THE POMEROON TRAIL 71 



years must have passed since it was in use, and 

 I tried to imagine what things had come and 

 gone over it. Those were the days of the great 

 Dutch sugar-plantations, when plantations were 

 like small kingdoms, with crowds of slaves, and 

 when the rich amber crystals resembled gold- 

 dust in more than appearance. What bales of 

 wondrous Dutch lace and furniture and goodies 

 were unloaded from the old high-pooped sailing 

 ships, and what frills and flounces fluttered in 

 this same tradewind, what time the master's 

 daughter set forth upon her first visit to the 

 Netherlands! Now, a few rotted piles and rows 

 of precise, flat Dutch bricks along the foreshore 

 were all that was left of such memories. In- 

 land, the wattled huts of the negroes had out- 

 lasted the great manor-houses. 



Out at sea there was no change. The same 

 muddy waves rose but never broke; the same 

 tidal current swirled and eddied downstream. 

 And now my mind became centered on passing 

 debris, and in a few minutes I realized that, 

 whatever changes had ruffled or passed over 

 this coastal region of Guiana, the source of the 

 muddy waters up country was as untouched now 

 as when Amerigo Vespucci sailed along this 



