THE POMEROON TRAIL 89 



of an automobile aroused them not at all. The 

 gulf between the thoughts of these creatures and 

 the world today was too deep to be bridged 

 by any transient curiosity or fear. They 

 trudged onward without a glance, and we 

 steered aside to let them pass. 



The grass between the ruts now brushed the 

 body of the car; even the wild people passed 

 no more, and the huts vanished utterly. Forest 

 palms appeared, then taller brush, and trees in 

 the distance. Finally, the last three miles be- 

 came a scar through the heart of the primeval 

 jungle, open under the lofty sky of foliage, the 

 great buttresses of the trunks exposed for the 

 first time to the full glare of day. The trail 

 was raw with all the snags and concealed roots 

 with which the jungle likes to block entrance 

 to its privacy; and, rocking and pitching like 

 a ship in the waves, we drew up to a woodpile 

 directly in our path. Standing up in our seats, 

 we could see, just beyond it, the dark flood of 

 the Pomeroon surging slowly down to the sea. 

 Seven years ago I had passed this way en route 

 from Morawhanna, paddled by six Indians. 

 Maintenant ce n'est qu'une memoire. 



For centuries the woodskins of the Indians 



