IN THE MATTO GROSSO.

The blood-red sun was sinking beyond the distant Geral Mountains, when
a canoe, containing four white men and three natives, came to a halt a
thousand miles from the mighty Amazon, in the upper waters of the Xingu
River, near the great table-land of Matto Grosso.

It was hard work, forcing the long shallow boat against the rapid
current of the stream, whose unknown source is somewhere among the
famous diamond regions of Brazil. It was plain sailing for three
hundred leagues from the Amazon, from whose majestic volume the little
party of explorers had turned southward more than a month before. The
broad sail, which was erected in the centre of the craft, swept it
smoothly along over the narrowing bosom of the Xingu, between luxuriant
forests and past tribes of strange-looking Indians, who stood on the
banks staring wonderingly at the extraordinary beings, the like of
which many of them had never seen before.

Occasionally the explorers put ashore, and, using only the language of
signs, exchanged some of the beads and gaudy trinkets for the curious
articles of the savages. Endless varieties of fruit were so abundant
that it was to be had for the simple trouble of plucking; while the
timid natives stood in such awe of their visitors, that the thought of
harming them never entered their minds.

But ominous changes were gradually noted by our friends, as they
steadily ascended the mysterious stream. At first the natives fled at
their approach, and failed to understand the signs of comity, or were
so distrustful of the strangers that they refused to meet their
advances. Fleeing into the woods or high hills, they peeped out from