erything. Finally they came to the northern mouth of the Amazons
River, having traversed 2500 out of the 3600 miles of its length.

Here Orellana decked his vessels over and sailed out to sea, making for
the West Indies along the coasts of Guiana and Venezuela. Even after the
coast was lost to sight he still sailed in yellow, muddy, fresh water,
and he was far to the north before he came to blue-green sea-water. For
three hundred miles from the mouth the fresh river water overlies the
salt. At Christmas he dropped his anchor on the coast of San Domingo,
and his grand exploit was achieved.

V

IN THE SOUTH SEAS

ALBATROSSES AND WHALES

Like the sting on the scorpion's poison gland, Tierra del Fuego, the
most southern land of America, juts out into the southern sea. It is
separated from the mainland by the sound which bears the name of the
intrepid Magellan. In the primeval forests of the interior grow
evergreen beeches, and there copper-brown Indians of the Ona tribe
formerly held unlimited sway. Like their brethren all over the New
World, they have been thrust out by white men and are doomed to
extinction. They were only sojourners on the coasts of Tierra del Fuego,
and their term has expired. Only a few now remain, but they still retain
the old characteristics of their race, are powerfully built, warlike and
brave, live at feud with their neighbours, and kindle their camp fires
in the woods, on the shores of lakes, or on the coast.

Many a sailing vessel has come to grief in the Straits of Magellan. The
channel is dangerous, and has a bad reputation for violent squalls,
which beat down suddenly over the precipitous cliffs. It is safer to
keep to the open sea and sail to the south of the islands of Tierra del
Fuego. Here the surges of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans roar together
against the high cliffs of Cape Horn.

Who listens to this song, who gazes with royal disdain down over the
spray, who wonders why the breakers have been there for thousands of
years pounding against gates that never open, who soars at this moment
with outspread wings over Cape Horn--who but the albatross, the largest
of all storm birds, the boldest and most unwearied of all the winged
inhabitants of the realm of air?

Look at him well, for in a second he will be gone. You see that he is
as large as a swan, has a short, thick neck, a large head with a
powerful pink and yellowish bill, and that he is quite white except
where hi