before him the dark amphitheatre of the Atuona mountains and the

cliffy bluff that closes it to seaward. The trade-wind moving in

the fans made a ceaseless noise of summer rain; and from time to

time, with the sound of a sudden and distant drum-beat, the surf

would burst in a sea-cave.

At the upper end of the inlet, its low, cliffy lining sinks, at

both sides, into a beach. A copra warehouse stands in the shadow

of the shoreside trees, flitted about for ever by a clan of

dwarfish swallows; and a line of rails on a high wooden staging

bends back into the mouth of the valley. Walking on this, the new-

landed traveller becomes aware of a broad fresh-water lagoon (one

arm of which he crosses), and beyond, of a grove of noble palms,

sheltering the house of the trader, Mr. Keane. Overhead, the cocos

join in a continuous and lofty roof; blackbirds are heard lustily

singing; the island cock springs his jubilant rattle and airs his

golden plumage; cow-bells sound far and near in the grove; and when

you sit in the broad verandah, lulled by this symphony, you may say

to yourself, if you are able: 'Better fifty years of Europe . . .'

Farther on, the floor of the valley is flat and green, and dotted

here and there with stripling coco-palms. Through the midst, with

many changes of music, the river trots and brawls; and along its

course, where we should look for willows, puraos grow in clusters,

and make shadowy pools after an angler's heart. A vale more rich

and peaceful, sweeter air, a sweeter voice of rural sounds, I have

found nowhere. One circumstance alone might strike the

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