My favourite haunt was opposite the hamlet, where was a landing in

a cove under a lianaed cliff. The beach was lined with palms and a

tree called the purao, something between the fig and mulberry in

growth, and bearing a flower like a great yellow poppy with a

maroon heart. In places rocks encroached upon the sand; the beach

would be all submerged; and the surf would bubble warmly as high as

to my knees, and play with cocoa-nut husks as our more homely ocean

plays with wreck and wrack and bottles. As the reflux drew down,

marvels of colour and design streamed between my feet; which I

would grasp at, miss, or seize: now to find them what they

promised, shells to grace a cabinet or be set in gold upon a lady's

finger; now to catch only maya of coloured sand, pounded fragments

and pebbles, that, as soon as they were dry, became as dull and

homely as the flints upon a garden path. I have toiled at this

childish pleasure for hours in the strong sun, conscious of my

incurable ignorance; but too keenly pleased to be ashamed.

Meanwhile, the blackbird (or his tropical understudy) would be

fluting in the thickets overhead.

A little further, in the turn of the bay, a streamlet trickled in

the bottom of a den, thence spilling down a stair of rock into the

sea. The draught of air drew down under the foliage in the very

bottom of the den, which was a perfect arbour for coolness. In

front it stood open on the blue bay and the Casco lying there under

her awning and her cheerful colours. Overhead was a thatch of

puraos, and over these again palms brandished their bright fans, as

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