As we leave Colon by train to journey across the Isthmus, we say to ourselves that now we are going to see the Canal. We are in the parlour car, whose every comfortable arm-chair is a window-seat. Next to our compartment is the hospital car; through the open doors of the corridor we get a good view of its spacious, well-equipped interior. There are no invalids on board, but nurses and ambulances are ready for duty, and the train will stop at every station en route  to Panama in case there should be any patients for the hospital in that city—accidents will happed, in the carrying out of any big engineering job, but in spite of the many dangers that threaten the Canal-makers there have been remarkably few catastrophes since the Americans took over the work.

A few minutes after leaving Colon we are in the Bush. It seems as though we must be dreaming, so curious is the contrast between the highly-civilized train in which we are travelling and the wild luxuriance of the country through which it is carrying us. Vainly we search for a sign of the Canal amidst a procession of bright-hued flowers, masses of giant leaves, and creeper-draped shrubs.

Presently our attention is beguiled from the view outside by a negro in smart uniform, who is walking the train with refreshments; his business-like manner suggests an American training, and there is a very pronounced American accent in the voice that invites us to buy "candies." We are hesitating over a purchase with the object of studying the salesman when the train pulls up, and we hear voices calling "Gatun." Promise of new excitements makes us instantly turn our faces to the window. "Gatun"—now we shall certainly get a good view of the Canal, we think. We see one negro woman balancing on her head a basket piled up with clean clothes; another squatting on the ground alongside some bananas; and some shanties on which are written in rickety letters "Billiard Saloon," "Barber's Shop," "Cool Drinks." Our eyes travel uphill to a little town—it is typical of the mosquito-proofed centres of civilization that have sprung up at close intervals all along the Canal line. We are at a right distance away for getting a clear and comprehensive view of the bungalows. They are all standing on stilts; the large ones, when viewed separately, are examples of the meat-safe style, the little ones remind us of dog-kennels and fowl-houses. As a group, the buildings make us think of a menagerie.

But where are the great locks and mountainous dam with which everyone associates the name of Gatun? We look out of the windows on the opposite side of the carriage, but the only sign we can see of such wonder-works is a stretch of massive concrete wall, which rises but a few feet above the ground.

From the clearing at Gatun the train plunges into forest lands. We know that from Colon to Gatun we were being hauled up an incline; and we can see that we are in the midst of mountains. How is it that this high land is very swampy, when the low land through which we passed was quite dry? For mile after mile swamps are a feature of the landscape; and there are large tracts of forest that seem doomed to be submerged—the undergrowth is in the last stage of drowning, fast withering little trees are standing trunk-deep in water, among the giant trees there is many an ashen skeleton.

From the half-way station the train moves out backwards, as though it was going to return to Colon; soon we are discovering that it has manoeuvred its way to a station on the opposite side of the valley, whence it once more travels onwards. We get a peep at an embankment of red-gold sand, which gags the mouth of a ravine, and at a magnificent panorama of mountains. Then the train plunges once more into dense tropical jungle. A few miles ahead we have an experience that is in the nature of an adventure—on a rough-timber bridge, that has every appearance of having been knocked together for temporary service, the train crosses a wide and very deep ravine. Although it very obligingly crawls across the chasm, we only have time for a sweepeing glance at the fastinating scenes which have suddenly come into view. To the right, the chasm is blocked by two pairs of giant, fortress-like gates, which form the back of a huge, double well. Massive side-walls and a dividing wall of concrete reach from the well floor to the mountain summit. On the steel frames of the two pairs of gates which are being erected at the front of the well numbers of men are at work; they look like tiny dwarfs. To the left, we get a long vista of the ravine, in whose depth little people, toy trains, and model machines seem to be playing pranks with dirt.

A little way beyond the bridge we meet a train-load of labourers; the jovial crowd of Spaniards, Italians, and coloured folk with which the open cars are packed might well be a beanfeast party. A few minutes later there dashes past us a long train of trucks, which are laden with masses of rock and loose dirt. And shortly after that diversion we are alighting at Panama station.

You are disappointed—in crossing the Isthmus you expected to see the Canal from beginning to end of its course; you are thinking that, although the journey through the Bush has been a novel entertainment, it has not afforded you a single glipmpse of the channel of the famous waterway, and that the one good view it revealed to you of some gigantic locks, which did not seem to have any connection with an artificial channel, cannot persuade you to believe that all the towns you have passed are peopled with Canal-makers.

You will be very surprised to hear that you have seen a great deal of the two most wonderful sections of the Panama Canal—the Gatun Lake and the Culebra Cut. Those mysterious swamps among the highlands were the Gatun Lake in the making by the gradual rise of the barricaded River Chagres. That great chasm over which the train passed was not, as it looked, a natural ravine, but the big ditch, known as the Culebra Cut, which has been hewn through the giant bodies of rocky mountains.

The train journey across the Isthmus only takes about two hours. Whilst the Canal is in course of construction, we shall make this journey at least half a dozen times, and each time discover something of new interest. And excursions within the actual channel of the Canal, such as we are going to indulge in, will emphasize the attractions of a train trip that can afford numerous views of country which will soon be submerged, of towns that will speedily be cleared away from the track of the rising waters, and of scenes in the everyday life of the Canal-makers, most of whom will shortly be going back to the different parts of the world whence they came to work on the big job."