38 NATURAL SCIENCE. yan., 
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 sucha situation. Even the mora (Moraexcelsa),. 
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 rive 
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 Cabomba 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 
