90 FISH HARVESTING. 
sore-eyed, snappish brutes, unceasingly engaged 
in faction-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 lghted 
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 
