Once it was the scene of a tremendous hurricane which caught several ships at anchor in the bay and blew them on the rocks. One English ship perished with all on board as she vainly endeavored to turn her bow towards the storm. The crew went down to Davy Jones's locker with the ship's band playing Rule, Britannia! On the rocks we saw a monument to the lost of this catastrophe in the shape of a wrecked German man-of-war. As we approached the shore swarms of natives came rowing out to meet us. What splendid specimens of manhood they were! Perfectly formed they were apparently quite unconscious of their power and as gentle as they were strong. I noticed one strapping fellow standing in the bow of his boat beckoning me to join him. As the sun shone upon his copper colored skin he seemed a monarch even in his semi-nudity and in barbaric splendor he suggested Othello. With the aid of two assistants Othello soon landed us on the sands of sunny Samoa. Here we were at once surrounded by a swarm of natives who persuaded us to purchase fans, beads, rings, wooden canoes, corals, shells and a score of other things in which the island abounds. These articles are secured with the least possible labor for the true Samoan considers it _infra dig_ to labor long and is firmly convinced that it is a very poor world that won't support one race of gentlemen. I am sorry to say the women do not appeal to one as much as the men. They are small of stature and run to fat. They take but little time in arranging their toilet for the day and seldom keep their men friends waiting when asked to a party or a ball, their raiment consisting mostly of beads! We spent but little time among the natives as we were anxious to visit the home of Robert Louis Stevenson. We finally succeeded in procuring a conveyance, a small cart and pony, and were soon on our way to his home. After two miles the road turned into a smaller one and there a sign board, cleanly white-washed, told us in the Samoan tongue that we were nearing the abode of the great romancer. The sign, translated, told all travellers that the road was built by the Samoans as a monument to their beloved friend. At the end of the road we came upon a locked gate. We vaulted over and in a few minutes we came upon a house, flat, but of rather huge dimensions. As we approached the veranda a lady, of small stature, dressed in a Mother Hubbard, in bare feet, came graciously forward to meet us. In a moment I recognized her. Her face was keen and intelligent and once must have been beautiful. She was pale, thoughtful, dignified and sad. Hers was the right kind of face! It stamped her as the wife of the man who has made the world marvel at his wondrous imagination. We made ourselves known and were received most hospitably. She seemed glad to welcome Anglo-Saxons. I told her the news of McKinley's nomination and the sad tidings of the death of Kate Field, her life-long friend.