A MONKEY HUNT IN THE MOUNTAINS. 275 
one over each other, clutching at the vines and at one 
another’s tails. There were old monkeys, fathers of 
families, with serious countenances, cautiously feeling 
their way, and sniffing the air; matronly monkeys, 
with young ones clinging about their necks, a world 
of care and responsibility expressed in their faces; 
young and frisky monkeys, who came trooping down, 
hand under hand, snatching at a tail here and there, 
or tweaking an ear, as they tumbled over the slow- 
going fathers and mothers, stopping a second now and 
then to bite the tail of some unfortunate baby-monkey, 
who would instantly set up a howl of anguish. 
Ah! how those young sports enjoyed themselves. 
They had not a care in the world; the gray old patri- 
arch who had reconnoitred the situation had pro- 
nounced “all safe,” and upon him rested the responsi- 
bility ; they would not burden themselves with care. 
They ogled the maiden monkeys — shy and coy were 
those virgin monkeys — and they snapped spitefully at 
any gallant who seemed disposed to take unwarrant- 
able liberties. They pressed upon the patriarch, who 
at once resented such unseemly haste and familiarity 
by seizing the nearest by the scruff of his neck, shak- 
ing him violently, and then, without moving a muscle 
of his solemn countenance, dropping him into a clump 
of parasites. 
This episode threw the foremost monkeys back upon 
the column, so that they were so densely crowded to- 
gether as to hide the cables; they looked like a huge, 
braided string of onions. Then they stretched out 
again, over the hundred or so feet of lianas, a perfect 
chain, like an immense link of living sausages, and — 
though I do not claim to have discovered more than 
