The reds and purples are dying in the orient,
and the hills are swathed in the half-white light of day. The lagoon
is now a glistening pearly gray. Moorea, the isle of the fairy folk,
is jagged and rough, as if a new throe of earth had torn its heights
and made new steeps and obelisks. Moorea is never the same. Every
hour of the day and every smile and frown of the sun creates valleys
and spires, and alters the outlines of this most capricious of islets.

Past the bust of Bougainville, past the offices of Emile Levy, the
pearler whom, to Levy's intense anger, Jack London slew in "The House
of Mapuhi"; past the naval depot, the American consulate with the red,
white, and blue flung in the breeze; the Commissariat de Police, the
pool of Psyche, and all the rows of schooners that line the quays,
with their milken sails drying on their masts, and I am by the stores
of the merchants. The dawn is slipping through the curtain of night,
but lamps are still burning. The traffic has roused the sleepers, and
they are dressing. They have brought, tied in pareus, their Sunday
clothes. Women are changing gowns, and men struggle with shirts and
trousers, awkward inflictions upon their ordinarily free bodies.

All the night people who have journeyed from Papara, from Papenoo,
or nearer districts slumber upon the sidewalks. This sleeping about
anywhere is characteristic of the Tahitian. On the quays, in the
doorways of the large and small stores, in carriages, and on the
decks of the vessels, men and women and children lie or crouch,
sleeping peacefully, with their possessions near them.

In the fare tamaaraa, the coffee-houses of the Tinitos, the Chinese,
the venders of provender and the marketers alike are slipping their
taofe tau, their four-sous' worth of coffee, with a tiny pewter mug
of canned milk, sugar, and a half-loaf of French bread with butter.

My vis-a-vis at Shin Bung Lung's is Prince Hinoe, the heir to the
broken throne, a very large, smiling brown gentleman, who sits with
the French secretary of the governor, the two, alack! patting the
shoulders, pinching the cheeks, and fondling the long, ebon plaits
of the bevy of beauties who are up thus early to flirt and make
merry. Tahiti is the most joyous land upon the globe. Who takes life
seriously here is a fool or a liver-ridden penitent. The shop is
full of peals of laughter and stolen kisses. Those sons of Belial
who taught the daughter of the governor of the Dangerous