183 THE CLAM. 



find, appears to constitute the great pleasure of 

 its life ; the stomach is a kind of dusthole, into 

 which anything and everything finds ready ad- 

 mission. Its powers of digestion must be some- 

 thing wonderful ; I believe clams could sup on 

 copper tacks, and not suffer from nightmare. 

 Spending the greater part of its time buried about 

 two feet deep, the long syphon, reaching to 

 the surface, discovers its whereabouts, as the eb- 

 bing tide leaves the mud, by continually squirting 

 up small jets of water, about six or eight inches 

 high. The sand flats dry, out marches an army 

 of squaws (Indian women), as it is derogatory 

 to the dignity of a man to dig clams. With 

 only a small bit of skin or cedar-mat tied round 

 the waist, the women tramp through the mud, 

 a basket made from cedar-root in one hand, and 

 in the other a bent stick about four feet long. 



Thus armed, they begin to dig up the mud- 

 homes of the unsuspecting clam : guided by the 

 jets of water, they push down the bent stick, 

 and experience has taught them to make sure 

 of getting it well under the shell : placing a 



O O L o 



stone behind the stick, against which the squaw 

 fixes her foot firmly, she lifts away: the clam 

 comes from darkness into daylight ere he knows 

 it, and thence into the Indian's basket. The 



