Slip down the muddy bank to that patch of gravel.

See first, though, that it is not tenanted already by a deadly Mapepire, or rattlesnake, which has not the grace, as his cousin in North America has, to use his rattle.
The brooklet, muddy with last night's rain, is dammed and bridged by winding roots, in shape like the jointed wooden snakes which we used to play with as children.

They belong probably to a fig, whose trunk is somewhere up in the green cloud.

Sit down on one, and look, around and aloft.

From the soil to the sky, which peeps through here and there, the air is packed with green leaves of every imaginable hue and shape.