On the Brass River.

We could not see much of Brass that day, for the rain came down as it only does in the tropics, beating the muddy river into whiteness, and, swirling across the awnings, said to be waterproof, drove through the quivering fabric upon us in powdery spray, while the air seemed filled with the roar of falling water. Along the dripping shore-line I could see the steam rise up in clouds as the hot earth sucked in the rain, and, sick of the constant Turkish-bath atmosphere, I longed for just one breath of pure ocean air again.