Village books

One day, while we were eating a red monkey erroneously called the baboon,
in Demerara, an Arowack Indian told an affecting story of what happened to
a comrade of his. He was present at his death. As it did not interest this
Indian in any point to tell a falsehood, it is very probable that his
account was a true one. If so, it appears that there is no certain
antidote, or at least an antidote that could be resorted to in a case of
urgent need, for the Indian gave up all thoughts of life as soon as he was
wounded.
The Arowack Indian said it was but four years ago that he and his companion
were ranging in the forest in quest of game. His companion took a poisoned
arrow and sent it at a red monkey in a tree above him. It was nearly a
perpendicular shot. The arrow missed the monkey, and in the descent struck
him in the arm a little above the elbow. He was convinced it was all over
with him. "I shall never," said he to his companion, in a faltering voice,
and looking at his bow as he said it, "I shall never," said he, "bend this
bow again.


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