as flies and vermin, are not native to the island.  They came in ships not very long ago, and are now very troublesome in certain parts.  They came round the Horn.  Mr. Aiken’s house itself came round the Horn seventy or eighty years ago.  It is a quaint, New England type of house, and has a very homelike look.  In front of it, near the gate, stands a Japanese pine which is an object of veneration to all Japanese who chance to come that way.  Often their eyes fill with tears on beholding it, so responsive are the little yellow men to associations of home.

In the morning Mr. Aiken drove us in a wagon to a place he has called “Idlewild,” six miles farther up the great slope of the mountain.  This slope of Haleakala is like a whole township, diversified with farms and woods, valleys and hills, resting on its elbows, so to speak, and looking out over the Pacific.  We could look up to the cloud-line, about seven thousand feet above the sea, and occasionally get a glimpse of the long line of the summit through rifts in the clouds.  At Idlewild our expedition, consisting of six mules and four people, was fitted out, and in the early afternoon we started on the trail up the mountain.

For several miles our way led over grassy slopes where cattle were grazing, and above which skylarks were singing.  This was one of the happy surprises of the trip—­the soaring and singing skylarks.  All the way till we reached the cloud-belt, we had the larks pouring down their music from the sky above us.  They seemed specially jubilant.  It was May in England, too, and they sang as though the spirit of those downs and fells was stirring in their hearts, under alien skies, but true to the memories of home.

Before we reached the summit we came upon another introduction from overseas—­the English pheasant.  One started up from some bushes only a few yards from the trail, went booming away, and disappeared in a deep gully.  A little later another sprang up, uttering a cackling cry as it flew away.  We saw three altogether.  The only home thing we saw was white clover in patches here and there, and it gave a most welcome touch to the unfamiliar scenes.

The cattle we passed on the way were suffering dreadfully from another introduction from the States—­the Texas horn-fly, which had recently made its appearance.  The poor beasts were driven half-crazy by it, as their sunken eyes and poor condition plainly showed.

The trail became rougher and steeper as we ascended, and the grass and trees gave place to low, scrubby bushes.  We were half an hour or more in the cloud-belt, where the singing skylarks did not follow us.  The clouds proved to be as loose of texture and as innocent as any summer fog that loiters in our valleys; but it was good to emerge into the sunshine again, and see the jagged line of the top sensibly nearer, and the canopy of clouds unroll itself beneath us.  Far ahead of us and near the summit we saw a band of