and no one saw him for six weeks. He went off on a fishing expedition to Moosehead Lake, and stayed until nearly all his patients recovered.

As I said, my early training assists me materially, but to this day I dislike to be taken unawares, or to be required to repeat thanks three times a day, before meals, as one does a dose of bitters.

The next day was warm, and so I visited the public library, where it was cool and inviting. The librarian, dressed in a gauzy white gown, was talking to a native girl, who held in her hand a copy of "The Gates Ajar." The pastor of Central Union Church was reading a Boston paper, and near him a short man with a goatee turned the pages of Le Figaro.

IN

XI

ANOTHER VOYAGE

"An observer of human nature,' sir," said Mr. Pickwick. “Ah, so am I; most people are when they've little to do and less to get. N ten days from the time we arrived in Honolulu we began preparations for a voyage to Maui. It was necessary to get to this island, and there was no royal road. The steamship company had an inviting schedule out, praising the steamer Kinau, "the largest and fastest steamer in the Hawaiian islands." But the Kinau would land us at Ma laaea, while the Claudine took us five miles nearer our final destination. Wednesday morning we found ourselves landed at Kahului, in full view of Haleakela, where the sun was just rising.

Kahului is situated in the neck of the island of Maui, which resembles the bust of a woman, Lahaina district forming the head, Oluwalu the nose, Malaaea and Kahului bays the throat and back of neck, respectively, with the breast south. The face is Irish, with a pug nose. The neck of the

island is nothing more than sand-hills, that still shift in the wind, and an isthmus seven miles wide, separating East from West Maui. The name Maui means broken in two. The island has an area of 760 square miles, is 48 miles long, and 30 broad. The principal mountain of West Maui rises out of Iao Valley, and is named Puu Kukui (lamp, or candle, hill); it is 5,800 feet high. The soil generally is fertile and fairly well watered. Maui stands second in agricultural importance. Its principal town, Wailuku, now appeared to us, and very soon we entered the only hotel there was in the place, or, in fact, on the island. We were doomed to stay in it for several weeks, but as the Chili Con Carne had wide verandas, a shady lawn, and interesting guests, we became reconciled to the situation.

Down under the hotel proper, on the dingy ground floor, sat for most of the day, a genuine old negro from Alabama. He was the owner of the whole place, and other places besides, a bloated capitalist, familiarly known as "Uncle John." I tried to interview him several times, but he was as uncommunicative as a diplomat. He said he didn't have much property to brag on. I asked him about his native State.

"How'd you know I cum from Alabamy? Well, I reckon I did, goin' on fohty yeahs now. I'se 'bout twenty then. I cum heah, an' went f'om one thing to anothah, an' made right sma't wages. The little I'se got I made that a-way. Yuh, I lef' befo' the wah in de Souf, an' I'se mighty glad I did. No slave wah fo' me. We has no class 'stinction heah; ebbery man's as good as the othah, an' that's the way it ought to be. I don't lay no stress on havin' a black skin, but since I's got it by no fault of mine, I don't want to be kep' down fo' it. I don't like to be made a slave nor kep' a specialty of nuthah."

Then he went on smoking and paid no more attention to me. He had none of the negro's love of display, was quiet, uncommunicative, and rather sober.

We grew tired of the noise about the hotel, and the continual clang of the telephone, so one day we moved down to a little cottage that commanded a full view of Iao Valley from its front porch, and a glimpse of Haleakela from its back. We met first one, then another here, and told them that our house was being finished, and told them that for nearly a month-then suddenly went into our house, and became housekeepers ourselves.

I sat talking to Mrs. Sanderson. She was a languid woman, who gave one the impression that she had endured more than she had any intention of complaining about. She was somewhat literary, too, and artistic. She didn't have enough children to keep her busy, but there were the cook and the yardman to manage, and the various teas to attend.

"This is a peculiar place," she informed me early. “No club, society, or organization can last more than a month. There are two factions, one the followers of one physician, the other the friends of the other physician." (It is hardly necessary to add that the doctors were at swords' points, as usual.) "We have tried organizing, but it is of no use. At Makawao they have well-attended literary meetings, started about fifteen years ago."

"Yes," I ventured, "they are higher up, where peace dwells. The oracles were on mountains, and the commandments came from Sinai. The best things since the days of Olympus' popularity have been on mountains."

We fell to talking of authors, and, of course, Mrs. Sanderson had read the latest novel. She didn't like Stevenson; she knew too much about him. That is the case with any one who stays here long enough, for few of us are perfect. "C is another author we don't like, although he has the knack of writing. He stayed here and lived off his brother-in-law." (I noticed, for the first time, a little twist about the woman's mouth, which struck me most unpleasantly. It showed most when she was critical.) "He has no purpose or energy" (energy was the only redeeming quality

her own husband had); "he is an old man now, and has idled away nearly all his life. His family are all poor, and the far-famed Ulupalakua, where he slept away the precious hours, is growing old and dilapidated. I like his books very much, but should like them better if I didn't know so much about the author." She sighed, as if burdened with her knowledge of the personal history of writers.

"In writing his books, don't you think he did as much as, if not more than, the rest of us who are living in the tropics?" I asked of the critic of men's lives. "Possibly, too, we can't say how much he was doing that was preparation for work to come; and, as for his board bills, it seems to me that the persons whom he owes should be the first to complain. I knew a quiet, studious man, who stayed at home and prepared himself for work in life, while the gossips said that he was lazy. In the same place lived a little, insignificant ignoramus, who was always bustling about, doing nothing with many muscular twitches, until the whole community thought that he was the most industrious man among them. The fact was he hadn't done a thing for twenty years. The other man gained a new fact each day, or made a valuable observation, and, finally, wrote something that helped two persons, anyway, to succeed in life."

"Well, I think it's a safe rule to adore authors at a distance," said Mrs. Sanderson, with a disdainful toss of her head; "meeting them is such sad disillusionment sometimes."

She went on: "I suppose you know that W— has a very disagreeable disposition. A friend of mine came with the party to California, and she told me that Mr. W was very petulant and irritable, and made his wife's life a weariness. But then it's so general. Look at Milton, Lytton, and hundreds of others-in every case the author part of the house was to blame. Sometimes it was a man, and sometimes a woman. Divorce and disaster are written large over the lives of literary men. I have made a study of the subject."