The kikakapu did not look his bristly name, being a mere shapeless handful of pigments—green as a parrot, with birdlike head of harlequin opal and parrot eye of black and yellow. Half of the dorsal was a black-velvet spot rimmed with gold, his tail two shades of gray with a root of scarlet. I have not patience to spell the name of an almost perfect oval of blue black, with a flaming autumn leaf on each side, a narrow dorsal of shaded rose and salmon-yellow bearing a dotted line of red, and a gray and red flag for tail, while two sapphire-blue feathers trailed underneath. Next him flaunted a bright yellow fish that had patently been scissored midlength and grown a stiff mauve tail in the middle of its vertical rear, to match a mauve-velvet, long-beaked face. A canary-wing formed this one’s dorsal fin, and two absurd back-slanted spikes and a ribby trailer decorated its horizontal base.
The opule and the luahine were both meant to be normally formed,—the first, speckled on top like a mountain trout, its frills red and black and blue, jaw crimson spotted, with grass-green gills and tiny gilt fins, and on its dark sides three parallel rows of larger dots, and one dropped below, of startling blue, each with an electric light behind! The second, all brown save for a scarlet headlight on the tall dorsal, was similarly lit up, all over, fins as well, the head zigzagged with lightning streaks of the same electric blue. The akilolo wore cold blue jewels on plum satin, with electric-green stripes on its head, crimson and green fins and sharply demarked rudder of yellow.
One lovely thing would have been a little heart of gold, if its white-and-gilt tail had not transformed it into a prefect ace of spades. Another, modestly fashioned, bore pink fins socketed in emerald like the head and tail, a yellow stomach, seal-brown back, with three broad downward bands of the emerald joining a wide lateral band of the same, decorated in hollow squares of indigo! There were also dainty mother-of-pearl forms, and gorgeous autumnal petals of the ocean drifting among the jeweled swimming creatures, with little rainbow crabs lying on the bottom of sand and shells, and other crannied creatures.
An imaginative child could spin unending day dreams about these living pictures in the Honolulu Aquarium; and for nightmares, there be excellent specimens of the octopus family. These squid we have on the Pacific Coast, but there is no way of observing them. Mr. Potter, the superintendent, said his were unusually active to-day, and we saw them displaying all their paces—a very useful spectacle for those who may venture among the more unfrequented coral hummocks at Waikiki. A wader can be made very uncomfortable by their ugly ability to attach to a rock and a victim at one and the same time. They showed their fighting colors through the glass, coming straight at us, their little devil’s-heads set with narrow serpent-eyes glinting maliciously, and sharp turtle-beaks; all their tentacles—awful constricting arms covered with awful suckers—cast behind in the lightning dart.
When attacked, the squid opens an “ink bag,” fouling the water to the confusion of its enemy. A native in trouble with one bites its head, and to such mortal wound the pediculate marine dragon gives up the ghost. The only thing about the squid that is not unpleasant is its color—in action a rosy tan; but when curled in the rock crevices, protective tinting makes it hard to find. Mr. Potter dropped some tiny crabs into the tank from behind the scenes which caused an exhibition not soon to be forgotten. The almost invisible squid, watching with one bright eye, unwreathed its eight flexile, trailing limbs, rose swiftly, swooped, and enfolded the prey as with a swirl of grey net or veiling. When the monster presently unwound, the mites of crabs had been absorbed.
“And the Creator sat up nights inventing that,” Jack observed with sacrilegious gravity. The superintendent looked appropriately startled, but not unappreciative.
This Honolulu Aquarium, though small, is said to surpass in the beauty of its exhibit anything in the world, not excepting the Italian; and fancy our surprise to learn that it is not maintained by the Territory, nor yet by the city, existing solely by the enterprise of the electric railway company. The “colored” fish are recruited from the chance catch of fishermen and from adjacent reefs by the Aquarium attendants. It is not easy to understand why Honolulu remains luke-warm with regard to this, one of her greatest attractions. Mr. Ford should be spoken to about it!
Hawaii is a paradise for the visiting fisherman, where can be hooked anything from a shark to small fry of various sorts, whether “painted” or otherwise. Among the many game fish may be named black sea bass, barracuda in schools, albacore, dolphin, swordfish, yellow-tail, amber fish, leaping tuna and several other kinds of tuna—these of unthinkable weight and size. And flying fish may be picked off with rifle or shotgun—or netted, as by the old Hawaiians.[[4]]
Ever keen on the trail of Why and Wherefore, Jack has left no stone of research unturned as to the cause of the violent swelling that succeeded his sunburning, and has finally diagnosed it as urticaria.
Glad are we to rest once more in our Sweet Home, in sight of that bright reminder of the long voyage yet to be, the Snark and her unwonted clatter of active repairs. For a Captain Rosehill has accepted the commission, and “dry bones are rattling,” as Jack chuckled a moment ago from the hammock. The sad old sea-dog has taken hold with a vengeance, but professes little respect for all the modern “fol-de-rol of gewgaws” that he found lying around, costly labor-saving gear, unavailing only because of the ruinous mishandling it received in the post-earthquake days of building. But standing with huge, limp-hanging arms, he almost half-smiled at our big sea anchor—an article he has always yearned to possess. Clearly it is the one thing aboard with which he is satisfied.