n
round a neighbouring stem, or drooping like the loose cordage of a ship
swinging in the breeze. Often they form so dense and impenetrable a
thicket from the ground upwards that a way must be cleared with an axe
to proceed even a short distance from the banks towards the inner
recesses of the forest.

THE GAPO.

On the Gapo, or submerged lands, however, a considerable difference in
the vegetation appears. The palms are here often more numerous than in
other parts. This is the region where the cacao-tree and prickly
sarsaparilla grow. Here the underwood is less dense, the sipos retiring
to weave their tracery among the upper branches alone. Though during
the dry season the vegetation springs up with wonderful rapidity, it is
swept away by the next overflow.

Here the lovely orchis tribe adorn the gloomy shades with their
brilliant flowers. Among the most beautiful is the oncidium, of a
yellow hue, often seen--apparently suspended in air between the stems of
two trees--shining in the gloom, as if its petals were of gold. In
reality it grows at the end of a wire-like stalk a yard and a half long,
springing from a cluster of thick leaves on the bark of a tree; others
have white and spotted blossoms, growing sometimes on rotten logs
floating on the water, or on moss and decayed bark just above it. Still
more magnificent is the Flor de Santa Ana, of a brilliant purple colour,
emitting a most delicious odour.

Peculiar and strange is this region of the Gapo. When the waters are at
their height it can be traversed in all directions. The trees which
grow on it, and the animals which here have their abodes, appear to
differ from those of other districts.

Let us accompany the naturalist Wallace, in his canoe, through a
district of this description; now forcing our way under branches and
among dense bushes, till we get into a part where the trees are loftier
and a deep gloom prevails. Here the lowest branches of the trees are
level with the surface of the water, many of them putting forth flowers.
As we proceed we sometimes come to a grove of small palms, the leaves
being now only a few feet above us. Among them is the maraja, bearing
bunches of agreeable fruit, which, as we pass, the Indians cut off with
their long knives. Sometimes the rustling of leaves overhead tells us
that monkeys are near, and we soon see them peeping down from among the
thick foliage, and then bounding rapidly away. Presently we come o