It was a man, a living man, an Indian, a fisherman, a poor
devil who, I suppose, had come to glean before the harvest.
I could see the bottom of his canoe anchored some feet above his head.
He dived and went up successively. A stone held between his feet,
cut in the shape of a sugar loaf, whilst a rope fastened him to his boat,
helped him to descend more rapidly. This was all his apparatus.
Reaching the bottom, about five yards deep, he went on his knees
and filled his bag with oysters picked up at random. Then he went up,
emptied it, pulled up his stone, and began the operation once more,
which lasted thirty seconds.
The diver did not see us. The shadow of the rock hid us from sight.
And how should this poor Indian ever dream that men, beings like himself,
should be there under the water watching his movements and losing no detail
of the fishing? Several times he went up in this way, and dived again.
He did not carry away more than ten at each plunge, for he was obliged to pull
them from the bank to which they adhered by means of their strong byssus.
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