WANDERINGS IN SOUTH AMERICA 43 



which thou wilt see in almost every bush around 

 thee, will be thy candle. Hold it over thy pocket 

 book, in any position which thou knowest will not 

 hurt it, and it will afford thee ample light. And 

 when thou hast done with it, put it kindly back 

 again on the next branch to thee. It will want no 

 other reward for its services. 



When in thy hammock, should the thought of 

 thy little crosses and disappointments, in thy ups 

 and downs through life, break in upon thee, and 

 throw thee into a pensive mood, the Owl will bear 

 thee company. She will tell thee that hard has 

 been her fate too; and at intervals, '^Whip-poor- 

 Will," and "Willy come go," will take up the tale 

 of sorrow. Ovid has told thee how the owl once 

 boasted the human form, and lost it for a very 

 small offence; and were the poet alive now, he 

 would inform thee, that "Whip-poor- Will," and 

 "Willy come go," are the shades of those poor Af- 

 rican and Indian slaves, who died worn out and 

 broken-hearted. They wail and cry, "Whip-poor- 

 Will," and "Willy come go," all night long; and 

 often, when the moon shines, you see them sitting 

 on the green turf, near the houses of those whose 

 ancestors tore them from the bosom of their help- 

 less families, which all probably perished through 

 grief and want, after their support was gone. 



About an hour above the rock of Saba, stands 

 the habitation of an Indian, called Simon, on the 

 top of a hill. The side next the river is almost 

 perpendicular, and you may easily throw a stone 

 over to the opposite bank. Here there was an op- 

 portunity of seeing man in his rudest state. The 

 Indians who frequented this habitation, though 



