mouth of the Javari,
which forms the natural boundary between Peru and Brazil. Henceforth the
river loses the name of Maranon, and is called Solimoens, or, more
commonly, simply Amazon. We were ten hours in reaching San Paulo, a
wretched Ticuna village of five hundred souls, built on a grassy
table-land nearly one hundred feet high. Steps have been cut in the
slippery clay bluff to facilitate the ascent. Swamps lie back of the
town, rendering it unhealthy. "On damp nights (says the Naturalist on
the Amazon) the chorus of frogs and toads which swarm in weedy
back-yards creates such a bewildering uproar that it is impossible to
carry on a conversation in doors except by shouting."

In ten hours more we had passed the Putumayo and entered the Tunantins,
a sluggish, dark-colored tributary emptying into the Amazon about two
hundred miles below the Javari.[136] On the bank of white earth, which
strongly contrasts with the tinted stream, is a dilapidated hamlet of
twenty-five hovels, built of bamboo plastered with mud and whitewashed.
We saw but one two-storied house; and all have ground-floors and
double-thatched roofs. The inhabitants are semi-civilized Shumana and
Passe Indians and half-breeds; but in the gloomy forest which hugs the
town live the wild Caishanas. The atmosphere is close and steaming, but
not hot, the mercury at noon standing at 83 deg.. The place is alive with
insects and birds. The nights on the Amazon were invariably cool; on
the Lower Amazon, cold, so that we required a heavy blanket.

[Footnote 136: Herndon says (p. 241), "the Tunantins is about fifty
yards broad, and seems deep with a considerable current."]

[Illustration: Kitchen on the Amazon.]

Taking on board wood, beeves, turtles, salt fish, and water-melons, we
left at half past 2 P.M. The Brazilian steamers run all night, and with
no slackening of speed. At one o'clock we were awakened by a cry from
the watch, "Stop her!" And immediately after there was a crash; but it
was only the breaking of crockery caused by the sudden stoppage. The
night was fearfully dark, and for aught we knew the steamer was running
headlong into the forest. Fortunately there was no collision, and in a
few minutes we were again on our way, arriving at Fonte Boa at 4 A.M.
This little village stands in a palm grove, on a high bank of
ochre-colored sandy clay, beside a slue of sluggish black water, eight
miles from the Amazon.[137] The inhabitants, about three hundred,