112 JUNGLE PEACE 



dated stalling to photograph a mob of vultures, 

 and there found a small circle of fisherfolk 

 cleaning their catch. They were wild-looking 

 negroes and coolies, half -naked, and grunting 

 with the exertion of their work. A glance at 

 the fish again drove me from Berbice into ages 

 long gone by. Armored catfish they were, remi- 

 niscent of the piscine glories of Devonian times 

 uncouth creatures, with outrageously long 

 feelers and tentacles, misplaced fins, and mostly 

 ensconced in bony armor, sculptured and em- 

 bossed with designs in low relief. I watched 

 with half -closed eyes the fretted shadows of the 

 palms playing over the glistening black bodies 

 of the men, and the spell of the strange fish 

 seemed to shift the whole scene centuries, tens 

 of centuries, backward. 



The fish, attractive in the thought suggested 

 by their ancient armor, were quite unlovely in 

 their present surroundings. Piles of them were 

 lying about in the hot sun, under a humming 

 mass of flies, awaiting their unhurried transit 

 to the general market. When the fishermen 

 had collected a quantity of heads, appar- 

 ently the chief portions considered inedible, 

 these were scraped off the stelling to the mud 



