in Arizona who found a rich gold-vein through a rat bringing him a piece of ore in exchange for a bit of bacon.  He traced the rat to his nest and discovered the source of the ore.  The rats had their ancient enemies to guard against, and the cats of Tahiti, not indigenous, slept by day and hunted by night.  They cavorted through the Annexe in the smallest hours, and one often wakened to their shrieks and squeals of combat.  The tom-cats had tails longer than their bodies, the climate, their habits and food developing them extraordinarily.

The roosters grew to a size unequaled, and those in the garden of the Annexe roused me almost at dawn.  Their voices were horrific, and one that had fathered a quartet of ducks—­an angry tourist had killed the drake because of his quacking—­was a vrai Chantecler.  When he waked me, the sun was coming over the hills from Hitiaa, brightened Papenoo and leaped the summits to Papeete, but it was long before the phantom of false morning died and the god of day rode his golden chariot to the sea.  The Diadem was gilded first, and down the beach the long light tremulously disclosed the faint scarlet of the flamboyant-trees, their full, magnificent color yet to be revealed, and their elegant contours like those graceful, red-tiled pagodas on the journey to Canton in far Cathay.

Motu Uta crept from the obscurity of the night, and the battlements of Moorea were but dim silhouettes.  The lagoon between the reef and the beach was turning from dark blue to azure pink.  The miracle of the advent of the day was never more delicately painted before my eyes.

In my crimson pareu I descended the grand staircase, which had often echoed to the booted tread of admiral and sailor, of diplomat and bureaucrat, and outside the building I passed along the lower rear balcony to the bath.  The Annexe, like the Tiare Hotel, made no pretense to elegance or convenience.  The French never demand the latter at home, and the Tahitian is so much an outdoor man that water-pipes and what they signify are not of interest to him.

The bath of the Annexe was a large cement tank, primarily for washing clothes.  Its floor was as slippery as ice.  One held to the window-frame at the side, and turned the tap.

A shower fell a dozen feet like rose-leaves upon one.  Ah, the waters of Tahiti!  Never was such gentle, velvety rain, a benediction from the tauupo o te moua, the slopes of the mountains.

I deferred my pleasure a few minutes as the place under the shower was occupied by an entrancing pair, Evoa, the consort of Afa, and her four-months-old infant, Poia.  Evoa was sixteen years old, tall, like most Tahitians, finely figured, slender, and with the superb carriage that is the despair of the corseted women who visit Tahiti.  Her features were regular, but not soft.  Her skin was ivory-white, with a glint of red in cheek and lip, and the unconfined hair that reached her hips was intensely black and