Pasadena with all its riot of roses is not more beautiful than lovely Honolulu glowing with gorgeous flowering vines as well as large trees that vie in abandon of bloom. And Honolulu has her roses as well.
Inside a garden gate, I sat me down, breathless with the astounding mantle of color that lay over house and barns and fence. I had heard of the poinciana regia, and bougainvillea, and golden shower, and was already familiar with the single red and pink hibiscus in the West Indies. And again we must register complaint that either the globe trotters we have met have short memories or little care for these things, for we were quite unprepared for the splendor.
“There can’t be any such tree,” Jack broke our silence before the poinciana regia, the “flame tree,” and flamboyante of the French. It was named in honor of Poinci, Governor General of the West Indies about the middle of the seventeenth century, who wrote upon their natural history. I have never seen anything so spectacular growing out of the ground. It might have been manufactured in Japan—like the fretted papaia—for stage property. The smooth trunk expands at the base into a buttress-like formation that corresponds to the principal roots, with an effect on the eye of an artificial base broad enough to support the gray pillar without underpinning. The tree grows flat topped, not unlike the monkey-pod; and the foliage of fine pinnate leaves, superimposed horizontally layer upon layer, carries out the “made in the Orient” fantasy. But the wonder of wonders is the burst of flame that covers all the green with palpitating scarlet. Clearly red in the flowering mass, it is another marvel to examine the separate blossoms, one of which covered the palm of my hand. In form it was suggestive of an orchid, and there were one or two small, salmon-yellow petals. The petals were soft and crinkly as those of a Shirley poppy, delicate fairy crêpe.
Under this colorful shelter, Mr. Rowell raises orchids for the market, and I thought I never could tear myself from the floral butterflies. I was sorry I could not carry on horseback the ones freely proffered.
In the rambling garden, we could but turn from one bursting wonder to another. The most ramshackle building, chicken coop, fence, or outhouse is glorified by the bougainvillea vine, named after the early French navigator. In color a bright yet soft brick-red, or terra cotta, like old Spanish tiling, it flows over everything it touches, sending out showers and rockets that softly pile in masses on roof and arbor. I discovered they were not exactly flowers, these painted petals, but more on the order of leaves, or half-formed petals. It is the bracts themselves, which surround the inconspicuous blossoms, that hold the color—as with the poinsettia. We had already noticed, in other gardens, great masses of magenta vine, which is also bougainvillea, and sports two varieties, one a steady bloomer, season upon season. There are other colors, too—salmon-pink, orange, and scarlet. And speaking of the poinsettia, which, even in California, we cherish in pots, here in magical Hawaii it thrives out of doors, sometimes to a height of fifteen or twenty feet—as do begonias on some of the islands; but I, for one, want to see to believe.
We are willing to accept anything about the guava, be it tree or shrub, and it is both in this sunset land, for to-day we feasted on its yellow globes—dozens of them. Ripe, they were better far than the ice cream, a soft edible rind inclosing a heart of pulpy seeds crushed-strawberry in tint, which, oddly enough, taste not unlike strawberries—stewed strawberries with a dash of lemon. Before I realize it, I am breaking my vow not to try describing flavors.
At length we must tear rudely from this Edenic inclosure, and saddle the little bay mares. It was good to feel the creaking leather and the eager pull on bits, though in the case of Jack’s mount, Koali (Morning Glory), that eager pull was all in a retrograde direction when we attempted to leave town. City limits were good enough for the Morning Glory, and her rider had a perilous time on the slippery quadruped, who had evidently been not too well trained. My heart was in my mouth at her narrow escapes from electric cars, and from sliding sprawls on wet tracks. Finally she capitulated, and all went smoothly once we struck the fine stretch of road to the peninsula, which leads through the Damon gardens—an enchanted wood. This is the way to travel, intimately in touch with land and sea and sky, without having to crane our necks out of car windows or after vanishing views on the wrong side of the coach. We went leisurely, and found it very warm, with that heavy, moist, perfumed air that more than all the scenery makes one feel the strangeness of a new country. Tall sugar cane rustled in the late fan of wind, and a sudden shower, warm as milk, wet our coatless shoulders. Little fear of catching cold from a drenching in this climate where it is always summer.
The owner of the mares assures us that all they need be fed is the sorghum that grows outside our inclosure along the roadway, balanced by a measure of grain twice daily. We are also at liberty to pasture them in a handy vacant lot, and Tochigi will feed the grain which he has stored in the tiny servant house.
“They’re used to outdoors day and night, so the sky is sufficient stable roof,” their owner praised the climate.
May 28.