HAMMOCK NIGHTS 197 



twice as much time — and time, in itself, is the 

 most valuable thing in the world. Considered 

 from this angle, it seems incredible that we have 

 no connoisseurs of sleep. For we have none. 

 Therefore it is with some temerity that I declare 

 sleep to be one of the romances of existence, and 

 not by any chance the simple necessary it is re- 

 puted to be. 



However, this romance, in company with 

 whatever is worthy, is not to be discovered with- 

 out the proper labor. Life is not all truffles. 

 Neither do they grow in modest back-yards to 

 be picked of mornings by the maid-of-all-work. 

 A mere bed, notwithstanding its magic cam- 

 ouflage of coverings, of canopy, of disguised pil- 

 lows, of shining brass or fluted carven posts, is, 

 pancake like, never surrounded by this aura of 

 romance. No, it is hammock sleep which is the 

 sweetest of all slumber. Not in the hideous, 

 dyed affairs of our summer porches, wn'th their 

 miserable curved sticks to keep the strands apart, 

 and their maddening creaks which grow in length 

 and discord the higher one swings — but in a 

 hammock woven by Carib Indians. An Indian 

 hammock selected at random will not suffice; it 

 must be a Carib and none other. For they, them-' 



