And in the most open part of that most open space, suspended on nothing to the eye, the shaft reveals a tangle of shining silver threads--the web of some large tree-spider.

These seemingly distant yet distinctly visible threads serve to remind me that the human artist is only able to get his horizontal distance by a monotonous reduplication of pillar and arch, placed at regular intervals, and that the least departure from this order would destroy the effect.

But Nature produces her effects at random, and seems only to increase the beautiful illusion by that infinite variety of decoration in which she revels, binding tree to tree in a tangle of anaconda-like lianas, and dwindling down from these huge cables to airy webs and hair-like fibres that vibrate to the wind of the passing insect's wing.
Thus in idleness, with such thoughts for company, I spent my time, glad that no human being, savage or civilized, was with me.

It was better to be alone to listen to the monkeys that chattered without offending; to watch them occupied with the unserious business of their lives.

With that luxuriant tropical nature, its green clouds and illusive aerial spaces, full of mystery, they harmonized well in language, appearance, and motions--mountebank angels, living their fantastic lives far above earth in a half-way heaven of their own.
I saw more monkeys on that morning than I usually saw in the course of a week's rambling.