3o8 THE STORY OF A BIRD LOVER 



nut groves, pastures, banana plantations, the 

 hills back at a considerable distance, showing 

 their far-away tops in a mist of rain. We crossed 

 several rivers on the new iron bridges just being 

 completed by the enterprise of an American rail- 

 road company. Buff Bay was reached in the late 



afternoon. We had been directed to Miss D 's 



lodging-house, which proved a shabby, one-storied 

 cottage, approached by a flight of steep steps. 

 Entering an untidy sitting room, we asked to see 

 the bedrooms — they were not made up yet. 

 Insisting that we must look at the rooms at 

 once, we found them filled with people, dogs, 

 and dirt, the air pervaded with the odor of castor- 

 oil, the favorite hair pomade. At another tavern 

 one clean room was discovered. Two tables, a 

 sofa, and buffet made up the furniture. We 

 decided to camp for the night at this place, as it 

 was useless to look farther. Just as we had re- 

 signed ourselves to the inevitable, a card was sent 

 in, and we were warmly greeted by Mr. Espeut, 

 one of the large landowners of the neighborhood, 

 whom I had met in Kingston. Mr. Espeut recog- 

 nized me in passing, and realized our plight. Mrs. 

 Espeut shortly joined him, and they urged us to 

 spend the night at Spring Garden, their country 

 place. The cordial invitation was finally accepted 



for the elder lady of the party, Mrs. J . After 



their departure we made ourselves comfortable 



