Glad enough we were to land at Hilo—Hawaiian for "new moon." It takes its name from the superb crescent of the bay, two miles in length, perhaps the most beautiful on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. At one end of the semicircle is Cocoanut Island, crowded with glorious palms that seem eager for the salt water, stretching their heads far out over it, as if they would drink it up. As it is on the windward side of the island, the trade winds bring Hilo a yearly rainfall of 150 inches, and the result is seen in the luxuriance of the vegetation, which nearly hides the buildings of the little city in its depths. With the bay in front, the dense forest belt in the rear, and the towering masses of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa in the background, the situation of Hilo is glorious in its beauty.
SILVERSWORD IN BLOOM, IN THE CRATER OF HALEAKALA.
On the thirty-mile trail to the crater we passed first between the brakes of cane plantations, then through a fine tropical forest. Among the trees we could see many gay and beautiful flowers, curious fruits and enormous tree ferns, while in the interior were lovely glades and the little bungalows of the coffee planters. But the island was only just being developed, so there were numbers of ranches in the first stages of raw newness.
A search through the forests on some of the islands would disclose the beautifully coloured landshells. These exquisite little creatures grow on the leaves of the trees. Many of the native birds have become extinct; there were originally seventy varieties. Game birds, however, have been introduced from America and China, and from other countries both north and south, including wild turkeys, quail, pheasants and ducks.
We arrived at the crater late at night, to find only a miserable hotel with a drunken proprietor. (Liars had told us it was good.) We were forced to pass the night there, but stayed the next day only long enough to visit the crater.
Kilauea was for us a great disappointment. It is not imposing in its situation, lying low on the gradual slope of Mauna Loa. We had been thrilled by pictures of the great pit of Halemaumau, the "house of everlasting fire."[10] We had read of fountains of fire thrown a thousand feet into the air, of great fissures from which burst clouds of deadly sulphurous vapours, of indescribable terrors as huge billows of glowing lava surged against the rim of the pit, of changing colours, marvelous beauty, of ropes and serpents of cooling rock in a myriad writhing and contorted shapes, of raging floods pouring down to the plain in rivers of fire from one-half to two miles in width. But alas! none of these wonders were for us. We saw only a far-stretching lake of cold, black lava, over which we could walk for miles, as safe as if we were at home. Out of a pit in the center rose a column of white vapour—which did not even smell infernal. Pele was sleeping.
FIRE HOLE, KILAUEA.
We had three days to wait in Hilo until our steamer should be ready to return to Honolulu. The hotel was a funny little one, near the sea, but we were fairly comfortable, and amused ourselves in various ways. For one thing, we tried several of the delicious tropical fruits that were to be had here—water-lemons, mangoes, papayas, mountain apples and guavas. We went on a picnic, and some one was kind enough to lend me a riding habit and a pony that had won some races. I rode astride, in native fashion. This was my first but by no means my last experience of this most natural and comfortable mode of riding. Then I had an old native woman to lomi-lomi me—Hawaiian for massage—as I was very lame from my long rides, and I was as much amused by her as benefited by her treatment.