that this was the first time the American flag had been seen on the upper Paraguay; for our gunboat carried it at the masthead.  Early in the afternoon, having reached the part where both banks of the river were Brazilian territory, we came to the old colonial Portuguese fort of Coimbra.  It stands where two steep hills rise, one on either side of the river, and it guards the water-gorge between them.  It was captured by the Paraguayans in the war of nearly half a century ago.  Some modern guns have been mounted, and there is a garrison of Brazilian troops.  The white fort is perched on the hillside, where it clings and rises, terrace above terrace, with bastion and parapet and crenellated wall.  At the foot of the hill, on the riverine plain, stretches the old-time village with its roofs of palm.  In the village dwell several hundred souls, almost entirely the officers and soldiers and their families.  There is one long street.  The one-story, daub-and-wattle houses have low eaves and steep sloping roofs of palm-leaves or of split palm-trunks.  Under one or two old but small trees there are rude benches; and for a part of the length of the street there is a rough stone sidewalk.  A little graveyard, some of the tombs very old, stands at one end.  As we passed down the street the wives and the swarming children of the garrison were at the doors and windows; there were women and girls with skins as fair as any in the northland, and others that were predominantly negro.  Most were of intervening shades.  All this was paralleled among the men; and the fusion of the colors was going on steadily.

Around the village black vultures were gathered.  Not long before reaching it we passed some rounded green trees, their tops covered with the showy wood-ibis; at the same time we saw behind them, farther inland, other trees crowded with the more delicate forms of the shining white egrets.

The river now widened so that in places it looked like a long lake; it wound in every direction through the endless marshy plain, whose surface was broken here and there by low mountains.  The splendor of the sunset I never saw surpassed.  We were steaming east toward clouds of storm.  The river ran, a broad highway of molten gold, into the flaming sky; the far-off mountains loomed purple across the marshes; belts of rich green, the river banks stood out on either side against the rose-hues of the rippling water; in front, as we 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 equivalent 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.