THE CONVICT TRAIL 179 



Like newly trapped creatures we paced back 

 and forth along it looking for an opening. It 

 was without a break. We examined it more 

 closely and saw a multitude of slender, grace- 

 ful cane stems hung with festoons and grass- 

 like drapery. One of us seized a wisp of this 

 climbing grass and pulled downward. When he 

 dropped it his hand dripped blood. He might 

 as well have run a scroll saw over his fingers. 

 The jungle had shown its teeth. 



We laughed and retreated to the upper floor 

 for consultation. The sight we saw there de- 

 cided us. In the distance " not too far," to 

 use the hopelessly indefinite Guiana vernacular, 

 high over the tumbled lower growths towered 

 the real jungle — the high bush. This was the 

 edge of that mighty tropical ocean of foliage, 

 that sea of hfe with its surface one hundred, 

 two hundred feet above the earth, stretching 

 unbroken to the Andes: leagues of unknown 

 wonderland. And here we were, after thou- 

 sands of miles of voyaging to study the life of 

 this great jungle, to find our last few yards 

 blocked by a mass of vegetation. There was no 

 dissenting voice. We must cut a trail, and at 

 once, straight to the jungle. 



