OF THE SOUTH SEAS 137 



intimate. Little bays and inlets bounded themselves, 

 and villages and houses sprang up from the tropic groves. 

 The band, which so far as I knew had not been silent a 

 moment to awaken me from my adoration of the sculp- 

 ture and painting of nature, now poured out the 

 "Himene Tatou Arearea" in token of our approaching 

 landing, which was at Faatoai, the center of population. 

 All its hundred or two inhabitants were at the tiny dock 

 to greet us, except the Chinese, who stayed in their 

 stores. 



Headed by the pipe and accordion, the brass and 

 wood, now playing "Onward, Christian Soldier," — 

 which, if one forgot the words, was an especially carnal 

 melody, — we tramped, singing a parody, through the 

 street of Faatoai, and into a glorious cocoanut grove, 

 where breakfast was spread. 



A pavilion had been erected for our feasting. It was 

 of bamboo and pandanus, the interior lined with tree 

 ferns and great bunches of scarlet oleander, and decor- 

 ated with a deep fringe woven of hibiscus fiber. The 

 roof was a thatch of pandanus and breadfruit leaves, the 

 whole structure, light, flimsy, but a gamut of golds and 

 browns in color and cool and beautiful. 



A table fifty feet or longer was made of bamboo, the 

 top of twenty half sections of the rounded tubes, pol- 

 ished by nature, but slippery for bottles and glasses. A 

 bench ran on both sides, and underfoot was the deep- 

 green vegetation that covers every foot of ground in 

 Moorea except where repeated footfalls, wheels, or labor 

 kills it, and which is the rich stamp of tropic fertility. 



The barrels of beer were unheaded, the demijohns 

 from Bordeaux were uncorked, and from the opened 



