18. Fish Out Of Water

Strolling one day in what is euphemistically termed, in equatorial
latitudes, 'the cool of the evening,' along a tangled tropical American
field-path, through a low region of lagoons and watercourses, my
attention happened to be momentarily attracted from the monotonous
pursuit of the nimble mosquito by a small animal scuttling along
irregularly before me, as if in a great hurry to get out of my way
before I could turn him into an excellent specimen. At first sight I
took the little hopper, in the grey dusk, for one of the common, small
green lizards, and wasn't much disposed to pay it any distinguished
share either of personal or scientific attention. But as I walked on a
little further through the dense underbrush, more and more of these
shuffling and scurrying little creatures kept crossing the path,
hastily, all in one direction, and all, as it were, in a formed body or
marching phalanx. Looking closer, to my great surprise, I found they
were actually fish out of water, going on a walking tour, for change of
air, to a new residence--genuine fish, a couple of inches long each, not
eel-shaped or serpentine in outline, but closely resembling a red mullet
in miniature, though much more beautifully and delicately coloured, and
with fins and tails of the most orthodox spiny and prickly description.
They were travelling across country in a bee-line, thousands of them
together, not at all like the helpless fish out of water of popular
imagination, but as unconcernedly and naturally as if they had been
accustomed to the overland route for their whole lifetimes, and were
walking now on the king's highway without let or hindrance.

I took one up in my hand and examined it more carefully; though the
catching it wasn't by any means so easy as it sounds on paper, for these
perambulatory fish are thoroughly inured to the dangers and difficulties
of dry land, and can get out of your way when you try to capture them
with a rapidity and dexterity which are truly surprising. The little
creatures are very pretty, well-formed catfish, with bright, intelligent
eyes, and a body armed all over, like the armadillo's, with a continuous
coat of hard and horny mail. This coat is not formed of scales, as in
most fish, but of toughened skin, as in crocodiles and alligators,
arranged in two overlapping rows of imbricated shields, exactly like the
round tiles so common on the roofs of Italian cottages. The fish walks,
or rather shambles along ungracefully, by the shuffling movement of a
pair of stiff spines placed close behind his head, aided by the steering
action of his tail, and a constant snake-like wriggling motion of his
entire body. Leg spines of somewhat the same sort are found in the
common English gurnard, and in this age of