Five
cascades dive from the palis at its head, and unite to form a placid
river about up to a horse's body here, and deep enough for a horse
to swim in a little below. Dense forests of various shades of green
fill up the greater part of the valley, concealing the basins into
which the cascades leap, and the grey basalt of the palis is mostly
hidden by greenery. At the open end, two bald bluffs, one of them
2000 feet in height, confront the Pacific, and its loud booming surf
comes up to within one hundred yards of the house where I am
writing, but is banked off by a heaped-up barrier of colossal
shingle.
Hot and silent, a sunset world of an endless afternoon, it seems a
palpable and living dream. And a few of these people, I understand,
have dreamed away their lives here, never having been beyond their
valley, at least by land. But it is a dream of ceaseless speech and
rippling laughter. They are the merriest people I have yet seen,
and doubtless their isolated life is dear to them.
I wish I could sketch this most picturesque scene. In the verandah,
which is formed of mats, two handsome youths, and five women in
green, red, and orange chemises, all with leis of ferns round their
hair, are reclining on the ground.
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