all that can be given them, they scatter
away over the ground, going about their business of the day.

The wherewithal for breakfast is, of course, their first consideration,
and this they find along the strand and around the edge of the woods,
though more sparingly than in their search yesterday. Only enough is
obtained to afford them a stinted repast--a mere luncheon. But the
kelp-bed is still to be explored, and for this they must wait until the
tide begins to ebb.

Meanwhile, they do not remain idle, another resource engaging them--a
feat for which the Fuegian native has obtained a world-wide celebrity--
namely, diving for sea-eggs. A difficult, dangerous industry it is, and
just on this account committed to the women, who alone engage in it.

Having dispatched their poor breakfast, half a dozen of the younger and
stronger women take to the canoes--two in each--and paddle out to a part
of the water where they hope to find the sea-urchins. [Note 1.]

Arriving there, she who is to do the diving prepares for it by attaching
a little wicker-basket to her hip, her companion being entrusted to keep
the canoe in place, a task which is no easy one in water so rough as
that of the sea-arm chances to be now.

Everything ready, the diver drops over, head foremost, as fearlessly as
would a water-spaniel, and is out of sight for two or three minutes;
then the crow-black head is seen bobbing up again, and swimming back to
the canoe with a hand-over-hand stroke, dog-fashion, the egg-gatherer
lays hold of the rail to rest herself, while she gives up the contents
of her basket.

Having remained above water just long enough to recover breath, down she
goes a second time, to stay under for minutes as before. And this
performance is repeated again and again, till at length, utterly
exhausted, she climbs back into the canoe, and the other ties on the
basket and takes her turn at diving.

Thus, for hours, the submarine egg-gatherers continue at their arduous,
perilous task; and, having finished it, they come paddling back to the
shore, trembling, and their teeth clinking like castanets.

On landing, they make straight for the wigwams, and seat themselves by a
fire--almost in it--leaving the spoil to be brought up by others.

Then follows the "festival" of _chabucl-lithle_ (sea-eggs), as they call
it, these being their favourite diet. But, in the present case, the
"festival" does not prove satisfactory, as the diving has y