of my presence or not.  He was moving steadily, advancing a few inches, stopping for a minute, then resuming the journey.  I believe I was not more than five feet from the head as it emerged from the fringe of reeds.  I raised my camera, secured a focus, and snapped the shutter.  The click of the apparatus and perhaps my movement drew his attention.  He stopped abruptly.  The long jaws opened toward me, displaying an enormous expanse of pink flesh and two rows of shining teeth.  I lost not a second in throwing aside the camera and jumping back to a position of relative safety, whence I fired into the open mouth of the beast.  I killed him.  On examining the carcass, I noticed that he had unusually large eyes, indicating that he was a young specimen.

A few days later I again went to this lake—­which, from my remarks, had now come to be generally called “Lago Innocencia”—­to catch fish with my Indian friend Joao.  He carried a bow, four arrows with detachable heads, and a harpoon six feet long.  The little boat which we found close to the outlet of the lake was pushed away from the shore, we each seized one of the peculiarly decorated paddles, and were off, looking for finny game.  We paddled quietly along near the shore, now and then receiving a bump from some concealed snag which nearly upset us.  It requires considerable skill to navigate one of these poorly-made dugouts, the slightest move causing a disproportionate amount of disturbance of equilibrium.

Suddenly Joao jumped up, his black eyes glowing with excitement.  He motioned me to keep quiet, but it was quiet superfluous for him to do this, as I was unable to talk, or even look around, for fear the canoe might upset.  He seized the harpoon, and with a powerful swing sent it into the water ahead of us, at the same time grasping the line which was attached to the end.  The spear sank deep into the water, and then by the vivacity with which it danced around I could tell there was something on the end of it.  As he began to pull in the line, the struggle became so violent that I crept forward on my knees in the bottom of the canoe and helped him recover the spear.  Only after some strenuous balancing feats and a stiff fight by both of us, did we land our game.  It was a large flat fish at least four feet square, with a long whip-shaped tail, at the base of which were two barbed bones each about three and a half inches in length.  Our first act was to sever this tail with a hatchet, as it was far too active to make the fish a pleasant neighbour in close quarters.  When the sting-ray, or, as the Brazilians call it, the araya, was dead, I cut out the two barbed bones and no longer wondered why these fish are so dreaded by those who know them.  Joao told me that they attack anyone who ventures into the water, and with their sharp, barbed bones inflict a wound that in most cases proves fatal, for the bones are brittle and break off in the flesh.  Superstition and carelessness are the main factors