90 FISH HAKVESTING. 



sore-eyed, snappish brutes, unceasingly engaged 

 in fact ion -fights and sudden duels, in which the 

 whole pack immediately takes sides. Felt, but 

 not heard, are legions of bloodthirsty fleas, that 

 would try their best to suck blood from a boot, 

 and by combined exertions would soon flay alive 

 any man with a clean and tender skin. 



The moon, near its full, creeps upward from 

 behind the hills; stars one by one are lighted 

 in the sky not a cloud flecks the clear blue. 

 The Indians are busy launching their canoes, 

 preparing war against the candle-fish, which 

 they catch when they come to the surface to 

 sport in the moonlight. As the rising moon 

 now clears the shadow of the hills, her rays 

 slant down on the green sea, just rippled by the 

 land-breeze. And now, like a vast sheet of 

 pearly nacre, we may see the glittering shoals 

 of the fish the water seems alive with them. 

 Out glides the dusky Indian fleet, the paddles 

 stealthily plied by hands far too experienced to 

 let a splash be heard. There is not a whisper, 

 not a sound, but the measured rhythm of many 

 paddlers, as the canoes are sent flying towards 

 the fish. 



To catch them, the Indians use a monster comb 

 or rake, a piece of pinewood from six to eight 



