o. All about us are
verdure-covered islands. They are now the homes of native fishermen,
but a century ago they were hiding-places for the fierce Malayan
pirates whose sanguinary deeds made the peninsula a byword in the
mouths of Europeans.

A rocky beach extends about the island proper, contracting and
expanding as the tide rises and falls. On this beach a hundred and one
varieties of shells glisten in the salt water, exposing their delicate
shades of coloring to the rays of the sun. Coral formations of endless
design and shape come to view through the limpid spectrum, forming
a perfect submarine garden of wondrous beauty. Through the shrubs,
branches, ferns, and sponges of coral, the brilliantly colored fish
of the Southern seas sport like goldfish in some immense aquarium.

We draw out our chairs within the protection of the almond tree, and
watch the sun sink slowly to a level with the masts of a bark that is
bound for Java and the Bornean coasts. The black, dead lava of our
island becomes molten for the time, and the flakes of salt left on
the coral reef by the outgoing tide are filled with suggestions of
the gold of the days of '49. A faint breeze rustles among the long,
fan-like leaves of the palm, and brings out the rich yellow tints
with their background of green. A clear, sweet aroma comes from out
the almond tree. The red sun and the white sheets of the bark sail
away together for the Spice Islands of the South Pacific.

We sleep in a room in the heart of the lighthouse. The stairway
leading to it is so steep that we find it necessary to hold on to a
knotted rope as we ascend. Hundreds of little birds, no larger than
sparrows, dash by the windows, flying into the face of the gale that
rages during the night, keeping up all the time a sharp, high note
that sounds like wind blowing on telegraph wires.

Every morning, at six o'clock, Ah Ming clambers up the perpendicular
stairway, with tea and toast. We swallow it hurriedly, wrap a sarong
about us, and take a dip in the sea, the while keeping our eyes open
for sharks. Often, after a bath, while stretched out in a long chair,
we see the black fins of a man-eater cruising just outside the reef. I
do not know that I ever hit one, but I have used a good deal of lead
firing at them.

One morning we started on an exploring expedition, in the keeper's
jolly-boat. It was only a short distance to the first island, a small
rocky one, with a bit of sandy beach, along