288 CAMPS IN THE CARIBBEES. 
garden, carries herself with an air that betokens in- 
dependence, and would sooner lose your patronage 
than dispense with her pipe. 
Through the Grande Rue, past the Gendarmerie, 
up a narrow street to the rear of the theatre, I followed 
a little gamin, one cool morning, to seek birds in the 
Fardin des Plantes. A shower dropped suddenly now 
and then, but the summit of the volcano stood out cool 
and purple against a sky of untroubled blue. Gain- 
ing a level road at the base of high cliffs, I walked 
beneath almond and tamarind trees, looking down 
upon the savane, or level field, beneath, where are 
held the reviews and occasional shows that visit this 
island, and across to the lower town, where a white 
dome thrust itself up from a sea of cocoa palms. The 
huge cone swept from cloud to foaming river — the 
Riviére Roxelane, which divides the town, and from 
which, even thus early, came the sound of blows, 
telling the listening ear that inoffensive linen was 
being maltreated by vengeful females. A broad 
stretch of cane-field climbed well up the mountain, 
meeting the forest, which sent out detachments of 
trees to greet the cane, then spread out all over the 
peak, vast and dark. Houses looked out from gar- 
dens of fruit-trees; everywhere was cultivation and 
growth. 
Descending slightly, I passed a little shrine to the 
Virgin, built right beneath the vine-hung precipice, 
which sent down a wealth of trailing, clinging plants 
to cover it. Leaning above it, as in benediction, is 
the famous and beautiful Arére du Voyageur, which, 
if pierced, will give forth a stream of pure water. 
Its long: leaves, fan-like in their arrangement, de- 
