CAMP LIFE IN THE TROPICS. 15 
The spoons also are cleaned in the same way, and 
were it not that my eyes had beheld the process of 
polishing, I should not believe, as they nestled inno- 
cently together on the rough table, but that they had 
been subjected to the treatment customary in more civil- 
ized communities. My tin camp-cup, which has accom- 
panied me in all my camp-life, was often the object of 
her attention, and at that time it was doubtful to me 
whether she was washing the cup with her fingers or 
rinsing her fingers in the cup. At any rate, it shows 
a laudable desire to have my table furniture in good 
order, and I do not murmur; but there is a cake of 
soap and a towel that I keep concealed from her sharp 
eyes, that, when not observed, I bring into frequent use 
on those same objects of her devotion. One day I was 
incautious enough to peer into the culinary department 
—a palm-thatched structure, black and grimy with 
smoke which escaped from the fire on the ground, as 
best it could, through the roof. Only once! I did not 
wish again to view those ancient pots and kettles, the 
refuse of preceding feasts, nor to fight my way through 
the drove of hogs that trooped about the open door. 
Occasionally the thought obtrudes itself, “They do 
not have things like this in the States.” This often 
makes me sad, but I raise my eyes, perhaps, and look 
out over the green slope, down upon the valley burst- 
ing with palms, and beyond the hills to the peaceful 
sea smiling in sunshine; and I exult in the thought 
that these enjoyments far outweigh the little annoy- 
ances that I have described. And I take down the 
thermometer and find that it records, if morning, six- 
ty-eight to seventy degrees; if noon, seventy-six de- 
grees; if evening, seventy degrees. And I again 
