too cold to bathe in, and during the rainy
season--November to March--is frequented by hundreds of wild duck. All
the forest about teems with pigeons, which love the vicinity of Lano-to,
on account of the numbers of _masa'oi_ trees there, on the rich fruit of
which they feed, and all day long, from dawn to dark, their deep _croo!_
may be heard mingling with the plaintive cry of the ringdove.

The view from the crater is of matchless beauty--I know of nothing to
equal it, except it be Pago Pago harbour in Tutuila, looking southwards
from the mountain tops. Here at Lano-to you can see the coast line east
and west for twenty miles. Westwards looms the purple dome of Savai'i,
thirty miles away. Directly beneath you is Apia, though you can see
nothing of it except perhaps some small black spots floating on the
smooth water inside the reef. They are ships at anchor. Six leagues to
the westward the white line of reef trends away from the shore, makes
a sharp turn, and then runs southward. Within this bend the water is
a brilliant green, and resting upon it are two small islands. One is
Manono, a veritable garden, lined with strips of shining beaches and
fringed with cocos. It is the home of the noble families of Samoa, and
most of the past great chiefs are buried there. Beyond is the small but
lofty crater island of Apolima--a place ever impregnable to assault by
natives. Its red, southern face starts steep-to from the sea, the top is
crowned with palms, and on the northern side what was once the crater is
now a romantic bay, with an opening through the reef, and a tiny,
happy little village nestling under the swaying palms. 'Tis one of the
sweetest spots in all the wide Pacific. And, thank Heaven, it has but
seldom been defiled by the globe-trotter. The passage is difficult
even for a canoe. One English lady, however (the Countess of Jersey), I
believe once visited it.

Under the myriad stars, set in a sky of deepest blue, Marisi and I lie
outside the huts upon our sleeping mats, and talk of the old Samoan
days, till it is far into the quiet, voiceless night.

At dawn we are called inside by the woman, who chides us for sleeping in
the dew.

"Listen," says Marisi, raising his hand.

It is the faint, musical gabble of the wild ducks, as they swim across
the lake.

"What now?" asks the woman, as her husband looks to his gun. "Hast no
patience to sit and smoke till I make an oven and get thee food? The
_pato_ (ducks) can