BOILING LAKE OF DOMINICA. 53 
For two weeks I had been awaiting a change of 
the moon that was expected to bring a drier season, and 
one night my friend Jean Baptiste came to my hut with 
the welcome news, “To-morrow make weddah.” As 
he predicted, the weather cleared. There came to me 
the sons and nephews of Jean Baptiste (four in num- 
ber), who were laden, and departed one after the 
other. Frangois had a large Carib pannier filled 
with yams, coffee and eggs, a blanket, his never- 
absent cutlass, and a gun; Michael took my camera, 
a bag of provisions, cutlass and gun; Joseph, my dark 
box with photographic chemicals, cutlass and gun; 
Seeyohl, a large sack of yams and plantains, cut- 
lass and gun. With my game-basket and humming- 
bird gun, I followed immediately after my guides. 
We crossed the three streams hurrying from the 
mountain to the precipice, where they are compressed 
into two magnificent waterfalls, and climbed the hills 
beyond, over a path of interlaced roots, from among 
which the earth had been washed, leaving a perfect 
ladder, which served us both in ascending and de- 
scending. Past one of the little “ provision grounds,” 
where, among fallen and decayed trees, were growing 
lusty plantains, bananas, yams and tanniers; across 
another stream and up farther to the crown of the ridge, 
where the path led through cool and open “high 
woods,” where the sun “can’t come,” and where Zer- 
drix, or mountain doves, sprang up from all about us, 
and ramiers, or wood-pigeons, dashed in and out of 
the tall tree-crowns. At eleven o’clock we reached 
“La Riviére Déjefiner,” where we breakfasted upon 
boiled eggs and yams, with clear cold water for drink. 
Our dogs (we had four curs trained to hunt the 
