On June 28, 1864, we sailed on the schooner Kilauea for Hawaii. On the 30th, we arrived at Kapaliuka and were warmly welcomed by Brother Kanaha and his wife Nakiaielua. I have taken much interest in this family, on account of their strength of character. When Gibson came, Kanaha had no faith in him, and refused to gather to Lanai, or to deed his home to him. For these sins he was cut off the Church. But he continued to hold meetings and kept his little flock together until we came. When the old man met us, he wept with joy; and we were equally rejoiced to see his integrity and manhood. This branch has been replete with interesting incidents. Here, during our first coming, Elder Hawkins had been shamefully mobbed. Here Ward E. Pack, cast the devil out of two Catholic priests who had incited natives to mob him. The act of casting out had greatly amused the Kanakas. Monday, July 25, 1864, at Waipio. We started on foot for Kawaimanu (flying water), a secluded mountain village, seldom visited by white men, a very fertile glade fifteen miles north of Waipio. We had to climb a pali two thousand feet in height: a solid rock wall almost perpendicular. When about half way to the top, we stepped to the side of the narrow trail and looked down on the sea that washed the rock below us. The sight made my head dizzy, and I hurriedly drew back. Our path led over the mountain, near some celebrated waterfalls. I wrote: Our meal of poi, pakai, and shrimps, In silence we partake, Then with a guide to lead the way, The mountain path we take, Narrow and winding in its course, And difficult to find. The vale below is growing small, As upward still we climb. And now great drops of sweat appear Upon the traveler's brow; Reminding me of summer days When following the plow. Surprised, we meet a mountain maid, Wild, Indian-like, and free; Around her waist a shirt is tied-- The custom here, you see. She meets us with a smiling face-- "Which way, strangers?" asked she. "We're going to Kawaimanu, The waterfalls to see." Breathless we reach the mountain crest, Where dark winged clouds oft fly; And seldom can the traveler pass And keep his jacket dry. The natives call it "Pele's tears"-- Full often doth she weep, Till torrents gushing from her eyes Roll thundering down the steeps. For "Pele's" home--at Kilauea, In a burning lake of fire, Where demons wild, in hideous form, Are ever hovering nigh her. But why she weeps, they cannot tell; Unless to quench her fever, Or else to drown the mystic yells Of fiends who never leave her. Through forests dense our guide doth lead, And vales of tangled fern, So green that Neibaur's match receipt Would fail to make them burn. The clouds are dark'ning o'er our heads; And yonder on our right, The craggy peaks in vapors black Are hidden from our sight.