IN DREAMLAND 139 



of cotton under our lantern and catching moths. How 

 often during those silent hours of the night have I not 

 wandered into dreamland, while I lay gazing lazily at the 

 stars above, with Jacobson like some alchemist perform- 

 ing strange antics over his plate-boxes in the dim lamp- 

 light ! I would give myself up to musing upon my 

 journey to the little known country beyond the falls of 

 Para. What momitains were those of which the Indians 

 spoke with such awe, where dwelt the spirits of mischief 

 who forged the deafening thunder and awoke the raging 

 storm ? Why had the tribes on the lower reaches of the 

 river passed away in so short a period ? Would we reach 

 that distant village on the slopes of the Pacaraima moun- 

 tains along whose base the infant Merevari threads its 

 tortuous course ? . . . Jacobson would break in upon my 

 meditations with his strong German accent. ' I want some- 

 body to help me with these plates — I can't carry them up 

 to the house alone,' he would be saying, and I was back 

 at La Prision, with Ameha and Arawa and the Indian 

 village far away in the uncertain distance. We would 

 trudge wearily to the house, disturbing the nightjars who 

 had been catching insects in the narrow path which 

 leads to the rancheria, and I would retire to my hammock 

 to dream again of Ameha and Arawa and the distant 

 village near the sources of the Merevari. 



