The roads which thread the island like a net are constantly cared for. Winding in and out and ever upward to dizzy heights, they lead through impenetrable jungle, thickets of bamboo and giant tree ferns, affording from occasional open spaces glimpses of shadowy ravines and bounding torrents hemmed in by farther peaks in serried ranks that beggar description, descending again toward the western side through mile upon mile of soft gray-green waving cane, till one comes at last to the blue Atlantic beating itself into froth upon the sands at Trinité.
French k the only language—a Creole French different from any on earth, sweet and musical to listen to. The innate courtesy one meets everywhere, even in the interior where strangers are rare, is most delightful. One shakes hands with everyone one meets, though it be a half dozen times in a forenoon, and even the smallest purchase cannot be made without an exchange of courtesies that would do credit to a diplomat. Along the country roads the women carriers with huge panniers on their heads will always greet you in their soft, high-keyed voices with, "Bon jou', missie," that lingers like a sweet savor and prejudices one forever in favor of these pleasant folk.
The numerous illustrations and thumbnail sketches in the present volume are from photographs taken during our wanderings in Martinique and other islands of the Antilles. They give some hint of the alluring beauty that greets one on every hand. The passing years seem powerless to change the simple character of these ease-loving Creole folk or the green islets of which they are so justly proud.
We sailed away eventually with our minds and hearts full of many new and delightful friendships and a great yearning to stay, or at least to some day be a "revenant" and come back to this lovely island that Hearn has immortalized in the pages that follow.
ARTHUR W. RUSHMORE.
FORT-DE-FRANCE
Martinique, F. W. I.
December, 1922