8 CAMPS IN THE CARIBBEES. 
rounded, dashes over its rocky bed with a roar that 
reaches our ears even at this height of several hun- 
dred feet, and runs at the foot of a high white cliff 
across another plantation into the sea, peaceful enough 
at the end. 
The streets of Roseau are straight, paved with rough 
stone, and they never echo to the sound of wheels. 
They cross at right angles and dwindle down to three 
bridle-paths leading out of the town, one north and one 
south, along the coast, and one, narrow and tortuous, 
over the mountains to the eastward. Most of the 
houses are one-storied boxes of wood, with bonnet 
roofs, sixteen by twenty feet; many in a state of de- 
cay, with tattered sides, bald spaces without shingles, 
and dragging doors and shutters. Every street, how- 
ever, is highly picturesque with this rough architect- 
ure, and with cocoa palms Jining and terminating the 
vistas. The town is green with fruit-trees, and over 
broken roofs and garden walls of roughest masonry 
hang many strange fruits. Conspicuous are the 
mango, orange, lime, pawpaw, plantain, banana, and 
tamarind. Over all tower the cocoa palms, their long 
leaves quivering, their dense clusters of gold-green 
nuts drooping with their weight. 
From the mountains, from the “ Sweet River,” comes 
the purest of water, led in pipes through all the streets, 
and gushing out in never-ceasing flow from the sea 
wall on the shore. The market, near the south end 
of the town, a small square surrounded by stores, is 
the centre of attraction on Saturdays, when it is dense- 
ly packed with country people, black and yellow, who 
come, some of them, from points a dozen miles dis- 
tant, each with his bunch of plantains, or tray of 
