“Her islands here, in Southern sun,
Shall mourn their Kaiulani gone;
And I in her dear banyan shade.
Look vainly for my little maid.
“But our Scots islands far away
Shall glitter with unwonted day,
And cast for once their tempests by
To smile in Kaiulani’s eye.”
Aboard the Noeau, bound for Molokai, Monday Evening, July 1.
Noeau (No-a-ah-oo—quickly No-a-ow)—the very name has a mournful, ominous sound; Noeau, ship of despair, ferry of human freight condemned. We are not merry, Jack and I, for what we have witnessed during the past two hours would wring emotion from a graven image. And just when we would cheer a trifle, it not being our mutual temperament long to remain downcast, our eyes are again compelled by the huddle of doomed fellow-creatures amidst their pathetic bundles of belongings on the open after-deck of the plunging interisland steamer bound for Molokai.