"Mother, Mother," with a long drawl on the second word. The stanzas are very variable; the best wit on board starts the verse, improvising as he goes on, and the others join in the chorus. They all relate to the lonely river life and the events of the voyage; the shoals, the wind; how far they shall go before they stop to sleep, and so forth. The sonorous native names of places, Goajará, Tucumandúba, &c., add greatly to the charm of the wild music. Sometimes they bring in the stars thus:—
A lua está sahindo,
Mai, Mai!
A lua está sahindo,
Mai, Mai!
As sete estrellas estaõ chorando,
Mai, Mai!
Por s'acharem desamparados,
Mai, Mai!
The moon is rising,
Mother, Mother!
The moon is rising,
Mother, mother!
The seven stars (Pleiades) are weeping,
Mother, Mother!
To find themselves forsaken,
Mother, mother!
I fell asleep about ten o'clock, but at four in the morning John Mendez woke me, to enjoy the sight of the little schooner tearing through the waves before a spanking breeze. The night was transparently clear and almost cold, the moon appeared sharply defined against the dark blue sky, and a ridge of foam marked where the prow of the vessel was cleaving its way through the water. The men had made a fire in the
