We awoke many hours later. It was moonlight and we were lying in a complicated knot in the exact center of our domicile. Unraveling ourselves we tested our heads with gentle oscillations. Suddenly, in the distance, we heard a sound which sent a chill thrill running up and down our spines, the sound of singing, a faint far-off chorus of the loveliest voices that ever fell on mortal ears. The tone had that marvelous silver clang of the woodland thrush with yet a deeper, human poignancy, a note of passionate longing and endearment, shy but assertive, wild, but oh! so alluring. We chinned ourselves expectantly on the edge of our floor and waited, panting. "A serenade," whispered Swank, and Whinney shush-ed him savagely. Through the forest glades we could see the choir approaching, the dusky flash of brown bodies swaying, palpitating to the intoxicating rhythm of the song. Slowly and with great dignity they entered the clearing and stood, a score of slender creatures, in the full blaze of the moon, their lithe-limbed bodies clad only in delicate mother-of-pearl _rigolos_. Thus standing, they again burst into the melody of their national love-song. I transcribe the original words which for simple, primitive beauty are without rival. A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o U-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u and sometimes W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w And Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y The music is indescribable, I can only say that it is as beautiful as the words.[Footnote: "The peculiarly liquid quality of Polynesian phonetics is impossible for foreigners to acquire. Europeans who attempt a mastery of these sounds invariably suffer from what etymologists call metabelia, or vowel complaint."--_Prof. C.H. Towne, Nyack University_.] On the third encore they turned and slowly but surely filed out of the clearing into the forest. Long after they had disappeared our eyes still hung over the edge of our apartment and we could hear in our memories the sweet refrain-- W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y As we lay there like men in a trance I saw a dull red glow on the horizon and then, far off a rocket split the velvet night, burst into stars and disappeared. It was William Henry Thomas, aboard the Kawa--a signal of distress! Poor goof! We had completely forgotten him. I had a vague sense, shared, I think, by the others, that I ought to worry a bit about him. But it was no use. One by one we lowered ourselves into the pit of our arboreal home and drifted into delicious languorous reveries, not of William Henry Thomas. We had other things to think about. CHAPTER IV A few of our native companions. Filbertine diet. Physiological observations. We make a tour of the island. A call on the ladies. Baahaabaa gives a feast. The embarrassments of hospitality. An alcoholic escape. "We really must do something about William Henry Thomas," I said on the day following our serenade.