2/8 



MY LIFE 



[Chap. 



The far-off roar of the onga, 



The cry of the whip-poor-will — 

 All breathe to us in whispers 



That we are in Brazil. 



" By many an Indian cottage, 



By many a village green, 

 Where naked little urchins 



Are fishing in the stream, 

 With days of sunny pleasure, 



But, oh, with weary nights. 

 For here upon the Amazon 



The dread mosquito bites — 

 Inflames the blood with fever. 



And murders gentle sleep. 

 Till, weary grown and peevish, • 



We've half a mind to weep ! 

 But still, although they torture, 



We know they cannot kill, — 

 All breathe to us in whispers 



That we are in Brazil. 



" And now the wave around us 



Has changed its muddy hue, 

 For we are on the Tapajoz, 



And Santarem 's in view; 

 Fair Santarem, whose sandy beach 



Slopes down into the wave. 

 Where mothers wash their garments, 



And their happy children lave. 

 Now comes the welcome greeting, 



The warm embrace of friends, 

 And here, then, for a season, 



The toil of voyaging ends. 

 The silent Indian sentry. 



The mud fort on the hill, — 

 All breathe to us in whispers 



That we are in Brazil." 



We remained at Santarem about three months, including 

 a visit to Monte Alegre, a village on the opposite or north 

 side of the river, where we had heard there were some very 

 interesting caves, and where we found the great water-lily, the 

 Victoria regia, growing abundantly in a backwater of the 

 Amazon. Santarem and Monte Alegre both differ from 

 almost all the rest of the places on the banks of the Amazon 

 in being open country, with rocky hills dotted all over with 



