[Note: this transcription was produced by an automatic OCR engine]

240 WITH NATIVES IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC

On my way to Aoba I had to spend a few days
off Pentecoste, in such rainy weather that I went
ashore but once in all that time. The day was fine,
and I shall never forget the beauty of that woodland
scene. A lovely creek winds through reeds, reflect-
ing the bright sand and the bushes on its banks.
Dark iron-woods rise in stiff, broken lines, and their
greyish needles quiver like a light plume against the
blue sky, where white clouds float serenely. Inland
the forest swells in a green wall, and farther off it lies
in rounded cupolas and domes of soft green, fading»
into a light around the distant hills. Under over-
hanging branches I lie, sheltered from the sun; at
my feet the ripples caress the bank; delicate lianas
hang from the branches and trail lazily in the water.
Swallows dart across the stream, and sometimes
the low call of a wood-dove sounds from far away.
A cricket shrieks, and stops suddenly, as if shocked
at the discordant sound of its own voice. Far off in
the hills I can hear the rushing of the Wind, like a
deep chord that unites in a sacred symphony with the
golden sun and the glittering water to voice the
infinite joy of living that penetrates all creation
to-day.

Down-stream I can see the heavy coast banks,
with a narrow strip of brilliant blue sea shining above
them, and now and then a glint of snowy foam.
Two pandanuses frame the View, their long leaves
waving softly in the breeze that comes floating down
the valley. Half asleep, I know the delights of the
lotus-eaters’ blessed isle.