38 NATURAL SCIENCE. Jan., 



Nothing but an interminable assemblage of columns and a green roof 

 above is seen, and even these but indistinctly, as not a ray of sunlight 

 can penetrate the canopy. 



On the ground the soil is covered with fallen leaves in various 

 stages of decomposition, some already sunk into the rich brown 

 humus so characteristic of the forest, others still retaining their 

 shapes, and a few, newly fallen, mingled with petals and perhaps 

 monkey-pots, pods, or other fruits. In one place the ground is 

 covered with petals and the botanist turns to look for the tree from 

 whence they have fallen, or even takes out his glass — but all in vain, 

 for no particular tree can be separated from the throng ; the flowers 

 are outside in the light, and quite invisible from below. 



Only on the edge of the forest, where it borders on the river or 

 savannah, can the trees be identified. Here a mass of yellow shows 

 that an etabally (Vochysia) or some leguminous tree is flowering, but 

 it is almost impossible to procure a specimen. When the tree rises 

 sixty or eighty feet without a branch, nothing less than cutting it 

 down will serve. A few broken spikes may be brought down 

 by a shot, or, perhaps, if the traveller is fortunate, one of his 

 Indian boatmen may cut off a branch with an arrow, but to do either 

 he must be fortunate indeed. True, many a specimen may be 

 gathered alongside the river or creek, but some of the great forest 

 giants are not found in such a situation. Even the mora (Momexcelsa), 

 which is so common, hangs its flower spikes far overhead in a most 

 tantalising manner, as if defying the botanist to gather them. With 

 so few outside enemies, the trees of the forest have only to contend 

 with each other for their shares of the light and moisture. Hardly a 

 single ray can reach the ground. On the banks of the rivers where 

 the continuity is broken, hosts of epiphytes crowd the great limbs 

 and branches, utilising the diffused light. Seated on the upper sides, 

 they extend outwards and downwards until they almost form curtains. 

 Even those which grow upright often push their flower-spikes from 

 the side or base so that they may gather more light away from the 

 crowd. Ferns and orchids have developed this faculty to its greatest 

 extent, hanging their long leaves . straight downwards until they 

 sometimes touch the points of other plants on the branch below. 



If these do not take up every ray, a jungle of palms, tree-ferns, 

 marantas, and arums crowd together underneath, along the river 

 banks, and prevent all access to the forest except by cutting a way 

 through them. If the river-current is strong, no water plants can 

 secure a footing, but in every creek there are bays where, given a 

 little sunlight, patches of Cahomha aquatica, or water lilies, manage 

 to exist. 



The atmosphere inside the forest is hot, dense, and steamy. 

 To the old colonist it suggests intermittent fever, but to the naturalist 

 its peculiar odour recalls many a pleasant journey through creek and 

 wallaba swamp, or, perhaps, remembrances of anxious hours when 



