we hear at our very feet the terrible night noise—the muffled choking sigh which has come to us every night since we entered the mangrove wilderness. We are standing in our narrow dug-out, which the least movement will overturn, and for an instant it is indeed a question whether we can control ourselves enough to keep it from filling. Now the mystery solves itself as a large anaconda (_Eunectes murinus_) nine or ten feet long, slowly winds out from a hole in the bank beneath the surface of the water and slips into the depths of the muddy current. Then the tide laps a little lower, and a big bubble of air, caught in the entrance of the serpent’s lair, frees itself with a sudden gasping sob. When the tide is rising or falling over these large openings in the mud, the air escapes from time to time with the terrifying sound which has so long puzzled us. Our mysterious nocturnal creature is thus explained away in the prosaic light of day.

[Illustration: FIG. 12. SOLUTION OF THE MANGROVE MYSTERY—AN ANACONDA.]

An hour later as our dug-out rounds a sharp bend in the caño, there comes to our ears a series of rasping cries—hoarse and creaking as of unoiled wheels. The glasses show a flock of large, brown, fowl-like birds in a clump of bushes overhanging the water. Their barred wings and tall, delicate crests tell us that they are the bird of all others which we had hoped to see and study. We are floating within a hundred feet of a flock of Hoatzins[11]—the strange reptile-like, living fossils which are found only in this part of the world, and which are closely related to no other living bird.

[Illustration: FIG. 13. HOATZINS IN THE BAMBOOS ON THE GUARAPICHE.]

As we draw near, the birds flutter through the foliage as if their wings were broken. We find that this is their usual mode of progression, and for a most interesting reason. Soon after the young Hoatzins are hatched and while yet unfledged they are able to leave the nest and climb about the branches, and in this they are greatly aided by the use of the wings as arms and hands. The three fingers of the wing are each armed with a reptile-like claw, and at the approach of danger the birds climb actively about like squirrels or lizards.

It has usually been thought that when they grow up they lose all these reptilian habits and behave as conventional feathered bipeds should. But we find that while, of course, the fingers are deeply hidden beneath the long flight-feathers of the wing, yet these very feathers are often used, fingerlike, in forcing aside thick vines, the birds thus clambering and pushing their way along.

It was with the keenest delight of the pioneer and discoverer that we watched these rare creatures. Although they do not nest until July and August, yet we found them in the very trees and bushes which held the remains of last year’s nests, thus revealing their sedentary life during the rest of the year. And day after day and week after week we learned to know that they would be found in this or that tree and nowhere else; they were veritable feathered sloths. They fed chiefly upon leaves, but fish also entered into the bill of fare of at least one individual.

We shot two, one for the skin and the other for the skeleton, and we found the plumage in a very worn and ragged condition, the wing feathers especially so, where the branches and leaves had rubbed and worn away the barbs. Throughout the noonday heat these birds were always to be found in the foliage overhanging the water, ready when disturbed to flop and thrash a few yards through the mangroves and bamboos.

After many days of pure delight, our note-books filled and our photographic plates more than half gone, we decided to see something of the Venezuelan dry land. We would go on and on until we had left the mangroves with all their unpeopled mystery behind us, and see what new surprises the villages of the Guarauno (_War-ah-oo’no_) Indians and the jungles of the foot-hills would afford.

At nine o’clock one night, when the stars alone cast a faint weird light over everything, we sent two of the crew ahead in the rowboat to keep our bow straight, and then began a long night of noiseless drifting with the tide. It was a night to remain forever in our memory. The men relieved their monotonous towing with strange wailing chants; on each side the mangroves slipped past, black and menacing; invisible creatures snorted and splashed in sudden terror as we rounded each turn; great fireflies burned on the trees and were reflected in the water, and to our ears came the roars of the four-handed folk, the calls and screams of night birds, the metallic clinks of insects, and ever the gasps and chokings of the serpents’ burrows—hardly less sinister now that we had solved their mystery.

Throughout all the night we passed up one caño, down another, past miles and miles of black foliage, all alike to us, almost indistinguishable in the starlight, yet early next morning as we rose to rout the cloud of mosquitoes about our head nets, the captain said in his soft Spanish tongue, “The mountains of my country should be in sight ahead.” And, indeed, an hour later, as the day dawned, we could discern the blue haze in the north which marked the high land out.

Toucans, big Muscovy Ducks[43] and Snakebirds[48] flew past us; great brown Woodpeckers and flights of Parrakeets swung across the caño; dolphins played around us, but we heeded them little, all eager to press on and see the new land.

So we sat far up in the bow and watched the mountains take form and the palms upon them become ever more distinct. From a land of mystery untrodden by man, we were soon to come upon a bit of land so prized by man that nations had almost gone to war over it—La Brea (_Bray’ah_) the strange lake of pitch hidden in the heart of the forest, with its strange birds and fish and animals; lying on the borderland between the foot-hills of the northern Andes and the world of mangroves which for many days had held us so safely in its heart.

[Illustration: FIG. 14. FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE VENEZUELAN MOUNTAINS.]