188 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 
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 
