for the shore I found that I didn't know which way to 86 turn. Darkness had fallen so fast that it had become impossible to distinguish a trail from any other part of the forest. Like an ass and like the Emperor Jones I lunged and heaved about through the thick foliage crashing into trees, tripping on roots, scratching myself on thorns, vines, lumps of coral, and all the other things with which the bush abounds, until I had ceased to function in any mental fashion at all. As I look back on the episode the only picture I can regenerate of my- selt is that of a wild animal frightened into a perfect hysteria- stampeding. The mental condition under such circumstances has been well treated by Eugene O'Neill. Certainly it is worth all a dramatist's art can give it. It is at this time that all the objects of the forest are called into play by the enduring ego to mock itself. It, the centre of the strife, is the only thing that is disturbed. The rest of the landscape is quiet and at peace. The fireflies and glow worms, symbols of innocent and wist- ful amusement, disport themselves with their regular mischievousness, here there, and off again. The frogs, and even the birds whose calls you have been hearing all day, because they are not lost like you and therefore do not share your strife, suddenly become your violent enemies; they are in league with their environment to bring this confusion upon you. Evidently at this time all a person's faculty for embarrassment and despair are