the bread-fruit tree--an importation, it is true; but remarkable
from its large, glossy, dark green, strongly digitated foliage,
and its interesting history. Many other trees and plants, curious
in leaf, stem, or manner of growth, grew on the borders of the
thickets along which lay our road; they were all attractive to
newcomers, whose last country ramble of quite recent date was
over the bleak moors of Derbyshire on a sleety morning in April.

As we continued our walk the brief twilight commenced, and the
sounds of multifarious life came from the vegetation around. The
whirring of cicadas; the shrill stridulation of a vast number and
variety of field crickets and grasshoppers, each species sounding
its peculiar note; the plaintive hooting of tree frogs--all
blended together in one continuous ringing sound--the audible
expression of the teeming profusion of Nature. As night came on,
many species of frogs and toads in the marshy places joined in
the chorus-- their croaking and drumming, far louder than
anything I had before heard in the same line, being added to the
other noises, created an almost deafening din. This uproar of
life, I afterwards found, never wholly ceased, night or day. In
the course of time I became, like other residents, accustomed to
it. It is, however, one of the peculiarities of a tropical--at
least, a Brazilian--climate which is most likely to surprise a
stranger. After my return to England, the deathlike stillness of
summer days in the country appeared to me as strange as the
ringing uproar did on my first arrival at Para. The object of our
visit being accomplished, we returned to the city. The fire-flies
were then out in great numbers, flitting about the sombre woods,
and even the frequented streets. We turned into our hammocks,
well pleased with what we had seen, and full of anticipation with