ain drenched us, followed by glaring sunshine
that stewed us in heavy dampness. Like the ruins of a giant wall, black
lava blocks lay here and there along the coast. The surf foamed white
in the crevasses, and the forest rose, sallow and greenish-yellow,
above the high bank. Here and there naked natives squatted on the
rocks, motionless, or looking lazily for crabs; among the huge boulders
they looked tiny, and their colouring scarcely distinguished them
from their surroundings; so that they seemed rather like animals, or
the shyest of cave-dwellers. Floating slowly on the grey sea, in the
sad broken light, I thought I had never seen a more inhospitable coast.

Owing to the heavy swell, we had difficulty in passing through the
narrow channel inside the reef. The great rollers pounded against
the coral banks, and poured back in a thousand white streamlets,
like a wonderful cascade, to be swallowed by the next wave.

I found my friend, Mr. D., in a sad state with fever, cold and
loneliness; wrapped up in woollen caps, blankets and heavy clothes, he
looked more like an Arctic explorer than a dweller near the Equator. He
spoke of leaving the islands, and, indeed, did so some months later.

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, reflecting 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
overhanging 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 s