243: TO HIS MOTHER [_Isle of Pines_] _May 14th_ Dear Grace and Grandma: We haven’t had altogether more than 3 hours of rainfall since arriving. Rather less than usual, Mrs. Simpson says, for the rainy season. Today the sky is overcast, making it much cooler than usual, and the rain of last night promises repetition at any moment. When there is a good wind, like today’s, it sweeps the bugs away somewhat--but otherwise they are terrific,--especially around Casas Villa [the Crane house], which so far as I have been able to judge by contrast with other places is become the buggiest place on the island. This is mostly due to the thick growth of trees and shrubbery surrounding the house--which hardly lets a zephyr through and which harbor and incubate millions of insects. It is, of course, a great mistake to have planted so many fruit trees so close to the house. They give practically no shade--and simply stifle every breeze that approaches. Yesterday we rented a car from Herrin and I drove Mrs. S. and Waldo over to the Jones’s Jungle. Mrs. S. had prepared a wonderful picnic lunch which we finally shared with the Jones’s in their bungalow. Both Waldo and myself went quite wild about the beauties of the place, the marvelous work they have accomplished there is equalled, I’m sure, by nothing else in the West Indies or N. America. Waldo says he remembers visiting a place in the Azores, owned by a wealthy Portuguese prince, which was something like it, but I have never seen anything so amazing before. The Jones’s are by far the pleasantest and most cultured people I have met on the island. The tragedy of their life here is pitiable to the point of tears. After twenty-three years of unremitting toil on their place, to have it all brought to naught--as it is now, since the treaty matter, makes them the saddest kind of jests of fate. Jones says that the Cuban bureaucrats may seize his place at any moment without offering more than five dollars an acre, and he can have no recourse whatever. Furthermore, they are both quite penniless, and live entirely on what he can gather as a taxi-driver and the little fee they charge for visiting the jungle. But Jones is no worse off than others--in many ways. He is only too old to ever hope to take hold anywhere else again. --/--/ 244: TO WALDO FRANK [_Isle of Pines_] _May 22nd_ Camerado: In the middle of the terrible little performance we left you to attend and below the crash of floods on the roof--I was astonished to hear the whistle of your boat, whooping, I hope, a really final salute: I had supposed the Cristobal Colon long since departed. After so long a wait I hope you at least had a private and quiet rest in your stateroom, or rather, cabin. Today frequent downpours and your card from Havana. Also a letter from O’Neill--more mysterious than ever. I’ll quote exactly and all the words pertaining to the Liveright matter: