In the morning I summoned Tochigi to remove the mutilated remains. Oh, of course, before cremation they must be displayed to an admiring audience of husband. For even more fussy is he than I, about crawly things, and he could see, by involuntary reminiscent tremors, that my overworn nerves had been somewhat shaken by the encounter. Not having laughed at me, we could laugh in company later in the morning when, hair-brush in hand, he went right into the air with a “Great Scott!” before an ill-looking hairy gray spider, some four or five inches across, that dropped from the ceiling and clattered upon the bureau top. Was it Mark Twain who, disturbed at his writing by one of these, put the cuspidor upon it, claiming that a fringe of legs showed all around the vessel? Somewhere I have read that these spiders are descendants of the tarantula; but they have descended a long way, for tarantulas are meaty monsters compared with these paper-and-fuzz household gods of Hawaii, which harm nothing but mosquitoes and other dispensable vermin.
Jack had slept off the headache, and was able to enjoy his first luncheon at Miss Johnson’s. She served a most appetizing table for us seaworn pilgrims—a capital steak, done rare to a nicety, accompanied by taro which had been boiled and then sliced and fried lightly in fresh butter; cool platefuls of raw tomatoes and cucumbers, in oil and lemon; poi, with dried salt aku (ah-koo—bonita), papaias, and avocados—the almost prohibitively expensive alligator pears that we know in California, where they are sent by steamer and in shipping deteriorate; and bananas so luscious that we declared we had never before tasted bananas. These and sweet seedling oranges, as well as papaias, thrive in the fragrant garden of roses and hibiscus and palms, seen through Venetian blinds from where we sat at table, eating hothouse viands in the hothouse air.
We came away congratulating ourselves and each other upon such a feasting place within two minutes’ walk of our own little red gate; and the trio of ladies granted indulgence to drop over in any garmenture that pleases our mood, and also offered the piano for my use. Although even on this warm leeward side of Oahu the temperature is said to range only from 60° to 85°, with a mean of 74°, the humid quality of the atmosphere invites loose lines of apparel, of duck and summer lawn. In the dreamy green privacy of our lovely acre, it is kimono and kimono, with not much else to mention. And I am already planning certain flowing gowns of muslin and lace, on the pattern of Gretchen Waterhouse’s home attire, which flouncy robe is called a holoku (ho-lo-koo). It is a worthy development from the first clothing introduced by the missionaries, the simplest known design—like that cut by our childhood scissors for paper dolls, and called muumuu (moo-oo-moo-oo smoothly) by the Hawaiians. In time this evolved into the full-gathered Mother Hubbard atrocity; but in this year of grace it is a sumptuous, swinging, trailing model of its own, just escaping the curse of the Mother Hubbard and somehow eliding the significance of wrapper. Not all women would look as well in the holoku as does Mrs. Albert, who is straight and tall and walks as if with pride in her fine height and proportion, as large women should walk. A great measure of the holoku’s good looks depends upon its being carried well. The muumuu, in its pristine simplicity, is still used by native women for an under-garment, and, in all colors of calico, for swimming, although I have yet to learn how it could permit freedom of movement in the water.
Jack smiled to me just now, after I had read him the above: “I hope you will get some of those loose white things. I like them.”
Paucity of coast mail would indicate that relatives and friends have been chary of wasting energy on letters that might never be received by such reckless rovers. O ye of scant faith in the Snark’s oaken ribs and her owner’s canny judgment!
The mail is brought by a tiny bobtail dummy and coach run by one, Tony, from Pearl City, a mile away, to a station near the end of the peninsula. Tony is a handsome little swarthy fellow, regarded by me with much interest, as my first Hawaiian on his native heath. Certain misgivings at sight of him rendered my surprise less to learn that he is full-blooded Portuguese. Alack, my first Hawaiian is a Portuguese—and of course Jack is hilarious.
Another caller crossed the springy turf of our garden—one who, having been told we were looking for saddle animals, came to suggest that we bring up our saddles the first of next week, and ride two of his horses back to the peninsula, where we are welcome to them as long as we please. Truly, the face of Hawaii hospitality is fair to see. What a place to live, with the gift of a roof from the rain, tree tops from the noonday sun, a peaceful space in which to work, strange pleasant foods irreproachably set forth, a warm vast bowl of jade for swimming, and fleet steeds for less than the asking! As this latest gift bringer departed, Jack, touched to huskiness, said:
“A sweet land, Mate, a sweet land.”
And now our green gloom purples into twilight where we have lain upon the sward the long afternoon; and twice my companion has hinted at a dip before dinner.
