IN THE SWAMP. 215 



dry season when the bottom of the savannah was 

 only a little oozy. From our bateau on the creek 

 we had seen the characteristic ribbon-like leaves of 

 Catasetum longifolium one of our most beautiful 

 orchids hanging down beneath the canopy of an 

 eta palm about fifty yards away. Nothing would 

 satisfy us unless we at least made an attempt to 

 gather it, and notwithstanding hints of monstrous 

 boas and venomous insects we stepped ashore. 

 The sedges were comparatively light, but even 

 then it was hard to force a passage. First we 

 tried leaning forward with our face protected by 

 our hat, at the same time dividing the sedges with 

 our arms, but some scratches from razor grasses 

 soon showed that this method was hardly practi- 

 cable. Then we turned our head and backed for 

 what we estimated to be the right distance, but 

 could see nothing of the palm. We had, as we 

 thought, moved in the right direction, yet, in the 

 absence of anything like a landmark, we stumbled 

 along, pushing to this side and that, and ultimately 

 had to give up the search. And then, the feeling 

 of loneliness and isolation was indescribable. 

 True, we could call to our friends in the bateau, 

 but could see nothing of them any more than they 

 could of us. Fortunately, our path was easily 

 retraced on account of the way the sedges had 



