The Cruise of the Kawa: Wanderings in the South Seas

We get under way. Polynesia's busiest corner. Our ship's company. A patriotic celebration rudely interrupted. In the grip of the elements. Necessary repairs. A night vigil. Land ho!

"Is she tight?" asked Captain Ezra Triplett. (We were speaking of my yawl, the Kawa).

"As tight as a corset," was my reply.

"Good. I'll go."

In this short interview I obtained my captain for what was to prove the most momentous voyage of my life.

The papers were signed forthwith in the parlor of Hop Long's Pearl-of-the-Orient Cafeteria and dawn of the following day saw us beyond the Golden Gate.

I will omit the narration of the eventful but ordinary occurrences which enlivened the first six months of our trip and ask my reader to transport himself with me to a corner with which he is doubtless already familiar, namely, that formed by the intersection of the equator with the 180th meridian.

This particular angle bears the same relation to the Southern Pacific that the corner of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue does to the Atlantic Seaboard. More explorers pass a given point in a given time at this corner than at any other on the globe. [Footnote: See L. Kluck. Traffic Conditions in the South Seas, Chap. IV., pp. 83-92.]

It was precisely noon, daylight-saving time, on July 4th, 1921, when I stood on the corner referred to and, strange to say, found it practically deserted. To be more accurate, I stood on the deck of my auxiliary yawl, the Kawa, and she, the Kawa, wallowed on the corner mentioned. To all intents and purposes our ship's company was alone. We had the comforting knowledge that on our right, as one faced the bow, were the Gilbert and Marshall groups (including the Sandwiches), on our left the Society, Friendly and Loyalty Archipelagoes, back of us the Marquesas and Paumotus and, directly on our course, the Carolines and Solomons, celebrated for their beautiful women. [Footnote: See "Song of Solomon," King James Version.] But we were becalmed and the geographic items mentioned were, for the time being, hull-down. Thus we were free to proceed with the business at hand, namely, the celebration of our national holiday.

This we had been doing for several hours, with frequent toasts, speeches, firecrackers and an occasional rocket aimed directly at the eye of the tropical sun. Captain Triplett, being a stickler for marine etiquette, had conditioned that there should be no liquor consumed except when the sun was over the yard-arm. To this end he had fitted a yard-arm to our cross-trees with a universal joint, thus enabling us to keep the spar directly under the sun at any hour of the day or night. Consequently our celebration was proceeding merrily.

While in this happy and isolated condition let me say a few words of our ship's company. Having already mentioned the Captain I will dispose of him first. Captain Ezra Triplett was a hard-bitten mariner. In fact, he was, I think, the hardest-bitten mariner I have ever seen. He had been bitten, according to his own tell, man-and-boy, for fifty-two years, by every sort of insect, rodent and crustacean in existence. He had had smallpox and three touches of scurvy, each of these blights leaving its autograph. He had lost one eye in the Australian bush where, naturally, it was impossible to find it. This had been replaced by a blue marble of the size known, technically, as an eighteen-er, giving him an alert appearance which had first attracted me. By nature taciturn, he was always willing to sit up all night as long as the gin was handy, an excellent trait in a navigator. About his neck he wore a felt bag containing ten or a dozen assorted marbles with which he furnished his vacant socket according to his fancy, and the effect of his frequent changes was both unusual and diverting.

[Illustration: Captain Ezra Triplett]

[Illustration Note: CAPTAIN EZRA TRIPLETT

The annals of maritime history will never be complete until the name of Captain Ezra Triplett of New Bedford, Massachusetts, receives the recognition which is justly its. For more than ten generations the forebears of this hard-bitten mariner have followed the sea in its various ramifications.

The first Triplett was one of the companions of Goswold who, in 1609, wintered on Cuttyhunk Island in Buzzard's Bay. From then on the members of this hardy New England family have earned positions of trust and honor. By courage and perseverance the subject of this portrait has worked himself up from cabin boy on the sound steamer Puritan (wrecked on Bartlett's Reef, 1898) to his present position of commander of the Kawa.

Of his important part in connection with the historic cruise described in these pages, the Kawa's owner, Dr. Traprock, has no hesitancy in saying, "Frankly, without Triplett the thing never could have been done." The accompanying photograph was taken just after the captain had been hauled out of the surf in Papeete. It will be remarked that he still maintains an indomitable front and holds his trusty Colt in readiness for immediate action.]

But sail! Lord bless you, how Triplett could sail! It was wizardry, sheer wizardry; "devil-work," the natives used to call it. Triplett, blindfolded, could find the inlet to a hermetically sealed atoll. When there wasn't any inlet he would wait for a seventh wave-which is always extra large-and take her over on the crest, disregarding the ragged coral below. The Kawa was a tight little craft, built for rough work. She stood up nobly under the punishment her skipper gave her.

Triplett's assistant was an individual named William Henry Thomas, a retired Connecticut farmer who had chosen to end his days at sea. This, it should be remarked, is the reverse of the usual order. The back-lots of Connecticut are peopled by retired sea-captains who have gone back to the land, which accounts in large measure for the condition of agriculture in these communities. William Henry Thomas had appeared as Triplett's selection. Once aboard ship his land habits stood him in good stead in his various duties as cook, foremost-hand, butler and valet, for it must not be supposed that the Kawa, tight though she might be, was without a jaunty style of her own.

Our first-class cabin passengers were three, Reginald K. Whinney, scientific man, world wanderer, data-demon and a devil when roused; Herman Swank, bohemian, artist, and vagabond, forever in search of new sensations, and myself, Walter E. Traprock, of Derby, Connecticut, editor, war correspondent, and author, jack-of-all-trades, mostly literary and none lucrative.

Our object? What, indeed, but life itself!

I had known my companions for years. We had been class-mates at New

Haven when our fathers were working our way through college. How far

away it all seemed on that torrid Fourth of July as we sat on the

Kawa's deck singing "Oralee", to which we had taught Triplett the bass.

"Like a blackbird in the spring,

Chanting Ora-lee...."

"Very un-sanitary," said Whinney, "a blackbird ... in the spring ... very un-sanitary."

We laughed feebly.

Suddenly, as they do in the tropics, an extraordinary thing happened. A simoon, a monsoon and a typhoon met, head on, at the exact corner of the equator and the 180th meridian. We hadn't noticed one of them,-they had given us no warning or signal of any kind. Before we knew it they were upon us!

I have been in any one of the three separately many a time. In '95 off the Blue Canary Islands I was caught in an octoroon, one of those eight-sided storms, that spun our ship around like a top, and killed all the canaries for miles about-the sea was strewn with their bodies. But this!

"Below," bellowed Captain Triplett, and we made a dive for the hatch. William Henry Thomas was the last in, having been in the bow setting off a pinwheel, when the blow hit us. We dragged him in. My last memory is of Triplett driving a nail back of the hatch-cover to keep it from sliding.

How long we were whirled in that devil's grip of the elements I cannot say. It may have been a day-it may have been a week. We were all below, battened down ... tight. At times we lost consciousness-at times we were sick-at times, both. I remember standing on Triplett's face and peering out through a salt-glazed port-hole at a world of waterspouts, as thick as forest trees, dancing, melting, crashing upon us. I sank back. This was the end ...

[Illustration: A Bewildered Botanist]

[Illustration Note: A BEWILDERED BOTANIST Here, against the background of a closely woven hedge of southern hornbeam (Carpinus Tropicalis), we see that eminent scientist, Reginald Whinney, in the act of discovering, for the first time in any country, a magnificent specimen of wild modesty (Tiarella nuda), which grows in great profusion throughout the Filbert Islands. This tiny floweret is distantly related, by marriage, to the European sensitive plant (Plantus pudica) but is infinitely more sensitive and reticent. An illustration of this amazing quality is found in the fact that its snowy blossoms blush a deep crimson under the gaze of the human eye. At the touch of the human hand the flowers turn inside-out and shrink to minute proportions. Dr. Whinney attempted in vain to transplant specimens of this fragile creation to our old-world botanical gardens but found the conditions of modern plant life an insuperable barrier. The seeds of wild modesty absolutely refuse to germinate in either Europe or America.]

* * * * *

Calm. Peace and sun! The beneficence of a warm, golden finger that reached gently through the port-hole and rested on my eye. What had happened? Oh-yes. "Like a blackbird in the spring." Slowly I fought my way back to consciousness. Triplett was sitting in a corner still clutching the hammer. On the floor lay Whinney and William Henry Thomas, their twisted legs horribly suggestive of death.

"Air," I gasped.

Triplett feebly wrenched out the nail and we managed to pull the hatch far enough back to squeeze through. Enlivened by the fresh air the others crawled slowly after, except poor William Henry Thomas who still lay inert.

"He's all right," said Whinney. "The gin bottle broke and dripped into his mouth. He'll come to presently." He added in an undertone, "The wages of gin..." Whinney was always quoting.

Minus our factotum we stood and silently surveyed what once had been the Kawa. The leathern features of Captain Triplett twisted into a grin. "Bald's a badger!" he murmured.

Everything had gone by the board. Mast, jigger, bow-sprit and running gear. Not a trace of block or tackle rested on the surrounding sea. We were clean-shaven. Of the chart, which had hung in a frame near the binnacle, not a line remained. All our navigating instruments, quadrant, sextant, and hydrant, with which we had amused ourselves making foolish observations during that morning of the glorious Fourth, our chronometer and speedometer,-all had absolutely disappeared.

"And there we are!" said Swank.

Triplett coughed apologetically and pulled his forelock.

"If you don't mind, sir, night'll be comin' on soon and I think we'd better make sail."

"Make sail?" I murmured blankly. "How?"

"The bedding, sir," said Triplett.

"Of course!" I cried. "All hands abaft to make sail."

How we knotted our sheets and blankets together to fashion a rough main-sail would be a tedious recital, for it was slow work. Our combined efforts made, I should say, about eight knots an hour but half of them pulled out at the least provocation. We persevered, however, and finally completed our task. Nor were we an instant too soon, for just as we had succeeded in getting the oars to stand upright and were anxiously watching our well-worn army blankets belly out with the steady trade wind, the sun, which for the last hour had hung above the horizon, suddenly fell into the sea and night was upon us.

"There's that," said Whinney quietly.

Thus we slid through the velvet night with the Double Cross hanging low, sou'west by south.

It must have been about an hour before dawn that a shiver of expectancy thrilled us unanimously.

"Did you hear that, sir?" said Captain Triplett in a low tone.

"No ... what was it?"

"A sea-robin ... we must be near land ... there it is again."

I heard it that time ... the faint, sweet note of the male sea-robin.

Shortly afterward we heard the mewing of a sea-puss, evidently chasing the robin.

"Sure enough, sir," said Triplett. "It'll be land." Somehow we felt sure of it.

In calm elation and tired expectancy we strained our eyes through the slow crescendo of the day's birth. Suddenly, the sun leaped over the horizon and the long crimson rays flashed forward to where, dead ahead, we could see a faint swelling on the skyline. "Land-ho!" we cried in voices of strangled joy.

"Boys," said Captain Triplett, apologetically ... "we ain't got no yard-arm, but the sun's up and there's land dead ahead, and I reckon..."

He paused. Through the hatchway came William Henry Thomas bearing a tray with four lily cups.

"Fair as a lily..." said Whinney (I knew he would).

Two minutes later we had fallen into heavy slumber while the Kawa steered by the faithful Triplett, moved steadily toward our unknown haven.

A real discovery. Polynesia analyzed. The astounding nature of the Filberts. Their curious sound, and its reason. We make a landing. Our first glimpse of the natives. The value of vaudeville.

There is nothing better, after a hurricane, than six hours' sleep. It was high noon when we were awakened by William Henry Thomas and the odor of coffee, which drew us to the quarter-deck. There, for the first time, we were able to make an accurate survey of our surroundings and realize the magnitude and importance of what had befallen us. While we slept Captain Triplett had warped the denuded Kawa through a labyrinth of coral and we now lay peacefully at anchor with the island lying close in-board.

Its appearance, to put it mildly, was astonishing. Let me remind the reader that for the previous four months we had been prowling through the Southern Pacific meeting everywhere with disappointment and disillusionment. We had inspected every island in every group noted on every map from Mercator to Rand-McNally without finding any variation in type from, "A," the low lying coral-atoll of the well-known broken doughnut formation, to, "B," the high-browed, mansard design popularized by F. O'Brien. [Footnote: This is the type "E". of Melville's overrated classification-Ed.] In a few of the outlying suburbs of Melanesia and the lower half of Amnesia, we had found a few designs which showed sketchy promise of originality: coral reefs in quaint forms had been begun, outlining a scheme of decoration in contrast with the austere mountains and valleys. But everywhere these had been abandoned. Either the appropriation had given out, or the polyps had gotten to squabbling among themselves and left their work to be slowly worn away by the erosive action of sea and shipwrecked bottoms. [Footnote: In Micronesia it was even worse, the islands offering a dead-level of mediocrity which I have never seen equalled except in the workingmen's cottages of Ampere, New Jersey, the home of the General Electric Company.] Add to the geographic sameness the universal blight of white civilization with its picture post-cards, professional hula and ooh-la dancers, souvenir and gift shops, automat restaurants, movie-palaces, tourists, artists and explorers, and you have some idea of the boredom which had settled down over the Kawa and her inmates.

Only a few days before Whinney, usually so philosophical, had burst out petulantly with: "To hell with these islands. Give me a good mirage, any time." Swank and I had heartily agreed with him, and it was in that despondent spirit that we had begun our Fourth of July celebration.

As we sat cozily on deck, sipping our coffee, it slowly dawned on us that we had made the amazing discovery of an absolutely new type of island!-something so evidently virgin and unvisited that we could only gaze in awe-struck silence.

"Do you know," whispered Swank, "I think this is the first time I have ever seen a virgin"-he choked for an instant on a crumb-"island."

We could well believe it.

The islands lay before us in echelon formation. The one in our immediate foreground was typical of the others. Its ground-floor plan was that of a circle of beach and palm enclosing an inner sea from the center of which rose an elaborate mountain to a sheer height of two thousand, perhaps ten thousand, feet. The general effect was that of a pastry masterpiece on a gigantic scale. [Footnote: Oddly enough the scene struck me as strangely familiar but it was not until weeks afterward that I recalled its prototype in the memory of a decoration worn by General Grosdenovitch, Minister very-extraordinary to America from Montenegro just before the little mountain kingdom blew up with a faint pop and became absorbed by Jugo-Slovakia (sic).] We could only stare in open-mouthed amazement, thrilled with the thought that we were actually discoverers. A gorgeous feature of our find, in addition to its satisfactory shape, was its color. Sand and vegetation were of the conventional hues, but where the flanks of the rock rose from the enclosed pool we observed that they were of the pure elementary colors, red, blue and yellow, fresh and untarnished as in the latest masterpiece from the brush of the Master of All Painters. Here before our eyes was an unspoiled sample of what the world must have looked like on varnishing day.

Swank, who is ultra-modern in his tendencies, was in ecstasies over the naive simplicity of the color scheme. "Look at that red!" he shouted. "Look at that blue!! Look at that yaller!!!" He dove below and I heard rattling of tubes and brushes that told me he was about to commit landscape. This time I knew he couldn't possibly make the colors too violent.

Fringing the exquisitely tinted coral strand were outlying reefs, alternately concave and convex, which gave the shore edge a scalloped, almost rococo finish, which I have heard decorators call the Chinese-Chippendale "effect." Borne to our nostrils by an occasional reflex of the zooming trades came, ever and anon, entrancing whiffs of a brand new odor.

It is always embarrassing to attempt to describe a new smell, for, such is our inexperience in the nasal field, that a new smell must invariably be described in terms of other smells, and by reason of a curious, inherited prudery this province has been left severely alone by English writers. I know of but one man, M. Sentant, the governor of Battambang, Cambodia, who frankly makes a specialty of odors. [Footnote: See Journal des Debats, '09, "Le nez triomphant" de Lucien Sentant.]

"J'aime les odeurs!" he said to me one day as we sat sipping a siem-bok on the piazza, of the residency.

"Mais il y en a des mauvaises," I deprecated.

"Meme les mauvaises," he insisted, "Oui, surtout les mauvaises!"

But Sentant is unique. I can only say that as I sat sniffing on the deck of the Kawa there was about us a soupcon of the je-ne-sais-quoi tropicale, half nostalgie, half diablerie. It was ... but what's the use? You will have to go out there some time and smell it for yourself.

[Illustration: The W.E. Traprock Expedition]

[Illustration Note: THE W.E. TRAPROCK EXPEDITION It is doubtful if a camera's eye ever recorded the presence of a more remarkable group than that presented on the opposite page. Here we see the ship's company of the yawl Kawa, assembled under the shade of the broad panjandrus leaves which fringe the Filbert Islands. They are, reading from left to right, William Henry Thomas, the crew; Herman Swank, Walter E. Traprock, Reginald Whinney. At their feet lies Kippiputuona (Daughter of Pearl and Coral). The black and white of photography can give no idea of the magnificent tropical coloring, nor of the exquisite sounds and odors which permeate every inch of the island paradise. At the moment of taking this picture, which was obligingly snapped by Captain Triplett, the entire party was listening to the thrilling cry of the fatu-liva bird. Captain Triplett had just requested the group to "listen to the little birdie" when the distant wood-notes were heard, the coincidence falling in most happily with the photographer's attempts to secure the absolute attention of his subjects.]

I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now come to the strangest feature of all. I refer to its sound. I had for some time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to mention fearing it might be inside my own head-a devilish legacy of our recent buffeting. You can imagine my relief when Whinney asked apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?"

"I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air.

We all listened intently.

Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light rain reached us.

"Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a fish that had made a face at him. A glance through our mercifully preserved field-glasses corroborated the Captain's vision.

"For the love of Pete!" I gasped. "Take a squint at those trees." They were literally crawling with nuts and tropical fruits of every description. In the shadow of the broad panjandrus leaves we could see whole loaves of breadfruits falling unassisted to the ground while between the heavier thuds of cocoanuts and grapefruit we heard the incessant patter of light showers of thousands of assorted nutlets, singing the everlasting burden and refrain of these audible isles. It was this predominant feature-though I anticipate our actual decision-which ultimately settled our choice of a name for the new archipelago,-the Filbert Islands, now famous wherever the names of Whinney, Swank and Traprock are known.

It was now about half-past two bells and an excellent time to make a landing, preparations for which were forthwith set in motion. Now, if ever, we had occasion to bless the tightness of the Kawa, for in the confusion below, somewhat ameliorated by the labors of William Henry Thomas, we found most of our duffle in good order, an occasional stethoscope broken or a cork loose, but nothing to amount to much. Our rifles, side-arms, cartridges, camera and my bundles of rejected manuscript were as dry as ever. I was thankful as I had counted on writing on the other side of them. A tube of vermilion had run amuck among Swank's underclothes but, in the main, we were intact.

After some delay in getting our folding-dory stretched on its frame, due to Whinney's contention that the bow and stern sections belonged on the same end, we finally shoved off, leaving William Henry Thomas to answer the door in case of callers.

In the brief interval of our passage, I could not help noticing the remarkable submarine flora over which we passed. The water, perfectly clear to a depth of four-hundred and eighty-two feet, showed a remarkable picture of aquatic forestry. Under our keel spread limeaceous trees of myriad hues in whose branches perched variegated fish nibbling the coral buds or thoughtfully scratching their backs on the roseate bark. Pearls the size of onions rolled aimlessly on ocean's floor. But of these later; for the nonce our tale leads landward.

As our canvas scraped the shingle we leaped out, tossing the dory lightly beyond the reach of the waves, and fell into the agreed-upon formation. Triplett in the van, then Whinney, Swank and myself, in the order named. Beyond the beach was a luxuriant growth of haro. [Footnote: Similar to the photographer's grass; is used in the foreground of early Sarony full lengths. I have seen a similar form of vegetation just off the fairway of the third hole at Garden City.] Into this we proceeded gingerly, intrepid and alert, but ready to bolt at the slightest alarm.

The nut noises became constantly more ominous and menacing, but still we saw no sign of human life. Near the edge of the forest we came to a halt. Plainly it would be unwise to venture within range of the arboreal hailstones without protection, for though our pith-helmets were of the best quality they were, after all, but pith, and a cocoanut is a cocoanut, the world over. While we were debating this point and seeking a possible way into the jungle which was not overarched by trees I heard a low bird-call, as I supposed, the even-song of the cross-billed cuttywink. On the instant a towering circle of dark forms sprang from the haro and at a glance I saw that we were completely surrounded by gigantic Filbertines!

Darting a look over my shoulder I noted to my dismay an enormous land-crab towing our dory seaward. It was a harrowing moment. As agreed upon, we waited for Triplett to take the initiative and in the interim I took a hasty inventory of our reception committee. The general impression was that of great beauty and physique entirely unadorned except for a narrow, beaded water-line and pendent apron (rigolo in the Filbertine language) consisting of a seven-year-old clam shell decorated with brightly colored papoo-reeds. The men's faces were calm, almost benign, and as far as I could see unarmed except for long, sharply pointed bundles of leaves which they carried under their arms. Their tattooing was the finest I have ever seen.

At this moment, however, my observations were concluded by Triplett's suddenly wheeling and saying sharply, "Traprock! ... target practice!" This was a stunt we had often performed for the amusement and mystification of kindly cannibals in the Solomons. I had seen it in vaudeville and taught it to Triplett. As was my custom, I had in the pocket of my singlet a number of ship biscuit. Plucking out one of these I placed it on my forehead and nose, holding it in place with the index finger. Triplett leveled his Colt a good yard above my head and fired, I on the instant pressing the biscuit so that it fell in pieces to the ground.

The effect on the Filbertines was marvelous.

They were too simple to be afraid. Their one emotion was wonder. Then

Swank, grinning broadly, uttered the one word, "Cinch!"

To a nation which had never heard a word ending in a consonant, this was apparently intensely humorous. They burst into loud guffaws, supplemented with resounding slaps of their cupped hands on their stomachs, at the same time raising an imitative cry of "Sink-ka! Sink-ka!"

This was our welcome to the Filbert Islands, and also the beginning of the formation of that new tongue, Filbertese or nut-talk, which in the ensuing months was to mean so much to our small but absolutely intrepid band.

Our handsome hosts. En route to the interior. Native flora and fauna. We arrive at the capitol. A lecture on Filbertine architecture. A strange taboo. The serenade.

With the first burst of laughter it seemed that all embarrassment on the part of the natives had been dissipated. Those nearest us insisted on patting our stomachs gently, at the same time uttering a soft, crooning "soo-soo," [Footnote: This same sound is used by the natives of Sugar Hill, New Hampshire, when calming their horses.] which it was obviously the proper thing to return, which we did to the delight of the bronze warriors about us.

After a few moments of this friendly massage, the most ornamental of the savages, whom I judged to be the chief, uttered dissyllabic command of "Oo-a," and slapped his right thigh smartly with his left hand, a feat more easily described than accomplished. Coincident with this signal came a cheerful riffling sound as the Filbertines broke out their large umbrellas of panjandrus leaves which we had first mistaken for weapons. This implement, (known technically as a naa-naa or taa-taa, depending on whether it was open or closed), was in reality notonly a useful and necessary protection against the continuous nut-showers but also a weapon of both of- and de-fensive warfare. [Footnote: This primitive people we soon found to be profoundly pacifistic, a natural condition in a race who, since the dawn of time, had known no influence other than that of the Pacific Ocean. Warfare with its cruel attributes had never penetrated their isolation. With nations as with people, it takes two to make a quarrel. Here was but one.]

We stood thus, in open formation, among the luxurious haro until in response to another signal from the chief, a resounding slap on the left shank, they escorted us ceremoniously along a winding path which led toward the interior of the island. It was for all the world as if we were being taken out to dinner, a thought which suggested for an instant the reflection that we might turn out to be not guests but courses at the banquet, in which case I promised myself I should be a piece-de-resistance of the most violent character.

But these solemn thoughts were not proof against the gaiety of our surroundings, the soft patter of the constantly dropping nuts bounding from the protective taa-taas, and the squawks and screeches of countless cuttywinks and fatu-liva birds, those queens of the tropics whose gorgeous plumage swept across our path.

For Whinney and Swank as well as myself the promenade was a memorable one, the former feasting his cool eyes on the hundreds of new scientific items which he was later to classify, the bulbous oo-pa, a sort of vegetable cream-puff, the succulent tuki-taki, pale-green with red dots, a natural cross between the banana and the cocoanut, having the taste of neither, and the numerous crawling things, the whistling-ants and shy, lamp-eyed lily-bugs (anchoridae flamens) who flashed their signals as we passed.

Swank revelled in the rainbow colors about us, the flaming nabiscus blossoms and the unearthly saffron of the alova blooms, one inhale of which, we were to learn, contained the kick of three old-fashioned mint-juleps. Only Triplett's hard-boiled countenance reflected no interest whatever in his surroundings.

It was doubtless this unintelligent dignity on our Captain's part, coupled with what was left of his brass buttons and visor cap on which the legend "Kawa" still glimmered faintly, which prompted the aborigines to select him as our chief, an error which I at first thought of correcting by some sort of dramatic tableau such as having Triplett lie down and letting me place my foot on his Adam's apple, of which he had a splendid specimen. On second thought, however, I decided that it would be more modest to allow him any honors he might receive together with the responsibilities attendant upon his position. It is the invariable habit of South Sea Islanders, in the event of trouble, to capture and hold as hostages the chief men of a tribe. Their heads, with or without the original bodies, seem to have a peculiar value.

[Illustration: Babai and Her Taa-Taa]

[Illustration Note: BABAI AND HER TAA-TAA

In this picture the joyous island queen Babai-Alova-Babai is seen carrying her taa-taa, the curious implement which serves so many purposes in the Filbert Group. It is in turn a protection against the sun, the rain and the constant showers of falling nuts, and also, when occasion demands, a most effective weapon of defensive warfare. The taa-taa is made of closely laced panjandrus leaves on a frame of the tough eva-eva. When closed, which is seldom, it is known as a naa-naa. In addition to its other uses it is most evidently a charming background for a splendid example of Filbertine youth and beauty.]

Soon the trail widened, and we were called upon to hurdle several low barriers of papoo-reeds, designed to confine the activities of the countless Alice-blue wart-hogs which whined plaintively about our feet. At a majestic gesture from the chief the taa-taas were furled (becoming naa-naas), and we halted in a bright clearing about sixty feet in diameter, plainly the public square, or, to be exact, circle.

My first impression was that of complete isolation in an unbroken forest. Peer as I would, I could discern no sign of human habitation. We had arrived, but where? My question was soon answered. By most gracious gestures, soft sounds and a series of fluttering finger exercises on the abdominal walls we were led to one side of the circle where, as our guides pointed upward, white eyes for the first time in history rested on a Filbertine dwelling!

The houses were in the trees!

Architecture is said to express deeply the inner characteristics of a people, a statement I am glad to corroborate. But never had it struck me so forcibly as now. Gazing up at a dim picture of informal construction, interlaced and blended with the trunks, boughs and foliage of the overarching palms I saw at a glance the key-note of the life of this simple people-absence of labor.

The houses,-nests, were the better word-were formed by a most naive adaptation of natural surroundings to natural needs. The curving fronds of the towering coco-palms and panjandrus had been interlaced; and nature did the rest, the gigantic leaves interweaving, blending, over-lapping, meeting in a passionate and successful desire to form a roof, proof alike against sun and rain. Some ten feet below this and an equal distance from the ground the tendrils of the eva-eva vine had been led from tree to tree, the subordinate fibres and palpitating feelers quickly knitting themselves into a floor with all the hygienic properties and tensile strength of linen-mesh.

Access to these apartments was something of a puzzle until, to instruct us, a tall Filbert, who was evidently to be our neighbor, approached a nearby dwelling and, seizing a pendent halyard of eva-eva, gently but firmly pulled down the floor to a convenient level, vaulted into the hammock-like depression and was immediately snapped into privacy. From below we could see the imprint of his form rolling toward the center of his living-room and then the depressions of his feet as he proceeded to lurch about his dwelling.

It was now mid-afternoon; we were hot, tired, and, though we did not know it, mildly intoxicated by the inhalations of alova which we had absorbed during our journey. I looked forward eagerly to getting up-stairs, so to speak, and taking a sound nap. One thing only deterred me; I was thirsty.

[Illustration: Walter E. Traprock, F.R.S.S.E.U.]

[Illustration Note: WALTER E. TRAPROCK, F.R.S.S.E.U.

This striking likeness of Dr. Traprock, the author of the present volume, admirably expresses the intensity, alertness and intrepidity which have carried this remarkable personage through so many harrowing experiences. A certain bold defiance, which is one of Dr. Traprock's characteristics, has here been caught to the life. With just this matchless courage we know that he must have faced death a thousand times even though, as now, he had not a cartridge in his belt. That Dr. Traprock knows no fear is evidenced by the fact that he has not only explored every quarter of the globe, but that he has also written a number of books of travel, plays, musical comedies and one cook-book. The background of this picture shows the densely matted bush of the Filbert Islands in their interior portion, a jungle growth which might well baffle any but the most skillful threader of the trackless wilds. The gun carried by Dr. Traprock is a museum-piece, having been presented to the author's great-grandfather by Israel Putnam immediately after the Battle of Fort Ticonderoga. Thanks to constant upkeep it is in as good condition as ever. This is also true of Dr. Traprock.]

On the edge of the clearing I heard the tinkling of a brook. Walking to its edge, I knelt and dipped my hot wrists in the cold stream, wetting my hands, face and matted locks, while the natives eyed me solemnly but with, I thought, looks of anxiety. And then a strange thing happened. As I took off my duck's-back fishing hat, filled it to the brim and raised it to my lips, a cry of horror burst from the throats of those swarthy giants. The chief strode forward and dashed the cap from my hand, at the same time thundering the word "Bapoo!"

In an instant it flashed upon me that this was Filbertese for tapu or taboo, that strange, sacred kibosh which is laid on certain acts, objects or localities throughout these far-flung islands. Water it appeared was for drinking purposes-bapoo. I then did what I think was exactly the right thing under the circumstances, namely, to wring out the offending head-covering and throw it as far from me as possible, an act which was greeted with a hearty burst of applause.

It was not necessary for me to indicate further that I was thirsty. Two henchmen almost immediately appeared with a large nut-shell of unfamiliar appearance,-it was about the size of a half watermelon and bright red on the outside,-full of a pale pink liquid. The chief, one or two of the leading men, and the rest of my party were similarly equipped. Raising his shell the chief and nobles said simultaneously "Wha-e-a" and we drank.

Two minutes afterward I had a faint sensation of being borne away by the trade wind. Swank was beside me and I heard him murmur, "I'm glad I don't have to sleep with Triplett."

The rest was silence, and the silence was rest....

We awoke many hours later. It was moonlight and we were lying in a complicated knot in the exact center of our domicile. Unraveling ourselves we tested our heads with gentle oscillations.

Suddenly, in the distance, we heard a sound which sent a chill thrill running up and down our spines, the sound of singing, a faint far-off chorus of the loveliest voices that ever fell on mortal ears. The tone had that marvelous silver clang of the woodland thrush with yet a deeper, human poignancy, a note of passionate longing and endearment, shy but assertive, wild, but oh! so alluring. We chinned ourselves expectantly on the edge of our floor and waited, panting.

"A serenade," whispered Swank, and Whinney shush-ed him savagely.

Through the forest glades we could see the choir approaching, the dusky flash of brown bodies swaying, palpitating to the intoxicating rhythm of the song. Slowly and with great dignity they entered the clearing and stood, a score of slender creatures, in the full blaze of the moon, their lithe-limbed bodies clad only in delicate mother-of-pearl rigolos.

Thus standing, they again burst into the melody of their national love-song. I transcribe the original words which for simple, primitive beauty are without rival.

A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e

I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i

O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

U-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u

and sometimes

W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w

And

Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y

The music is indescribable, I can only say that it is as beautiful as the words.[Footnote: "The peculiarly liquid quality of Polynesian phonetics is impossible for foreigners to acquire. Europeans who attempt a mastery of these sounds invariably suffer from what etymologists call metabelia, or vowel complaint."-Prof. C.H. Towne, Nyack University.]

On the third encore they turned and slowly but surely filed out of the clearing into the forest. Long after they had disappeared our eyes still hung over the edge of our apartment and we could hear in our memories the sweet refrain-

W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w

Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y

As we lay there like men in a trance I saw a dull red glow on the horizon and then, far off a rocket split the velvet night, burst into stars and disappeared.

It was William Henry Thomas, aboard the Kawa-a signal of distress! Poor goof! We had completely forgotten him.

I had a vague sense, shared, I think, by the others, that I ought to worry a bit about him. But it was no use. One by one we lowered ourselves into the pit of our arboreal home and drifted into delicious languorous reveries, not of William Henry Thomas. We had other things to think about.