HOLIDAYS IN HAWAII 
N the edge of the world my islands lie,”’ sings 
Mrs. Frear in her little lyric on the Hawaiian 
Islands. 
“On the edge of the world my islands lie, 
Under the sun-steeped sky; 
And their waving palms 
Are bounteous alms 
To the soul-spent passer-by. 
“On the edge of the world my islands sleep 
In a slumber soft and deep. 
What should they know 
Of a world of woe, 
And myriad men that weep ?” 
On the rim of the world my fancy seemed to see 
them that May day when we went aboard the huge 
Pacific steamship in San Francisco Harbor, and she 
pointed her prow westward toward the vast wilder- 
ness of the Pacific —on the edge of the world, 
looking out and down across the vast water toward 
Asia and Australia. I wondered if the great iron 
ship could find them, and if we should realize or 
visualize the geography or the astronomy when we 
got there, and see ourselves on the huge rotundity 
of the globe not far above her equatorial girdle. 
Yes, on the rim of the world they lie to the trav- 
eler steaming toward them, and on the rim of the 
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