I found at Cametá an American, named Bean, who had been so long in the country that he had almost forgotten his mother tongue. He knew the neighbourhood well, and willingly accompanied me as guide in many long excursions. I was astonished in my walks with him at the universal friendliness of the people. We were obliged, when rambling along the intricate pathways through the woods, occasionally to pass the houses of settlers. The good people, most of whom knew Bean, always invited us to stop. The master of the house would step out first and insist on our walking in to take some refreshment; at the same moment I generally espied the female members of the family hurrying to the fireplace to prepare the inevitable cup of coffee. After conversing a little with the good folks we would take our leave, and then came the parting present—a bunch of bananas, a few eggs, or fruits of one kind or other. It would have been cruel to refuse these presents, but they were sometimes so inconvenient to us that we used to pitch them into the thickets as soon as we were out of sight of the donors.
One day we embarked in a montaria to visit a widow lady, named Dona Paulina, to whom Bean was going to be married, and who lived on one of the islands in mid-river, about ten miles above Cametá. The little boat had a mast and sail, the latter of which was of very curious construction. It was of the shape which sailors call shoulder-of-mutton sail, and was formed of laths of pith split from the leaf stalks of the Jupatí palm (Raphia tædigera). The laths were strung together so as to form a mat, and the sail was hoisted or
