of _char-a-bancs_, or American
wagon, with three seats, one behind the other, all facing the horses,
and roomy and comfortable enough for two persons. Our Transatlantic
cousins certainly understand thoroughly, and do their best to improve
everything connected with, the locomotion they love so well. A Chinese
coachman and a thin but active pair of little horses completed the
turn-out. Mabelle sat beside the coachman, and we four packed into,
the other two seats, with all our belongings.

The sun was certainly _very_ powerful when we emerged from the shady
groves of Papeete, but there was a nice breeze, and sometimes we got
under the shade of cocoa-nut trees. We reached Punauia at about
half-past nine, and changed horses there. While waiting, hot and
thirsty, under the shelter of some trees, we asked for a cocoa-nut,
whereupon a man standing by immediately tied a withy of banana leaves
round his feet and proceeded to climb, or rather hop, up the nearest
tree, raising himself with his two hands and his feet alternately,
with an exactly similar action to that of our old friend the monkey on
the stick. People who have tasted the cocoa-nut only in England can
have no idea what a delicious fruit it really is when nearly ripe and
freshly plucked. The natives remove the outer husk, just leaving a
little piece to serve as a foot for the pale brown cup to rest on.
They then smooth off the top, and you have an elegant vase, something
like a mounted ostrich egg in appearance, lined with the snowiest
ivory, and containing about three pints of cool sweet water. Why it is
called milk I cannot understand, for it is as clear as crystal, and is
always cool and refreshing, though the nut in which it is contained
has generally been exposed to the fiercest sun. In many of the coral
islands, where the water is brackish, the natives drink scarcely
anything but cocoa-nut milk; and even here, if you are thirsty and ask
for a glass of water, you are almost always presented with a cocoa-nut
instead.

From Punauia onwards the scenery increased in beauty, and the foliage
was, if possible, more luxuriant than ever. The road ran through
extensive coffee, sugar-cane, Indian corn, orange, cocoa-nut, and
cotton plantations, and vanilla, carefully trained on bamboos, growing
in the thick shade. Near Atimaono we passed the house of a great
cotton planter, and, shortly afterwards, the curious huts, raised on
platforms, built by some islanders he has impo