On the morning after the picnic the little brown maiden is awake bright and early. After her breakfast of poi and yams she weaves a wreath of fresh flowers for her head, and, taking her books under her arm, begins her walk to the village school. Her way leads past Upa's home, and the boy is already waiting for her. As she comes near he shouts:

"Oh, Auwae, I have something to show you. You've got time to stop a few minutes without being late to school. Come with me."

And the boy leads the way down a path to a tree covered with vines trailing from the topmost branches to the ground. It makes a perfect bower of the sweet-smelling blossoms; but it is not this Upa wishes to show. He leads Auwae close to the trunk of the tree and bids her look straight upward to an odd nest gnawed in the trunk far above them. From the hole two bright eyes are peering down at the children. They belong to a large rat that has made his home in the tree; perhaps he did this to be sure of safety from small boys. Or possibly it was to secure himself from the raids of the mongoose, so common in Hawaii nowadays.

"Poor little fellow," says Auwae, "I don't blame him. Father says that a good many rats live in the trees near here, but I never saw them there before. And father says, too, that the white men brought the mongoose here from India to drive out the rats, but the little fellows are not satisfied with killing them off; they want our chickens, too. It's a perfect shame. I wish they had stayed in their own country."

As the children now hurry on their way, they areobliged to cross a little stream where two women are washing. There are neither tubs, scrubbing-boards, nor soap to be seen. The clothing is dipped into the soft water and the parts most soiled are rubbed on flat stones. It must be rather hard on garments made of fine cloth, and it seems as though the women would get tired bending down. After all, there are but few things to wash, and, as the people do not work hard, their clothing cannot get badly soiled.

But look! Here come some of Auwae's schoolmates to join them. They are swimming down the stream. Each carries her clothing in a small bundle in her hand; she holds it out of the water as she paddles along. It is such a common matter that Auwae is not in the least surprised.

The schoolhouse is soon reached. It has but one large room, as there are but thirty children in the village. Much of the time the gentle schoolmaster sits with his pupils under the large tree near by. Auwae likes that much the best. She can never get used to the close air inside the house. But to-day the children must do some writing, so they sit at their desks and compose letters to their adopted brothers and sisters in America.

How odd it seems to see the schoolmaster tend his baby while he teaches the children! Why didn't he leave it with his wife at home? Because in this island of flowers it is the duty of men as well as women to act as nurses. It seems a strange idea to us, but, if they are satisfied, it must be all right.

Look at the baby! He is wrapped in enough clothing for six such tiny beings, and drops of perspiration are running down his face; but he does not cry.

"Aloha!" says our little Auwae, as she bows before her teacher. And "Aloha!" he replies, in a kind sweet voice. How many things this one word means! It answers for "good morning," "good-bye," "love," "thanks," and I don't know what else. But the smile that goes with it seems always to explain its meaning and make it the most delightful of words.

In Auwae's land the language was never written until the white people came to teach and help the Hawaiians. But it is very easy to understand, and Auwae could read when she had been at school only a few weeks. She had only twelve letters to learn. Every word and syllable of the Hawaiian language ends in vowels, and there are no hard sounds to pronounce. The sentences flow like music; so it is no wonder that Auwae composes poems so easily. They are very pretty, however, and her teacher is proud of her.

Auwae can tell you a great deal of the history of her island home. There are some parts of it that she loves to hear over and over again. On many a warm night as she lies on the grass with her head in her father's lap, she will look up into his kind eyes, and say:

"Papa, do tell me again about the very first Hawaiians. How did people come to live here after the island had grown up out of the sea? I can seem to see the seeds and twigs floating on to the shores with the tide. I can see the seeds sprouting and shooting up into tall trees out of the lava soil. But I wish you would describe again the boats loaded with people coming here from far away."

Then Auwae's father tells her of the time when there were no grass houses, nor brown children playing about them. He relates the stories handed down for hundreds of years about people living on distant islands across the equator. They were not treated kindly in their own land, and wished to find a new home where they could be happy and free. They were much like the Pilgrims who left Europe, and were willing to bear hardship and danger in New England.