secret affinity, at this late hour, to the tremulous heart
•of Nature.
The lights of Kamauld and the rafts by the river
twinkle out as we draw near, and in a little while the
day’s toil is over, and we are at rest for the night.
The solitary white occupant of the house-raft is glad
■of company, and, dinner over, we sit out on the little
bamboo shelves under the sloping eaves of the house,
talking in low tones ; while the moonlight streams over
the still face of the river, the timber cables, the white
rocks mirrored' in it, and the mighty jungle about us.
As we move to turn in for what remains of the night,
the little house sways over the great logs that support
it, upheld by seventy feet of living water. And when
in the night I wake, to sleep again, I hear the murmur
o f the river flowing by.
These raft-houses are renewed each year, and the
timber on which they are built is sent on its way at
the beginning of the flood season. The cables across
the river are twisted and strung at the beginning of the
cold weather, when the rush of water is abated; and
they are swept away by the first floods in the rains when
the felled logs, that have lain insensate all the winter,
come roaring down the riven Last season a great
flood came, and for two days they swept down in furious
procession, jamming, creaking, and dashing to pieces
against the cliffs; filling the small canoes with fe a r;
and forbidding any man to cross from one shore to the
other.
As the floods recede many a derelict log is left high
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