FISHING BOATS IN THE MONSOON.
The western coasts of India abound with a great variety of fish, of excellent quality; and a considerable population in the villages along the seashore is occupied in catching it, and, in a great measure, subsist upon it. The mode of catching the fish is as follows: piles or stakes, of considerable size and length, are sunk and secured at certain distances from the shore, extending sometimes several miles out to sea; these are driven or forced down by fastening boats to them at high water, heavily laden with ballast, which, by their own weight as the tide falls, force the stakes deeper into the sandy or muddy bottom. This operation is further assisted at the same time by a number of boatmen swaying upon ropes made fast to the upper part of the stake. To the stakes are attached nets of great length, and of very tough materials, capable of sustaining the weight of such draughts as occasionally appear almost miraculous, exhibiting a motley assemblage of varieties of fish and other marine productions.
Burn yet awhile, my wasting lamp,
Though long the night may be;
The wind is rough, the air is damp,
Yet burn awhile for me.
The peepul tree beside our door,
How dark its branches wave;
They seem as they were drooping o’er
Its usual haunt, the grave.
Why was it planted here to bring
The images of death?
Surely some gladder tree should spring
Near human hope and breath.
O dove that dwellest its leaves among,
I hear thee on the bough;
I hear thy melancholy song,
Why art thou singing now?
All things are omens to the heart
That keeps a vigil lone,
When wearily the hours depart,
And yet night is not flown.
I see the lights amid the bay,
How pale and wan they shine;
O wind, that wanderest on thy way,
Say which of them is mine.
A weary lot the fisher hath
Of danger and of toil,
Over the wild waves is his path,
Amid their depths his spoil.
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