THERE is a bell in a tower in the middle of our Square. At six every morning that bell does its best to tip over in delirious joy, but a dozen strokes with the big tongue of it is about all that is ever accomplished.

I like to be wakened by that bell; I like to hear it at meridian when my day's work is nearly done. It is swinging at this very minute, and the iron hammer is bumping its head on either side, wrought with melodious fury.

The voice of it is so like the voice of a certain bell I used to hear in a dreamy seaside village off in the tropics, that I have only to close my eyes and I am over the seas again where I belong.

As it rings now, I fancy I am in a great stone house with broad verandahs, that stands in the centre of a grove of palms; across a dusty lane lies the churchyard, and in the midst of the congregation of the departed I catch a glimpse of the homely whitewashed walls of the old missionary church.

As the bell rings out at high noon, the pigeons flutter from the eaves of this old church, and sail about, half afraid, yet seeming to be a part of the service that is renewed from day to day.

In spirit I pace again those winding paths; I meet dark faces, that brighten as I greet them; I hear the reef-music blown in from the summer sea; through leafy trellises I look into the watery distance, across which white sails are wafted like feathers in an azure sky.

A dry and floating dust, like powdered gold, glorifies the air. The vertical sun has driven the shadows to the wall, and the dry pods of the tamarind rattle and crackle in the intense heat, or perhaps a cocoanut drops suddenly to the grass with a dull thud.

A vixenish hornet swaggers in at the window, dangling its legs, the very ghost of an emaciated ballet-girl, and pirouettes about my head while I sit statue-like, but presently flirts out of the window and is gone.

Do you think nothing transpires in this corner of the world? The Coolie who brings me my morning cocoanut, the milk of which I drink from the shell, is just now picking up leaves as big as a panama hat out in the croquet-ground. Is that a common sight?

Were I in Honolulu—the metropolis, you know—from my window I could see as of yore a singularly-shaped hill called Punch-bowl, that looms above the mass of foliage engulfing the pretty village. This Punch-bowl has been empty for ages, so have all the craters in that particular island.

It has baked hard in the sun and is as red as clay, though a tinge of green in all its chinks suggests those antique bronzes of uncertain origin. Above it roll the snow-white trade-wind clouds, those commercial travellers that rush over us as though they had special business elsewhere. Beyond all is the eternally blue sky of the tropics, which generally seems so awfully high and hollow, that it makes a fellow lonesome to look at it.

I like better to picture the narrow street in the neighbourhood, wherein man and beast travel amicably, and a disconsolate old kanaka, done up in a shirt or a sheet, settles wherever it pleases him, to take about three whiffs of tobacco from a stubby, black, brass-bound pipe before continuing his journey.

Over the way there is a small shed, with one of its beams hung full of dead-ripe bananas; on a little counter, right under these yellow pouches of creamy pulp, lie heaps of native water-melons, looking very delicious. A pretty native girl, with an uncombed head, but pretty for all that, will sell you her poorest stores with a grace that is worth twice the money.

Just beyond my window wave mango boughs heavily fruited. There are strange flowers palpitating in the sunshine, covered with dust-pollen; flowers whose ancestors have lived and died in Ceylon, Java, Japan, Madagascar, and all of those far-away lands, that make a boy's mouth water in study hours as he pores over his enchanted atlas.

Sindbad had some rough experiences while he was travelling correspondent of the Daily Arabian Nights; but I warrant you there are plenty of us nowadays who would risk life and reputation for a tithe of his wonderful adventure.

I hear the tramp of hoofs upon the hard-baked street; horsemen and horsewomen dash by, the men sitting limp in their saddles like our native Californians, and seeming almost a part of the animal, but the women erect and bold, astride their horses man-fashion, with an ample spread of the knees, that at first strikes the foreigner as being novel and a little vulgar,—but of course it isn't, for having once become accustomed to it, it seems the only natural and graceful way of sitting a horse.

What the down is to the peach so is the last hour of sunshine to the tropical day; it is the finishing touch that makes perfect the whole. The bell has just struck again, and its reverberating note seems of a colour with the picture in my mind—a bell for sunset, the angelus that calls me back to the little village that lies half asleep over the water. Just fancy a long beach, with the sea rushing upon it, and turning a regular summersault, all spray and spangles, just before it gets there; a unique lighthouse at the top of the one solitary wharf, where the small boats land; the white spires of two churches at the two ends of the town, and a sprinkling of roofs and verandah s but half-discovered in the confusion of green boughs,—that is Lahaina from the anchorage, to me the prettiest sight in the Hawaiian kingdom.

Let us hasten shoreward. Perhaps we wonder if that ridge of breakers is to be climbed; perhaps we look with a tinge of superstition into the affairs of Lahaina, wondering if it be really the abode of men in the flesh, or but a dream wherein spirits move and have their being.

But we are speedily awakened by the boat-boy. Great is the boat-boy of Lahaina! He is amphibious and agile and impudent, and altogether comical. He has carried all the population of Lahaina, some two or three thousand, in his boat, first and last. He complacently suns himself on that solitary wharf, awaiting a fresh arrival and a renewal of business. He poses himself against the whitewash of the wooden lighthouse in tremendous relief; he recognizes you in spite of your week-old beard and the dilapidated state of your travelling suit; he hails you with the utmost cordiality; it is impossible not to brave the sea with him, whether you will or no, for he is the embodiment of presuming good-nature, and you are as wax under the influence of his beaming and persuasive smile. The finger of Time doubles up the moment it points toward him; he is the same yesterday, to-day, and in the middle of next week. I can lead you to the very boat-boy who collared me ten years ago, for he is still lying in wait for me; and were I there in the flesh as I am there in the spirit, I should expect to fall into his hands within the hour, and would instinctively surrender whatever plans I may have cherished without a struggle and without a murmur.

At six o'clock this evening the bell will ring again, and again I shall be transported; then will shadows, very long cool shadows, stretch through the little tropical village; at dusk the reef is stiller, and its roar sounds faint and far off, and is sometimes lost altogether. The pigeons are once more driven from their home in the belfry, but they soon return to it, and waltzing about on their slender pink legs for a moment, they disappear within the shelter of the tower.

Every one has his easy-chair, smoking, chatting, or dreaming; there is a sudden flush along the evening sky; the marsh hens begin to pipe in the rushes; the moths hover about, with big, staring, carnelian eyes, and dash frantically at the old-fashioned solar-lamp that stands on the centre table in the open parlour.

The night falls suddenly; the air grows cool and moist; a great golden star sails through the sky, leaving a wake of fire. O Island Home! made sacred with a birth and with a death! haunted with sweet and solemn memories! What if thy rocking palm boughs are as muffled music and thy reef a dirge? The joy bells that have rung in the happy past shall ring again in the hopeful future, and life grows rosy in the radiance of the Afterglow.