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R。 L。 S。
CHAPTER III
MONDAY； TWENTY…SOMETHINGTH OF DECEMBER； 1890。
MY DEAR COLVIN； … I do not say my Jack is anything
extraordinary； he is only an island horse； and the profane
might call him a Punch； and his face is like a donkey's； and
natives have ridden him； and he has no mouth in consequence；
and occasionally shies。 But his merits are equally
surprising； and I don't think I should ever have known Jack's
merits if I had not been riding up of late on moonless
nights。 Jack is a bit of a dandy； he loves to misbehave in a
gallant manner； above all on Apia Street； and when I stop to
speak to people； they say （Dr。 Stuebel the German consul said
about three days ago）； 'O what a wild horse！ it cannot be
safe to ride him。' Such a remark is Jack's reward； and
represents his ideal of fame。 Now when I start out of Apia
on a dark night； you should see my changed horse； at a fast
steady walk； with his head down； and sometimes his nose to
the ground … when he wants to do that； he asks for his head
with a little eloquent polite movement indescribable … he
climbs the long ascent and threads the darkest of the wood。
The first night I came it was starry； and it was singular to
see the starlight drip down into the crypt of the wood； and
shine in the open end of the road； as bright as moonlight at
home； but the crypt itself was proof； blackness lived in it。
The next night it was raining。 We left the lights of Apia
and passed into limbo。 Jack finds a way for himself； but he
does not calculate for my height above the saddle； and I am
directed forward； all braced up for a crouch and holding my
switch upright in front of me。 It is curiously interesting。
In the forest； the dead wood is phosphorescent； some nights
the whole ground is strewn with it； so that it seems like a
grating over a pale hell； doubtless this is one of the things
that feed the night fears of the natives； and I am free to
confess that in a night of trackless darkness where all else
is void； these pallid IGNES SUPPOSITI have a fantastic
appearance； rather bogey even。 One night； when it was very
dark； a man had put out a little lantern by the wayside to
show the entrance to his ground。 I saw the light； as I
thought； far ahead； and supposed it was a pedestrian coming
to meet me； I was quite taken by surprise when it struck in
my face and passed behind me。 Jack saw it； and he was
appalled； do you think he thought of shying？ No； sir； not in
the dark； in the dark Jack knows he is on duty； and he went
past that lantern steady and swift； only； as he went； he
groaned and shuddered。 For about 2500 of Jack's steps we
only pass one house … that where the lantern was； and about
1500 of these are in the darkness of the pit。 But now the
moon is on tap again； and the roads lighted。
I have been exploring up the Vaituliga； see your map。 It
comes down a wonderful fine glen； at least 200 feet of cliffs
on either hand； winding like a corkscrew； great forest trees
filling it。 At the top there ought to be a fine double fall；
but the stream evades it by a fault and passes underground。
Above the fall it runs （at this season） full and very gaily
in a shallow valley； some hundred yards before the head of
the glen。 Its course is seen full of grasses； like a flooded
meadow； that is the sink！ beyond the grave of the grasses；
the bed lies dry。 Near this upper part there is a great show
of ruinous pig…walls； a village must have stood near by。
To walk from our house to Wreck Hill （when the path is buried
in fallen trees） takes one about half an hour； I think； to
return； not more than twenty minutes； I daresay fifteen。
Hence I should guess it was three…quarters of a mile。 I had
meant to join on my explorations passing eastward by the
sink； but； Lord！ how it rains。
（LATER。）
I went out this morning with a pocket compass and walked in a
varying direction； perhaps on an average S。 by W。； 1754
paces。 Then I struck into the bush； N。W。 by N。； hoping to
strike the Vaituliga above the falls。 Now I have it plotted
out I see I should have gone W。 or even W。 by S。； but it is
not easy to guess。 For 600 weary paces I struggled through
the bush； and then came on the stream below the gorge； where
it was comparatively easy to get down to it。 In the place
where I struck it； it made cascades about a little isle； and
was running about N。E。； 20 to 30 feet wide； as deep as to my
knee； and piercing cold。 I tried to follow it down； and keep
the run of its direction and my paces； but when I was wading
to the knees and the waist in mud； poison brush； and rotted
wood； bound hand and foot in lianas； shovelled
unceremoniously off the one shore and driven to try my luck
upon the other … I saw I should have hard enough work to get
my body down； if my mind rested。 It was a damnable walk；
certainly not half a mile as the crow flies； but a real
bucketer for hardship。 Once I had to pass the stream where
it flowed between banks about three feet high。 To get the
easier down； I swung myself by a wild…cocoanut … （so called；
it bears bunches of scarlet nutlets） … which grew upon the
brink。 As I so swung； I received a crack on the head that
knocked me all abroad。 Impossible to guess what tree had
taken a shy at me。 So many towered above； one over the
other； and the missile； whatever it was； dropped in the
stream and was gone before I had recovered my wits。 （I
scarce know what I write； so hideous a Niagara of rain roars；
shouts； and demonizes on the iron roof … it is pitch dark too
… the lamp lit at 5！） It was a blessed thing when I struck
my own road； and I got home； neat for lunch time； one of the
most wonderful mud statues ever witnessed。 In the afternoon
I tried again； going up the other path by the garden； but was
early drowned out； came home； plotted out what I had done；
and then wrote this truck to you。
Fanny has been quite ill with ear…ache。 She won't go； hating
the sea at this wild season； I don't like to leave her； so it
drones on； steamer after steamer； and I guess it'll end by no
one going at all。 She is in a dreadful misfortune at this
hour； a case of kerosene having burst in the kitchen。 A
little while ago it was the carpenter's horse that trod in a
nest of fourteen eggs； and made an omelette of our hopes。
The farmer's lot is not a happy one。 And it looks like some
real uncompromising bad weather too。 I wish Fanny's ear were
well。 Think of parties in Monuments！ think of me in
Skerryvore； and now of this。 It don't look like a part of
the same universe to me。 Work is quite laid aside； I have
worked myself right out。
CHRISTMAS EVE。
Yesterday； who could write？ My wife near crazy with ear…
ache； the rain descending in white crystal rods and playing
hell's tattoo； like a TUTTI of