62 Through the Brazilian Wilderness 



forged steadily onward, hung the tropic night, dim and 

 vast. 



On December 15 we reached Corumba. For three 

 or four miles before it is reached the west bank, on 

 which it stands, becomes high rocky ground, falling away 

 into cliffs. The country roundabout was evidently well 

 peopled. We saw gauchos, cattle-herders — the equiva- 

 lent of our own cowboys — riding along the bank. 

 Women were washing clothes, and their naked children 

 bathing, on the shore; we were told that caymans and 

 piranhas rarely ventured near a place where so much 

 was going on, and that accidents generally occurred in 

 ponds or lonely stretches of the river. Several steamers 

 came out to meet us, and accompanied us for a dozen 

 miles, with bands playing and the passengers cheering, 

 just as if we were nearing some town on the Hudson. 



Corumba is on a steep hillside, with wide, roughly 

 paved streets, some of them lined with beautiful trees 

 that bear scarlet flowers, and with well-built houses, 

 most of them of one story, some of two or three stories. 

 We were greeted with a reception by the municipal coun- 

 cil, and were given a state dinner. The hotel, kept by 

 an Italian, was as comfortable as possible — stone floors, 

 high ceilings, big windows and doors, a cool, open court- 

 yard, and a shower-bath. Of course Corumba is still a 

 frontier town. The vehicles are ox-carts and mule-carts; 

 there are no carriages; and oxen as well as mules are 

 used for riding. The water comes from a big central 

 well; around it the water-carts gather, and their con- 

 tents are then peddled around at the different houses. 

 The families showed the mixture of races characteristic 



