I for one was commencing to realize how early I had breakfasted, when the machines turned aside from the road on which we had been running through miles of the Kahuku sugar plantation into a private driveway that led to Mrs. James B. Castle’s sea-rim retreat, The Dunes. Having been called unexpectedly to Honolulu, she had left the manager of the plantation to do the honors, together with a note of apology embodying the wish that we make ourselves at home, and a request that we write in her guest book. After luncheon the men insisted that I inscribe something fitting for them to witness. Warm and tired, I wrote the following uninspired if grateful sentiment:
“With appreciation of the perfect hospitality—and deep regret that the giver was absent.”
The others followed with their signatures; and when Mr. Ford’s turn came, his eye read what I had written, but his unresting mind must have been wool-gathering, for he scribbled:
“Hoping that every passer-by may be as fortunate.”
A chorus of derision caused him to bend an alarmed eye upon the page, which he carefully scanned, especially my latter phrase. And then out came the page.
We were shown over the labor barracks, neat settlements of Japanese and Portuguese, in which we saw swarms of beautiful children rolling in the grass. The Portuguese flocked around the Consul, who was apparently an old and loved friend.
Several miles farther, we came to the Reform School, where the erring youth of Oahu, largely of native stock, are guided in the way they should go. There was not a criminal face among them, and probably the majority are detained for temperamental laxness of one sort or another. Emotional they are, easily led, and inordinately fond of games of chance—but dishonest never. A small sugar plantation is carried on in connection with the school, which is worked by the boys.
Our last lap was from the Reform School to Haleiwa Hotel, at Waialua, which lies at the sea edge of the Waialua Plantation. Haleiwa means “House Beautiful,” and is pronounced Hah-lay-e-vah. There is so much dissension as to how the “v” sound crept into the “w,” that I am going to retire with the statement that Alexander, in his splendid “History of the Hawaiian People,” remarks that “The letter ‘w’ generally sounds like ‘v’ between the penult and final syllable of a word.”
House and grounds are very attractive, broad lawns sloping to an estuary just inside the beach; and in this river-like bit of water picturesque fishing boats and canoes lie at anchor. A span of rustic Japanese bridge leads to the bath-houses, and thither we went for a swim before dinner. I would not advise beginners to choose this beach for their first swimming lessons. It shelves with startling abruptness, while the undertow is more noticeable than at Waikiki. But for those who can take care of themselves, this lively water is good sport and more bracing than on the leeward coast.
We strolled through the gardens and along green little dams between duck ponds spotted with lily pads, and the men renewed their boyhood by “chucking” rocks into a sumptuous mango tree, bringing down the russet-gold, luscious fruit for an appetizer. I may some day be rash enough to describe the flavor of a mango, or try to; but not yet—though I seem to resent some author’s statement that it bears more than a trace of turpentine.