A Day in the Hills. 77 found ourselves in the heart of the hills, breathing the incense of lime trees and sweet scented shrubs. It was one of those days of unalloyed delight, when elevation of spirit keeps pace with gain in altitude. We rode through groves of limes and banana plantations. We feasted our eyes upon cocoanut palms bending airily down from heights above; upon tree ferns, mammee sapota, bread fruit, giant bamboo, and all sorts of unfamiliar growths, from graceful lianes that trailed adown the steeps to ferns and dainty blossoms nestling along the wayside. Presently we arrived at coffee plantations and groves of cacao (or chocolate) trees, bearing large, gourd-like fruits of several beautiful colors. And, of course, there were the omnipresent cane fields. Strange bird notes were in the air. Brilliant humming-birds darted from flower to flower. We came betimes to the Valley River, a tumultuous stream, issuing from some far source in the heart of the hills, and followed it awhile along a dizzy verge. The Sulphur Spring, our objective point, is not unlike certain formations in the Yellowstone, where the ground is hot and there is a constant gurgling of liquid mud. Close by is a cloven rock, whence sulphurous vapors steam up in clouds, constantly. It is interesting, as giving a hint of the island's formation, but it is quickly seen, and, after rest and luncheon, helped out by green cocoanuts from nearby trees, we were ready to retrace our steps. Subsequently, a party of four of us crossed the river and ascended on the other side to a point where a high waterfall could be seen falling like a ribbon of milk among the embosoming trees, into a region wilder and more remote than any we had yet discovered. Late in the afternoon, we again found Aboard Ship Again. 79 ourselves aboard ship, longing for a closer acquaintance with Dominica, but not unready to proceed to Saint-Pierre, Martinique, our next port of call. Dominica's fire-cleft summits Rise from bluest of blue oceans; Feel the trade-wind's mighty motions The West Indian wilderness. Tree-ferns wave their fans majestic, Mangoes lift white-blossomed masses Bright against the black abutments Dominica's crater-cauldron Seethes against its lava-beaches, Boils in misty desolation; Seldom foot its border reaches; Seldom any traveler's eye Penetrates its barriers high. Over hidden precipices Falls the unseen torrent's thunder; Windy shrieks and sibilations Fill the pathless gorge with wonder; And the dusky Carib hears, Cowering with mysterious fears. -Lucy Larcom. VI. Martinique. AINT PIERRE, - Martinique, has been somewhat whimsically called the "Paris of the West Indies." It is a stirring little place of some 25,000 inhabitants, and reflects certain aspects of its great original. French in language, deportment and sentiment, like the entire island of Martinique, it proudly flaunts the tricolor from its flagstaffs, and is as Parisian as a town knows how to be whose people are mainly black and yellow in complexion. Upon turning out one morning, we found ourselves in the little harbor among clustered masts of shipping and stately square-riggers lying at anchor, the Madiana having arrived some time in the |
