wkward and ugly by dilapidated
shirts and pants.

She was a busy ship for the rest of that day. The anchor down, sails
furled and decks swept, the rest of the time was our own, and high jinks
were the result. The islanders were amiability personified, merry as
children, nor did I see or hear one quarrelsome individual among them.
While we were greedily devouring the delicious fruit, which was piled on
deck in mountainous quantities, they encouraged us, telling us that the
trees ashore were breaking down under their loads, and what a pity it
was that there were so few to eat such bountiful supplies.

We were, it appeared, the first whale-ship that had anchored there that
year, and, in that particular bay where we lay, no vessel had moored for
over two years. An occasional schooner from Sydney called at the "town"
about ten miles away, where the viceroy's house was, and at the present
time of speaking one of Godeffroi's Hamburg ships was at anchor there,
taking in an accumulation of copra from her agent's store. But the
natives all spoke of her with a shrug--"No like Tashman. Tashman no
good." Why, I could not ascertain.

Our Kanakas had promised to remain with us till our departure for
the south, so, hard as it seemed to them, they were not allowed to go
ashore, in case they might not come back, and leave us short-handed.
But as their relatives and friends could visit them whenever they felt
inclined, the restriction did not hurt them much. The next day, being
Sunday, all hands were allowed liberty to go ashore by turns (except the
Kanakas), with strict injunctions to molest no one, but to behave as if
in a big town guarded by policemen. As no money could be spent, none was
given, and, best of all, it was impossible to procure any intoxicating
liquor.

Our party got ashore about 9.30, but not a soul was visible either on
the beach or in the sun-lit paths which led through the forest inland.
Here and there a house, with doors wide open, stood in its little
cleared space, silent and deserted. It was like a country without
inhabitants. Presently, however, a burst of melody arrested us, and
borne upon the scented breeze came oh, so sweetly!--the well-remembered
notes of "Hollingside." Hurriedly getting behind a tree, I let myself
go, and had a perfectly lovely, soul-refreshing cry. Reads funny,
doesn't it? Sign of weakness perhaps. But when childish memories come
back upon one torrent-like in the swell of a hymn or the s