Up the next, the prim little Griffe-chatte {133e} plant has walked, by numberless clusters of small cats'-claws, which lay hold of the bark.

And what is this delicious scent about the air?
Vanille?
Of course it is; and up that stem zigzags the green fleshy chain of the Vanille Orchis.

The scented pod is far above, out of your reach; but not out of the reach of the next parrot, or monkey, or negro hunter, who winds the treasure.

And the stems themselves: to what trees do they belong?
It would be absurd for one to try to tell you who cannot tell one- twentieth of them himself.

{133f} Suffice it to say, that over your head are perhaps a dozen kinds of admirable timber, which might be turned to a hundred uses in Europe, were it possible to get them thither: your guide (who here will be a second hospitable and cultivated Scot) will point with pride to one column after another, straight as those of a cathedral, and sixty to eighty feet without branch or knob.