"Never comes the trader, never floats a European flag,
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from
the crag:
Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree--
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea."
HUALALAI. July 28th.
I very soon left the languid life of Kona for this sheep station,
6000 feet high on the desolate slope of the dead volcano of
Hualalai, ("offspring of the shining sun,") on the invitation of its
hospitable owner, who said if I "could eat his rough fare, and live
his rough life, his house and horses were at my disposal." He is
married to a very attractive native woman who eats at his table, but
does not know a word of English, but they are both away at a wool-
shed eight miles off, shearing sheep.
This house is in the great volcanic wilderness of which I wrote from
Kalaieha, a desert of drouth and barrenness. There is no permanent
track, and on the occasions when I have ridden up here alone, the
directions given me have been to steer for an ox bone, and from that
to a dwarf ohia. There is no coming or going; it is seventeen miles
from the nearest settlement, and looks across a desert valley to
Mauna Loa.
Pages:
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505