Arthur O. Friel

“ It is the worst place on the whole river,” I declared.
And I told him about that too. I did not stretch the truth at all. When one speaks of the mosquito swarms of that part of the river, the simple truth is bad enough.
“Hm!” he muttered, lifting a hand to his zancudo sore. “How about the bugs up this river—the Ventuari? Are they any worse than here?”
“They are not even so bad. Up among the hills it is cooler, and only a few days from here there are no bugs at all—except garrapatas and such things, and not many of them. So the Maquiritares tell me; and they know.” ”

“ You may have any of these trade goods at the same price I paid in Bolívar, and I have no doubt that my Maquiritare friends above here will carry you safely and comfortably down the Caura, if I ask them to do so. But before we go among them I must speak frankly to you about one thing.
“These Maquiritares, as you must know by now, are a fine race of men—the finest Indians in Venezuela. They are intelligent, friendly when well treated, good-tempered, and brave. In many ways they are almost white men, and in some ways they are better than many men I have known who called themselves white. ”

“ A Spanish señorita of more-or-less high degree is mighty interesting for awhile, I’ll admit, even if she lives in a one-horse town like Bolívar; but these Indian girls who wear nothing but a little bead apron and never heard of a toothbrush—they’re not even interesting. ”