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Camping in Scmth America 
By FRANCIS C. NICHOLAS. Ph.D. 
V.—Shell Fish and Fishing. 
W E had been in the woods some days 
when it became necessary for the sake 
of detail, in the geological survey on 
which I was engaged, that we should work 
our way from the base of the mountains 
across certain interesting gravel ridges to the 
sea, about five miles of detailed examination 
which Lopez could not understand, and watched 
with a cynical expression, for the Spanish- 
American woodman does not appreciate details. 
1 he work was slow, at which there was not 
a little impatience, for the day was hot, the in¬ 
sects annoying; and besides there was a village 
on the sea coast where we would stop for the 
night, and the men, anticipating the companion¬ 
ship of their friends, were hoping that we might 
arrive in good season. The men never really 
complained, but worked industriously to obtain 
the specimens I wanted; yet they would have 
preferred to hunt game, and more than once 
called my attention to a likely place for deer 
or a quiet brook where a flock of wild turkeys 
would certainly be resting during the heat of 
the day. We kept right on with our work, how¬ 
ever, and late in the afternoon came out on the 
Caribbean Sea. The northeast wind had been 
blowing some hours; usually it sets in from the 
sea each afternoon, and the cool breezes blew 
over our heated faces and soothed the smart¬ 
ing we endured from numerous bites of the 
black flies so abundant in the lowlands of the 
tropics. We were well bitten, little round smart¬ 
ing blood marks under the skin indicating each 
place where a black fly had been at work. 
A short distance up the mountains there are 
scarcely any insect torments, but on the low¬ 
lands they are a torture. The cool breeze was 
most acceptable, soothing our hands and faces 
as it came up from off the waves of a sea that 
was really blue, a deep, clear intense blue, 
radiant and sparkling. We were on a point of 
rocks where some houses, or rather the huts 
of the country which serve for houses, had been 
erected, and the cool wind kept the flies away, 
so for a considerable time we did nothing but 
rest and cool our smarting hands and faces. 
The bite of the tropical black flies does not 
itch so much, but it burns, tingles and aches all 
at the same time. 
After we had rested for a while and the sun 
was nearing the horizon, I proposed a swim, 
but Lopez immediately vetoed that proposition.' 
There were the sharks, and the barracudas, 
which were worse, large fish which swam in 
companies and had jaws so strong that they 
could, and sometimes did, tear a man to pieces. 
No; swimming would not answer, but if I 
wanted we could catch chipechipe and have 
something to eat which would be a change from 
our diet of game and plantain. I was ready 
enough to go fishing, and we all went to the 
beach, quite a company of people with us, for 
nearly all the people from the houses had joined 
our party. It was something of a problem, I 
thought, how so many could find a place in the 
two canoes which were unoccupied on the beach, 
but perhaps all would not wish to go out and 
catch the chipechipe; at any rate there did not 
seem much disposition to get the boats ready, 
and I began to wonder a little, and then decided 
that the plan must be to fish through the surf. 
The people were ranging up and down along 
the sand looking for something, bait no doubt, 
still they did not seem to be finding anything, 
and oui chances for fishing looked rather un¬ 
certain. Then up the beach someone gave a 
shout; a little excitement, or rather an intense 
interest seemed to develop, and hurrying to 
where the people were gathering, we saw a place 
where the sand semed to be puffed up a little 
just at the water’s edge, while over it the low 
surf was half breaking, and as the wa-ter came 
swashing up a froth formed over the place in 
the sand from which I now saw that bubbles 
were oozing. 
“A lot of them,” Lopez said. 
Get the pails,” Viejo called; ‘‘hurry up, 
girls.” 
Everyone was shouting, but the girls needed 
no urging. Pails in hand they were down on 
their knees letting the surf break over them as 
they buried their hands in the sand, seeking for 
something, laughing back at the remarks of their 
friends, or shouting impudence in defiance to 
the remarks of the young men as the waves 
came in swashing up and wetting their scanty 
clothing, till through the clinging garments could 
be scjen the outlines of their well shaped mus¬ 
cular forms; and all the while they were filling 
their pails with little bivalve shells, of which 
theie seemed almost no limit. I proposed that 
we join in the fun, but the men disdained such 
sport; this was woman’s work, and even the boy 
Manuel scorned it, though some of the other 
boys, little fellows not yet come to the dignity > 
of clothes, were in and out of the water, though 
never venturing beyond the wash of the waves 
on the sands, helping take the chipechipe, or 
splashing about as they fancied. 
It was not a long task, and soon gourds and 
pails were heaping full of beautiful wedge- 
shaped little bivalves, Dona:v denticulatus. 
These were washed carefully, and when the 
sand was pretty well out of them they were set 
to boil, and presently when they had been 
heated sufficiently to open, the women began 
the task of separating the little donax from the 
shells, a tedious work, though deft fingers made 
rapid progress. It was interesting to watch 
them, yet I was disappointed. 
It was not the kind of fishing I had expected. 
Lopez seemed to understand, and my faithful 
guide had a boat made ready, a great canoe dug 
out of a single log, and capable of carrying 
three or four tons. Shortly we were aboard, 
Lopez, myself and another man, the captain, a 
long, lank individual, whose name I have for¬ 
gotten. Young Lopez and Viejo and others 
were pushing the canoe off through the surf, 
and in a moment or two we were all afloat. A 
rough sail was hoisted, and the canoe went 
clumsily wallowing along in the easy waves, 
making all the while fair progress. A line, 
lough hook and bait of pig skin were thrown 
over the side, and the next moment we were all 
waiting and watching for something; the breeze, 
the salt air, the light of the setting sun, the 
motion of the boat were precisely the same, but 
there was something more, just a line stringing 
over the side of the boat and trailing out awav 
fiom us. How we all watched, waiting for 
something, all the delights of our surroundings 
intensified in our eagerness. 
Loi a mile or more we sailed down the coast, 
then turned and labored back again, the men 
now tugging valiantly at the oars, nor protest¬ 
ing the work as too hard. Lopez was not the 
guiding spirit here; our lanky friend was in 
command comfortably engaged in guiding the 
boat and telling Lopez about the fish and the 
places where they might be found, and all the 
while the line and bait went trailing away be¬ 
hind us. Strike! Had something hit against 
the side of the boat? No, it was the line drawn 
taut and straining almost to the breaking point. 
Row, men! Pull, pull hard,” the captain 
shouted. 
I made a motion to catch the line, but Viejo 
grabbed my arm. “Don’t touch it,” he yelled, 
and then the race was on. We must keep drag¬ 
ging at the fish so it would keep pulling away 
from us in its efforts to escape and not run up 
and shake itself loose. A steady pounding of 
the oars, a light rolling of the boat, breeze, sun¬ 
shine, salt air and a taut line tugging behind 
us. A moment, five minutes, then the men began 
cheering, the line was slackening. Immediately 
the captain had it in his hand and was rapidly 
