"Did you hear that, Wiggles?" I asked him. "This is decidedly no place for you!" But Wiggles, rolling happily in the grass, merely snorted. A gong sounded from the house, and we went in to lunch. About two o'clock, I was attacked by an overpowering languor. Twice, no less, I yawned in Peter's face, in the midst of his thrilling description of "babies an' ladies an' gentlemen, all brown, Aunt Mavis!" "Siesta, now!" remarked my husband briskly. "Both of you! Off to bed!" "Bed!" I said, "in the middle of the day!" Peter, but recently released from the burden of an afternoon nap, protested. "Custom of the country," said Bill. "No getting around it. Couldn't if you wanted to. Even Arthur is asleep." I listened. We were on the verandah, and all about us was a stillness which was almost audible. On the white road beyond our gates I saw a pair of oxen, toiling patiently up the hill. Even the birds were quiet, only now and then a sleepy chirping drifted down the hot air. It seemed as if a veil had been drawn over the land. My eyelids felt freighted, and I was very tired. "Bed!" said Bill firmly. I left Peter to his tender mercies and went indoors. My room was cool, and sweet with flower perfume. Sarah, yawning, came when I rang, and unhooked my frock. As I lay down on the bed, I heard her say something, bitterly, about "an unhealthy climate," but if she said more, I do not know what it was, for I was fast and dreamlessly asleep. It was Arthur who woke me, making the day hideous with his laughter. "Mother's darling!" he announced, unctuously. "Pretty Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!" I turned over and felt for my watch. Four o'clock! It was incredible. And equally beyond belief, the fact that I was hungry again! I bathed and dressed, and then, wonderfully rested, went out on the verandah. Fong and Wing appeared as if by magic and laid the tea-table with iced tea, tiny round tomato sandwiches, and delectable frosted cakes. And also, as if answering some compelling summons, Peter, bright-eyed and red-cheeked, strolled out from the direction of Bill's room. It was quite apparent that both of them had been asleep. "Tea?" I asked my husband, as his tall figure loomed up behind Peter. "Certainly!" he said. "It's a necessity in Cuba, not a mere excuse for sociability." All about us the birds were singing again, and the palms looked new washed. "It looks as if it had rained," I said in amazement. "Probably has," said Bill lazily, "Often does afternoons." What a country! That night, I made my first little song. There was a thought somewhere, back in my brain, a thought of moonlight and bars and a far-off singing. But it was not clear yet. So, instead, I set to paper the first eight lines that Cuba had made for me. _Fantasie_ The palms are listening to Pan Across the Terrace of the Night, A Peacock-Moon, aloof and white, Spreads wide a silver fan.