Los Angeles Cal. 

 INDIAN HOME LIFE. 95 



None of the old writers mention the hospitality of 

 the Carib, which at the present day is a virtue he 

 possesses in perfection. I recall one of the many ex- 

 cursions made through the environs of the hamlet into 

 the forest in my search for birds. The day was hot, 

 but a cool breeze from the ocean, which always blows 

 from ten in the morning till six in the evening, tem- 

 pered the heat. Bordering the forest was a little 

 open space, in the center of which, on a spur of the 

 hills overlooking the sea, was a small thatched hut, 

 inhabited by one of the few families of Caribs who 

 have remained uncontaminated by negro blood. As 

 I emerged from the forest I was met by a robust dam- 

 sel with laughing eyes, who brought for me a wooden 

 bench and placed it beneath the grateful shade of a 

 mango. Then appeared her father, who welcomed 

 me to his habitation, and then disappeared. A little 

 later, when he re-appeared, he was driving before 

 him a flock of fowls, and singling out the largest and 

 plumpest, he requested me to shoot it. Thinking I 

 had not understood him, I hesitated, but, at a repe- 

 tition of the request, fired and tumbled the fowl in the 

 dust. There was an instant scattering of the others, 

 but the old man picked up the slain one and marched 

 off with it to his wife. Then he knocked down a few 

 cocoa-nuts, and, clipping off the end of one, brought 

 it to me, with its ivory chamber full of cool and re- 

 freshing water, apologizing that he could offer me no 

 rum or gin, which it is customary to mix with it. 



In an hour or so I was invited to the hut, where, 

 on a clean table, was spread a substantial meal of 

 bread-fruit and yam, with the chicken I had so re- 

 cently shot. This last was a luxury the Indian sel- 



