condemned soul. So harrowing and depressing is this song that, once
heard, the memory of it alone will cause one's hair to stand on end
and he will be grateful when too far away to hear again this sob of
the forest.

A surprise was in store for me one day when I visited the domicile of
a rubber-worker living at the extreme end of the estate. I expected to
find a dwelling of the ordinary appearance, raised on poles above the
ground, but instead this hut was built among the branches of a tree
some twenty feet above the level of the earth. I commenced climbing
the rickety ladder leading to the door of the hut. Half-way up a
familiar sound reached my ear. Yes, I had surely heard that sound
before, but far away from this place. When I finally entered the
habitation and had exchanged greetings with the head of the family,
I looked for the source of the sound. Turning round I saw a woman
sitting at a _sewing-machine_, working on a shirt evidently for her
husband. I examined this machine with great curiosity and found it
to be a "New Home" sewing-machine from New York. What journeys and
transfers had not this apparatus undergone before it finally settled
here in a tree-top in this far-off wilderness!


One afternoon while sitting in the office at headquarters discussing
Amazonian politics with Coronel da Silva, Francisco, a rubber-worker,
came up and talked for a while with the Coronel, who then turned to me
and said: "Do you want to get the skin of a black jaguar? Francisco
has just killed one on his _estrada_ while collecting rubber-milk;
he will take you down to his _barracão_, and from there he will lead
you to the spot where the jaguar lies, and there you can skin him."