winners in the long race.
Directly a whale-boat was lowered, and rowed around the white fringe
of tremendous surf that broke ceaselessly against the vertical wall of
coral rock. There was just one narrow place where the waves rolled
into a sort of cleft and did not break. Here was the "landing," then.

Landing was an acrobatic feat. In you went on the crest of a wave,
pointing for the place where the blue seas did not break into white.
An instant after, you were in the quiet water inside of the surf. Jump
out everybody and hold the boat! Then it was pick up the various
instruments, and carry them for a quarter of a mile to high-water mark
and beyond, over the sharp points of the reef.

In one night we were fairly settled; in another the Hartford had
sailed away, leaving us in our fairy paradise, where the corals and
the fish were of all the brilliant hues of the rainbow, and where the
whiteness of the sand, the emerald of the lagoon, and the turquoise of
the ocean made a picture of color and form never to be forgotten.

But where are the Frenchmen? The next morning there is the _Eclaireur_
lying a mile or so out, and there is a boat with the bo'sun--_maitre
d'equipage_--pulling towards the surf. I wade out to the brink. He
halloes:

"Where is the landing, then?"

"_Mais ici_"--Right here,--I say.

"Yes, that's all very well for _persons_, but where do you land _les
bagages_?"

"_Mais ici_" I say again, and he says, "_Diable!_"

But all the same he lands both persons and baggage in a neat,
sailor-like way. In a couple of days our two parties of fifty persons
had taken possession of this fairy isle. Observatories go up,
telescopes, spectroscopes, photographic cameras are pointed and
adjusted. The eventful day arrives. Everything is successful. Then
comes the Hartford and takes us away, and a few days later comes the
_Eclaireur_, and the Frenchmen are gone. The little island is left
there, abandoned to the five natives who tend the sickly plantation of
cocoa-palms, and live from year to year with no incident but the
annual visit of "the blig" (Kanaka for brig), which brings their store
of ship biscuit and molasses.

[Illustration: "OBSERVATORIES GO UP."]

Think of their stupendous experience! For years and years they have
lived like that in the marvellous, continuous charm of the silent
island. The "blig" had come and gone away this year, and there will
be no more disturbance and discord for a twelve-month lon