MY FIRST CAMP. 39 
soon, for we had hardly light enough to reach the 
main path. Late as it was, however, Marie prepared 
some of the fish when she reached her mother’s house, 
and sent them to me with some fragrant limes and a 
spicy pepper. The delicate flesh as far surpasses 
that of the coarse, garbage-feeding lobster in flavor, 
as a “saddle-rock” does a coon oyster. With a drip- 
ping of lime-juice and a dash of West India pepper, 
some Peak & Freans’ biscuit and a bottle of Tennant’s 
pale ale, I supped so delightfully that all my mishaps 
were forgotten. I even queried whether crayfish- 
hunting, with a dusky maiden of sixteen, who ex- 
tended a helping hand when you slipped, laughed 
merrily when you fell, talked musical patois as she 
pattered along, were not better than hunting through 
musty books. ‘ 
