of the yawl Kawa, assembled under the shade of the broad
panjandrus leaves which fringe the Filbert Islands. They are, reading
from left to right, William Henry Thomas, the crew; Herman Swank,
Walter E. Traprock, Reginald Whinney. At their feet lies Kippiputuona
(Daughter of Pearl and Coral). The black and white of photography can
give no idea of the magnificent tropical coloring, nor of the exquisite
sounds and odors which permeate every inch of the island paradise. At
the moment of taking this picture, which was obligingly snapped by
Captain Triplett, the entire party was listening to the thrilling cry
of the fatu-liva bird. Captain Triplett had just requested the group
to "listen to the little birdie" when the distant wood-notes were
heard, the coincidence falling in most happily with the photographer's
attempts to secure the absolute attention of his subjects.]

I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now
come to the strangest feature of all. I refer to its sound. I had for
some time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to
mention fearing it might be inside my own head--a devilish legacy of
our recent buffeting. You can imagine my relief when Whinney asked
apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?"

"I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air.

We all listened intently.

Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light
rain reached us.

"Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a
fish that had made a face at him. A glance through our mercifully