Holualoa, to Huehue, August 30.
The Doctor, as a final benefaction, waiving inconvenience to himself, sent us the whole journey to Waimea on the Parker Ranch, in his own carriage, in charge of the Portuguese coachman.
The first night we were fortunate enough to spend at Huehue, home of the John Maguires, rich Hawaiian ranchers who had extended the invitation at the Goodhues’ reception. Lacking such hospitality, the malihini must travel, either by horse or carriage, or the one automobile stage, a long distance to any sort of hotel. “They don’t know what they’ve got!” Jack commented on the ignorance of the American public concerning the glorious possibilities of this country. “Just watch this land in the future, when they once wake up!”
Mrs. Maguire, one eighth Hawaiian, is an unmitigated joy, compounded of sweet dignity and a bubbling vivacity that wipes out all thought of years and the wavy graying hair that only intensifies the beauty of her dark eyes—a merry, sympathetic companion, one decides, for all moods and ages. Her husband is a noble example of the Hawaiian type, like the descendant of a race of rulers, strong kings, with commanding brow and eye of eagle, firm mouth, square jaw, and stern aquiline nose, the lofty-featured countenance gentled by a thatch of thick powder-gray hair and a benevolent expression.
The Kona Sewing Guild was in full blast when we drew up in the blooming garden of the rambling house, but I fell napping on a hikiè in the guest-cottage, tired from a strenuous day of packing, typing—and traveling, even through such ravishing country, in full view of the ravishing Blue Flush of sea and sky.
“I hate to wake my poor tired Woman,” Jack’s voice wooed me from sleep an hour later; “but the most wonderful horse is waiting for you to ride him.”
“But I’ve no clothes,” as I came back to earth.
“Oh, I’ve got some for you,” he grinned, depositing a scarlet calico muumuu on the hikiè, “and I’m just dying to see you ride in it!—Mrs. Maguire has one on, and looks all right.”
Properly adjusted, in a man’s saddle this full garment appears like bloomers, and I can vouch is most comfortable.
Then to me they led one of Pharaoh’s horses—no other could it be, so full his eye, so proud his neck, the pricking of his ear so fine; none but a steed of Pharaoh’s wears quite such flare of nostril, nor looks so loftily across the plain. Ah, he is something to remember, “Sweet Lei Lehua,” and I can never forget his brave crest, nor the flick of that small pointed ear, and the red, red nostril, blowing scented breath of grass and flowers—sweet as the flower whose name he wears.