FISH OUT OF WATER 307 



dry season. The snakehead, therefore, lias similarly ac- 

 commodated himself to this annual peculiarity in his local 

 habitation by acquiring a special chamber for retaining 

 water to moisten his gills throughout his long deprivation 

 of that prime necessary. He lives composedly in semi- 

 fluid mud, or lies torpid in the hard baked clay at the 

 bottom of the dry tank from which all the Water has 

 utterly evaporated in the drought of summer. As long as 

 the mud remains soft enough to allow the fish to rise 

 slowly through it, they come to the surface every now and 

 then to take in a good hearty gulp of air, exactly as gold 

 fish do in England when confined with thoughtless or 

 ignorant cruelty in a glass globe too small to provide 

 sufficient oxygen for their respiration. But when the mud 

 hardens entirely they hibernate or rather aestivate, in a 

 dormant condition, until the bursting of the monsoon fills 

 the ponds once more with the welcome water. Even in 

 the perfectly dry state, however, they probably manage to 

 get a little air every now and again through the numerous 

 chinks and fissures in the sun-baked mud. Our Aryan 

 brother then goes a-fishing playfully with a spade and 

 bucket, and digs the snakehead in this mean fashion out 

 of his comfortable lair, with an ultimate view to the manu- 

 facture of pillau. In Burmah, indeed, while the mud is 

 still soft, the ingenious Burmese catch the helpless creatures 

 by a still meaner and more unsportsmanlike device. They 

 spread a large cloth over the slimy ooze where the snake- 

 heads lie buried, and so cut off entirely for the moment 

 their supply of oxygen. The poor fish, half-asphyxiated by 

 this unkind treatment, come up gasping to the surface under 

 the cloth in search of fresh air, and are then easily caught 

 with the hand and tossed into baskets by the degenerate 

 Buddhists. 



Old Anglo-Indians even say that some of these mud 



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