e upon the stocks, surrounded by nets, and sails,
and masts, and empty crafts lying high and dry upon the beach out of
reach of the tide, the fishermen spend the months of their captivity.
Their women live here all the year round, labouring incessantly in
drying and salting the fish which have been taken by the men, or
pounding prawns into _blachan_, that evil-smelling condiment which has
been so ludicrously misnamed the Malayan Caviare. It needs all the
violence of the fresh, strong, monsoon winds to even partially purge
these villages of the rank odours which cling to them at the end of the
fishing season; and when all has been done, the saltness of the sea air,
the brackish water of the wells, and the faint stale smells emitted by
the nets and fishing tackle still tell unmistakable tales of the one
trade in which every member of these communities is more or less
engaged.

The winds blow strong, and the rain falls heavily. The frogs in the
marshes behind the village fill the night air with the croakings of a
thousand mouths, and the little bull-frogs sound their deep see-saw note
during all the hours of darkness. The sun is often hidden by the heavy
cloud-banks, and a subdued melancholy falls upon the moist and steaming
land. The people, whom the monsoon has robbed of their occupation,
lounge away the hours, building boats, and mending nets casually and
without haste or concentrated effort. Four months must elapse before
they can again put to sea, so there is no cause for hurry. They are
frankly bored by the life they have to lead between fishing season and
fishing season, but they are a healthy-minded and withal a law-abiding
people, who do little evil even when their hands are idle.

Then the monsoon breaks, and they put out to sea once more, stretching
to their paddles, and shouting in chorus as they dance across the waves
to the fishing grounds. During this season numerous ugly and uncleanly
steamboats tramp up the coast, calling at all the principal ports for
the cargoes of dried fish that find a ready market in Singapore, and
thus the fisher folk have no difficulty in disposing of their takes.
Prices do not rank high, for a hundredweight of fish is sold on the East
Coast for about six shillings and sixpence of our money, but the profits
of a season are more than sufficient to keep a fisherman and his family
in decency during the months of his inactivity. The shares which are
apportioned to the working hands in