last word in the lacquer artist's skill; are like
beautiful crimson jewels set in a setting of emerald.

And back of all these Flash-Lights of Flame one remembers the path of a
single star on the smooth surface of Manila Bay at night; and the
phosphorescent beauty of Manila Bay where great ships cleave this lake
of fire when the phosphorus is heavy of a Summer night; and every ripple
is a ripple of flame. One remembers the continuous flash of heat
lightning down in Borneo and on Equatorial Seas; and one remembers the
Southern Cross; and the flash-lights of fire in a half-breed woman's
eyes.

CHAPTER II

FLASH-LIGHTS PHYSICAL

The red dawn of tropical Java was near. The shadows of night were still
playing from millions of graceful Palm trees which swung gently in the
winds before the dawn.

Three ancient volcanos, still rumbling in blatant activity, loomed like
gigantic monsters of the underworld, bulging their black shoulders above
the earth. Before us lay a valley of green rice paddies.

We had roved over ancient Boroboedoer all night, exploring its haunted
crannies and corners, listening to its weird noises; dreaming through
its centuries of age; climbing its seven terraces. But in the
approaching dawn, the one outstanding thrill of the night was that of a
half-naked Javanese girl, who stood for an hour, poised in her brown
beauty on the top of one of the Bells of Buddha, with some weird
Javanese musical instrument, singing to the dawn.

Then it came.

"What? Her lover?"

No! The dawn! The dawn was her lover! Or, perhaps her lover was old
Merapi.

For, there, as we too, climbed to her strategic pinnacle of glory on top
of the Buddha Bell to watch the dawn that she had called up with her
weird music and her subtle brown beauty; before us, stretched thousands
of acres of green rice paddies, spread out like the Emerald lawn of an
Emerald Springtime in Heaven. Below us two silver streams of water met
and wedded, to go on as one.

As we stood there that morning on the top of Boroboedoer's highest bell,
lines of Edna St. Vincent Millay swung into my soul:

"All I could see from where I stood
Was three tall mountains and a wood."

Only in this instance all I could see were three volcanos. And the one
in the center, old Merapi was belching out a trail of black smoke. These
three volcanos, take turns through the centuries. When one is working
the other two rest. When one ceases its activity,