the world becomes indigo. The air grows humid, weighty with
vapor; frogs commence to make a queer bubbling noise; and some
unknown creature begins in the trees a singular music, not
trilling, like the note of our cricket, but one continuous shrill
tone, high, keen, as of a thin jet of steam leaking through a
valve. Strong vegetal scents, aromatic and novel, rise up.
Under the trees of our hotel I hear a continuous dripping sound;
the drops fall heavily, like bodies of clumsy insects. But it is
not dew, nor insects; it is a thick, transparent jelly--a fleshy
liquor that falls in immense drops.... The night grows chill
with dews, with vegetable breath; and we sleep with windows
nearly closed.



XXVIII.


... Another sunset like the conflagration of a world, as we
steam away from Guiana;--another unclouded night; and morning
brings back to us that bright blue in the sea-water which we
missed for the first time on our approach to the main-land.
There is a long swell all day, and tepid winds. But towards
evening the water once more shifts its hue--takes olive tint--the
mighty flood of the Orinoco is near.

Over the rim of the sea rise shapes faint pink, faint gray-misty
shapes that grow and lengthen as we advance. We are nearing
Trinidad.