ed, the red coals
of cocoa husk and the light trails of smoke betrayed the awakening
business of the day; along the beach men and women, lads and lasses,
were returning from the bath in bright raiment, red and blue and green,
such as we delighted to see in the coloured little pictures of our
childhood; and presently the sun had cleared the eastern hill, and the
glow of the day was over all.

The glow continued and increased, the business, from the main part,
ceased before it had begun. Twice in the day there was a certain stir of
shepherding along the seaward hills. At times a canoe went out to fish.
At times a woman or two languidly filled a basket in the cotton patch.
At times a pipe would sound out of the shadow of a house, ringing the
changes on its three notes, with an effect like _Que le jour me dure_
repeated endlessly. Or at times, across a corner of the bay, two natives
might communicate in the Marquesan manner with conventional whistlings.
All else was sleep and silence. The surf broke and shone around the
shores; a species of black crane fished in the broken water; the black
pigs were continually galloping by on some affair; but the people might
never have awaked, or they might all be dead.

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 d