“Then I should think it would poison us to eat him,” said she. “No; it's only his fin.” “I've eaten cat-fish, but I never saw one like that,” she said. “Look at its horrible mouth! And it has whiskers like a cat!” “Oh! you never saw one with its head on,” I said. “What I want to do is to get this hook out.” I had caught cat-fish before, but never one so large as this, and I was actually afraid to take hold of it, knowing, as I did, that you must be very careful how you clutch a fish of the kind. I finally concluded to carry it home as it was, and then I could decapitate it, and take out the hook at my leisure. So back to camp we went, Euphemia picking up the little fish as we passed, for she did not think it right to catch fish and not eat them. They made her hands smell, it is true; but she did not mind that when we were camping. I prepared the big fish (and I had a desperate time getting the skin off), while my wife, who is one of the daintiest cooks in the world, made the fire in the stove, and got ready the rest of the supper. She fried the fish, because I told her that was the way cat-fish ought to be cooked, although she said that it seemed very strange to her to camp out for the sake of one's health, and then to eat fried food. But that fish was splendid! The very smell of it made us hungry. Everything was good, and when supper was over and the dishes washed, I lighted my pipe and we sat down under a tree to enjoy the evening. The sun had set behind the distant ridge; a delightful twilight was gently subduing every color of the scene; the night insects were beginning to hum and chirp, and a fire that I had made under a tree blazed up gayly, and threw little flakes of light into the shadows under the shrubbery. “Now isn't this better than being cooped up in a narrow, constricted house?” said I. “Ever so much better!” said Euphemia. “Now we know what Nature is. We are sitting right down in her lap, and she is cuddling us up. Isn't that sky lovely? Oh! I think this is perfectly splendid,” said she, making a little dab at her face,--“if it wasn't for the mosquitoes.” “They ARE bad,” I said. “I thought my pipe would keep them off, but it don't. There must be plenty of them down at that creek.” “Down there!” exclaimed Euphemia. “Why there are thousands of them here! I never saw anything like it. They're getting worse every minute.” “I'll tell you what we must do,” I exclaimed, jumping up. “We must make a smudge.” “What's that? do you rub it on yourself?” asked Euphemia, anxiously. “No, it's only a great smoke. Come, let us gather up dry leaves and make a smoldering fire of them.” We managed to get up a very fair smudge, and we stood to the leeward of it, until Euphemia began to cough and sneeze, as if her head would come off. With tears running from her eyes, she declared that she would rather go and be eaten alive, than stay in that smoke. “Perhaps we were too near it,” said I.