_Saturday, August 14th._--The usual holiday. We had Prayers very early, and before breakfast I took a picture of most of the congregation in front of the church, which I hope will turn out good. It was not a pleasant day indoors, there was a strong wind blowing, and clouds of dust penetrating my house from all quarters, and I was not sorry to accept Arthur’s offer to go with himself and most of the people to the riverside. There it is always cool and pleasant, and the luxury of a bathe, although almost a daily occurence, is always appreciated. I took my photographic Camera with me, and after almost burying myself in mud, succeeded in getting a good view of the pretty taro gardens. On our way to Rarava the monotony of the road was relieved by our starting a “malau,” the ornithological name of which I know not, but it is a kind of bush turkey, it has a red head, yellow legs and black feathers, and is really like a common hen in shape and appearance. The poor thing was evidently startled from her peculiar nest, where she was about to deposit her eggs. These strange birds after securing a favourable spot, lay their eggs some depth beneath the upper soil, and leave them there uncared for until the young ones hatch themselves, and when strong enough burst their earthly tenement, and come forth to the light of day. Some say the parent comes occasionally back to her nest to see how matters are progressing, and even digs at the earth to find out how the process of hatching goes on. If she finds her progeny ready to walk, she drives them on before her to a place of security, but the general belief is that she allows them to shift for themselves. These curious birds are said to feed principally on the large ants here called “gandee.” In Savo and some of the Solomon Islands, these birds are tamed and fenced in, to lay their eggs in the hot sand, but here they are wild and rare. Their eggs which are very numerous are esteemed a great delicacy. This poor bird in question tried very hard to get away by flight, but getting entangled in the thick bush, was shot by a cruel arrow. The capture was the food for conversation throughout the day, and I listened to the relation and re-relation of the narrative of it times without number, with all the little details with which natives are wont to embellish and amplify their narration of the smallest fact. It is perfectly wonderful how the smallest matter affords pasture for native conversation, and what a wonderful faculty they have of making multum out of parvum. In powers of conversation and flow of language, I think natives are far before our European working classes. A native never seems at a loss for something to say, and certainly never fails to express himself from lack of words.