It is always embarrassing to attempt to describe a new smell, for, such is our inexperience in the nasal field, that a new smell must invariably be described in terms of _other_ smells, and by reason of a curious, inherited prudery this province has been left severely alone by English writers. I know of but one man, M. Sentant, the governor of Battambang, Cambodia, who frankly makes a specialty of odors. [Footnote: See _Journal des Debats_, '09, "Le nez triomphant" de Lucien Sentant.] "J'aime les odeurs!" he said to me one day as we sat sipping a siem-bok on the piazza, of the residency. "Mais il y en a des mauvaises," I deprecated. "_Meme_ les mauvaises," he insisted, "Oui, _surtout les_ mauvaises!" But Sentant is unique. I can only say that as I sat sniffing on the deck of the Kawa there was about us a _soupcon_ of the _je-ne-sais-quoi tropicale_, half nostalgie, half diablerie. It was ... but what's the use? You will have to go out there some time and smell it for yourself. [Illustration: The W.E. Traprock Expedition] [Illustration Note: THE W.E. TRAPROCK EXPEDITION It is doubtful if a camera's eye ever recorded the presence of a more remarkable group than that presented on the opposite page. Here we see the ship's company of the yawl Kawa, assembled under the shade of the broad panjandrus leaves which fringe the Filbert Islands. They are, reading from left to right, William Henry Thomas, the crew; Herman Swank, Walter E. Traprock, Reginald Whinney. At their feet lies Kippiputuona (Daughter of Pearl and Coral). The black and white of photography can give no idea of the magnificent tropical coloring, nor of the exquisite sounds and odors which permeate every inch of the island paradise. At the moment of taking this picture, which was obligingly snapped by Captain Triplett, the entire party was listening to the thrilling cry of the fatu-liva bird. Captain Triplett had just requested the group to "listen to the little birdie" when the distant wood-notes were heard, the coincidence falling in most happily with the photographer's attempts to secure the absolute attention of his subjects.] I have mentioned the contour, color and fragrance of our island. I now come to the strangest feature of all. I refer to its sound. I had for some time noticed a queer, dripping noise which I had foreborne to mention fearing it might be inside my own head--a devilish legacy of our recent buffeting. You can imagine my relief when Whinney asked apologetically, "Do you fellows hear anything?" "I do!" was my rejoinder, seconded by Swank who had come up for air. We all listened intently. Though the sky was cloudless, a distinct pattering sound as of a light rain reached us. "Nuts..." said Captain Triplett suddenly, spitting on the nose of a fish that had made a face at him. A glance through our mercifully preserved field-glasses corroborated the Captain's vision.