necessity, until the crop is safely reaped and the last load of canes
reduced to shredded _megass_ and dripping syrup.

But upon the cocoa estate there is lasting peace. From the railway on
the plain we climb the long valley, our strong-boned mule or lithe
Spanish horse taking the long slopes at a pleasant amble, standing to
cool in the ford of the river we cross and re-cross, or plucking the
young shoots of the graceful bamboos so often fringing our path.
Villages and straggling cottages, with palm thatch and _adobe_ walls,
are passed, orange or bread-fruit shading the little garden, and
perhaps a mango towering over all. The proprietor is still at work on
the plantation, but his wife is preparing the evening meal, while the
children, almost naked, play in the sunshine.

[Illustration--Black and White Plate: The Home of the Cacao.
(_One of Messrs. Cadburys' Estates, Maracas, Trinidad._)]

The cacao-trees of neighbouring planters come right down to the ditch
by the roadside, and beneath dense foliage, on the long rows of stems
hang the bright glowing pods. Above all towers the _bois immortelle_,
called by the Spaniards _la madre del cacao_, "the mother of the
cacao." In January or February the _immortelle_ sheds its leaves and
bursts into a crown of flame-coloured blossom. As we reach the
shoulder of the hill, and look down on the cacao-filled hollow, with
the _immortelle_ above all, it is a sea of golden glory, an
indescribably beautiful scene. Now we note at the roadside a plant of
dragon's blood, and if we peer among the trees there is another just
within sight; this, therefore, is the boundary of two estates. At an
opening in the trees a boy slides aside the long bamboos which form
the gateway, and a short canter along a grass track brings us to the