It is pleasant to be thus situated, especially when a cool breeze blows the mosquitoes and other insects off the water, and relieves you for a time from their incessant attacks.  Martin Rattler found it pleasant, as he thus lay on his back with his diminutive pet marmoset monkey seated on his breast quietly picking the kernel out of a nut.  And Barney O’Flannagan found it pleasant, as he lay extended in the bow of the canoe with his head leaning over the edge gazing abstractedly at his own reflected visage, while his hands trailed through the cool water, and his young dog—­a shaggy indescribable beast with a bluff nose and a bushy tail—­watched him intently, as a mother might watch an only child in a dangerous situation.  And the old sun-dried, and storm-battered, and time-shrivelled mulatto trader, in those canoe they were embarked and whose servants they had become, found it pleasant, as he sat there perched in his little montaria, like an exceedingly ancient and overgrown monkey, guiding it safely down the waters of the great river of the Tocantins.

Some months have passed since we last parted from our daring adventurers.  During that period they had crossed an immense tract of country, and reached the head waters of one of the many streams that carry the surplus moisture of central Brazil into the Amazon.  Here they found an old trader, a free mulatto, whose crew of Indians had deserted him,—­a common thing in that country,—­and who gladly accepted their services, agreeing to pay them a small wage.  And here they sorrowfully, and with many expressions of good-will, parted from their kind friend and entertainer the hermit.  His last gift to Martin was the wonderfully small marmoset monkey before mentioned; and his parting souvenir to Barney was the bluff-nosed dog that watched over him with maternal care, and loved him next to itself;—­as well it might; for if everybody had been of the same spirit as Barney O’Flannagan, the Act for the prevention of cruelty to animals would never have been passed in Britain.

It was a peculiar and remarkable and altogether extraordinary monkey, that tiny marmoset.  There was a sort of romance connected with it, too; for it had been the mother of an indescribably small infant-monkey, which was killed at the time of its mother’s capture.  It drank coffee, too, like—­like a Frenchman; and would by no means retire to rest at night until it had had its usual allowance.  Then it would fold its delicate little hands on its bosom, and close its eyes with an expression of solemn grief, as if, having had its last earthly wish gratified, it now resigned itself to—­sleep.  Martin loved it deeply, but his love was unrequited; for, strange to say, that small monkey lavished all its affection on Barney’s shaggy dog.  And the dog knew it, and was evidently proud of it, and made no objection whatever to the monkey sitting on his back, or his head, or his nose, or doing, in fact, whatever it chose whenever it pleased.  When in the canoe, the marmoset played with Grampus, as the dog was named; and when on shore it invariably travelled on his back.