There were not even birds, other than now and then
a stray snow-white slender one of the heron species that fled
majestically away across the face of the nurtureless waters as we
steamed--no, gasolined down upon it. Soon after leaving Gatun we
had passed a couple of jungle families on their way to market in
their cayucas laden with mounds of produce,--plump mangoes with a
maidenly blush on either cheek, fat yellow bananas, grass-green
plantains, a duck or a chicken standing tied by one leg on top of
it all and gazing complacently around at the scene with the air of
an experienced tourist. It was two hours later that we sighted the
next human being. He was a solitary old native paddling about at
the entrance to the "grass-bird region" in a huge dugout as time-
scarred as himself.
It was near here that weeks before I had turned with "Admiral" B--
--up a little stream now forever gone to a knoll on which sat the
thatched shelter of a negro who had "taken to the bush" and
refused to move even when notified that he was living on U. S.
public domain. When we had knocked from the trees a box of mangoes
and turkey-red maranones, B---- touched a match to the thatch roof
and almost before we could regain the launch the shack was pouring
skyward in a column of smoke. Even the squatter's old table and
chair and a barrel of tumbled odds and ends entirely outside the
hut--it had no walls--caught fire, and when, we lost sight of the
knoll only the blazing stumps of the four poles that had supported
the roof remained.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248