Woody trailers, harsh hard grass in tufts, the Asplenium
trichomanes in rifts, the Pellea ternifolia in sand, and some ohia
and mamane scrub in hollow places sheltered from the wind, all hard,
crisp, unlovely growths, contrast with the lavish greenery below. A
brisk cool wind blows all day; every afternoon a dense fog brings
the horizon within 200 feet, but it clears off with frost at dark,
and the flames of the volcano light the whole southern sky.
My companions are an amiable rheumatic native woman, and a crone who
must have lived a century, much shrivelled and tattooed, and nearly
childish. She talks to herself in weird tones, stretches her lean
limbs by the fire most of the day, and in common with most of the
old people has a prejudice against clothes, and prefers huddling
herself up in a blanket to wearing the ordinary dress of her sex.
There is also a dog, but he does not understand English, and for
some time I have not spoken any but Hawaiian words. I have plenty
to do, and find this a very satisfactory life.
I came up to within eight miles of this house with a laughing,
holiday-making rout of twelve natives, who rode madly along the
narrow forest trail at full gallop, up and down the hills, through
mire and over stones, leaping over the trunks of prostrate trees,
and stooping under branches with loud laughter, challenging me to
reckless races over difficult ground, and when they found that the
wahine haole was not to be thrown from her horse they patted me
approvingly, and crowned me with leis of maile.
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