Green land, red rocks, white strand—­nothing could be better descriptive of the island than these colors.  They are easily brought out in domestic architecture, for with a whitewashed cottage and a red-tiled roof the Heligolander has only to give his door and window-shutters a coat of bright green paint, and there are the colors of Heligoland.  In case the unforgettable fact should escape the tourist, the government have worked the colors into the ingenious and pretty island postage-stamp, and many of our German friends wear bathing-pants of the same unobtrusive tints.

Life is a very delightful thing in summer in this island.  On your first visit you feel exhilarated by the novelty of everything as much as by the strong warm sea wind which meets you wherever you go.  When you return, the novelty has worn away, but the sense of enjoyment has deepened.  As you meet friendly faces and feel the grip of friendly hands, so you also exchange salutations with Nature, as if she, too, were an old Heligoland friend.  You know the view from this point and from that; but, like the converse of a friend, it is always changing, for there is no monotony in the sea.  The waves lap the shore gently, or roar tumultuously in the red caverns, and it is all familiar, but none the less welcome and soothing because of that familiarity.  It is not a land of lotus-eating delights, but it is a land where there is little sound but what the sea makes, and where every face tells of strong sun and salt waves.  No doubt, much of its charm lies in its contrast to the life of towns or country places.  Whatever comes to Heligoland comes from over the sea; there is no railway within many a wide mile; the people are a peculiar people, with their own peculiar language, and an island patriotism which it would be hard to match....

From the little pier one passes up the narrow white street, no broader than a Cologne lane, but clean and bright as is no other street in Europe, past the cafes with low balconies, and the little shops—­into some there are three or four steps to descend, into others there is an ascent of a diminutive ladder—­till the small square or garden is reached in front of the Conversation House, a spacious building with a good ball-room and reading-room, where a kiosque, always in summer full of the fragrant Heligoland roses, detains the passer-by.  Then another turn or two in the street, and the bottom of the Treppe is approached—­the great staircase which winds upward to the Oberland, in whose crevices grow masses of foliage, and whose easy ascent need not be feared by any one, for the steps are broad and low.

The older flight of steps was situated about a hundred paces northward from the present Treppe.  It was cut out of the red crumbling rock, and at the summit passed through a guard-house.  Undoubtedly the present Treppe should be similarly fortified.  It was built by the government in 1834.  During the smuggling days, it is said, an Englishman rode up to the Oberland, and the apparition so shocked an old woman, who had never seen a horse before, that she fell senseless to the ground.