own 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 I have seen a conjurer make
himself a halo out of naked swords. For in this spot, over a neck of low
land at the foot of the mountains, the trade-wind streams into Anaho Bay
in a flood of almost constant volume and velocity, and of a heavenly
coolness.

It chanced one day that I was ashore in the cove with Mrs. Stevenson and
the ship's cook. Except for the _Casco_ lying outside, and a crane or
two, and the ever-busy wind and sea, the face of the world was of a
prehistoric emptiness; life appeared to stand stock-still, and the sense
of isolation was profound and refreshing. On a sudden, the trade wind,
coming in a gust over the isthmus, struck and scattered the fans of the
palms above the den; and, behold! in two of the tops there sat a native,
motionless as an idol and watching us, you would have said, without a
wink. The next moment the tree closed, and the glimpse was gone. This
discovery of human presences latent overhead in a place where we had
supposed ourselves alone, the immobility of our tree-top spies, and the
thought that perhaps at all hours we were similarly supervised, struck
us with a chill. Talk languished on the beach. As for the cook (whose
conscience was not clear), he never afterwards set foot on shore, and
twice, when the _Casco_ appeared to be driving on the rocks, it was
amusing to observe that man's alacrity; death, he was persuaded,
awaiting him upon the beach. It was more than a year later, in the
Gilberts, that the explanation dawned upon myself. The natives were
drawing palm-tree wine, a thing forbidden by law; and when the wind thus
suddenly revealed them, they were doubtless more troubled than
ourselves.

At the top of the den there dwelt an old, melancholy, grizzled man of
the name of Tari (Charlie) Coffin. He was a native of Oahu, in the
Sandwich Islands; and had gone to sea in his youth in the American
whalers; a circumstance to which he owed his name, his English, his
down-east twang, and the misfortune of his innocent life. For one
captain, sailing out of New Bedford, carried him to Nuka-hiva and
marooned him there among the cannibals.