seized, pulled under the water, and completely devoured by the blood-crazy fish.  A man who had dropped something of value waded in after it to above the knees, but went very slowly and quietly, avoiding every possibility of disturbance, and not venturing to put his hands into the water.  But nobody could bathe, and even the slightest disturbance in the water, such as that made by scrubbing the hands vigorously with soap, immediately attracted the attention of the savage little creatures, who darted to the place, evidently hoping to find some animal in difficulties.  Once, while Miller and some Indians were attempting to launch a boat, and were making a great commotion in the water, a piranha attacked a naked Indian who belonged to the party and mutilated him as he struggled and splashed, waist-deep in the stream.  Men not making a splashing and struggling are rarely attacked; but if one is attacked by any chance, the blood in the water maddens the piranhas, and they assail the man with frightful ferocity.

At Corumba the weather was hot.  In the patio of the comfortable little hotel we heard the cicadas; but I did not hear the extraordinary screaming whistle of the locomotive cicada, which I had heard in the gardens of the house in which I stayed at Asuncion.  This was as remarkable a sound as any animal sound to which I have listened, except only the batrachian-like wailing of the tree hyrax in East Africa; and like the East African mammal this South American insect has a voice, or rather utters a sound which, so far as it resembles any other animal sound, at the beginning remotely suggests batrachian affinities.  The locomotive-whistle part of the utterance, however, resembles nothing so much as a small steam siren; when first heard it seems impossible that it can be produced by an insect.

On December 17 Colonel Rondon and several members of our party started on a shallow river steamer for the ranch of Senhor de Barros, “Las Palmeiras,” on the Rio Taquary.  We went down the Paraguay for a few miles, and then up the Taquary.  It was a beautiful trip.  The shallow river—­we were aground several times—­wound through a vast, marshy plain, with occasional spots of higher land on which trees grew.  There were many water-birds.  Darters swarmed.  But the conspicuous and attractive bird was the stately jabiru stork.  Flocks of these storks whitened the marshes and lined the river banks.  They were not shy, for such big birds; before flying they had to run a few paces and then launch themselves on the air.  Once, at noon, a couple soared round overhead in wide rings, rising higher and higher.  On another occasion, late in the day, a flock passed by, gleaming white with black points in the long afternoon lights, and with them were spoonbills, showing rosy amid their snowy companions.  Caymans, always called jacares, swarmed; and we killed scores of the noxious creatures.  They were singularly indifferent to our approach and to the sound of the shots.  Sometimes