Martin of Nitendi and the River of Dreams

There is a river I know which begins its life in a dark, sunless canyon / high up amid the thick forest-clad spurs of the range which traverses / the island from east to west. Here, lying deep and silent, is a pool, / almost encompassed by huge boulders of smooth, black rock, piled / confusedly together, yet preserving a certain continuity of outline / where their bases touch the water's edge. Standing far up on the / mountainside you can, from one certain spot alone, discern it two / hundred feet below, and a thick mass of tangled vine and creepers / stretching across its western side, through which the water flows on its / journey to the sea.

A narrow native path, used only by hunters of the wild pigs haunting the / depths of the gloomy mountain forest, led me to it one close, steaming / afternoon. I had been pigeon shooting along the crests of the ridges, / and having shot as many birds as I could carry, I decided to make a / short cut down to the level ground, where I was sure of finding water, / resting awhile and then making my way home along the beach to the / village.