The deep blue of the sea, the clear bracing air, {15} the screech of the wild sea-birds, and the roar of the surf, as it breaks on the reefs, are sounds that echo in the memory. To awaken and hear all these things is the longing that clings to one. To feel a good ship gliding through the still waters on the way to the islands; to rise from one’s bunk and through the port-hole to catch a glimpse of the rugged shores and the dark, shining skins of the natives as they paddle out in swarms from the villages to the ship’s side; to hear them calling to one another and yelling their greetings to the crew, are things which, when once experienced, can never be forgotten, and will ever haunt the memory. But come, let us see these islands where the sun pours down on bright yellow sands through the long, waving, rustling leaves of the palm trees, and glistens on the skins of the crocodiles basking in the rivers, and on the strong, brown arms and tanned faces of the traders, who have braved all dangers for a life of adventure. Let us look into the quaint lives of the natives—the last relics of barbarism; let us see their huts and join in their weird ceremonies and listen to their songs and learn their superstitions, for in a few years these things will be gone, and the cyclist and the tripper will be crowding these savage islands, whilst the sturdy {16} head-hunters will be dead, and their sons will be cadging pennies, whilst the dark, shy girls will be bold and talk with nasal accents. Civilisation is coming, coming quickly. Even here, back in the dense bush on a still night when the insects are too lazy to fly and the silence almost speaks, if you listen you can hear the steady tramp of the ghostly army coming nearer and nearer, crushing through everything, sparing nothing—the army of civilisation. The capital of New Guinea is Port Moresby, a quaintly picturesque village facing a large bay with a natural harbour. In the vicinity are densely wooded hills, which stretch up and disappear in the distance—a dark-green and black mass. But when the sun is on them they dance with colour, and the tints of marvellous brilliancy turn them into a lovely fairyland, full of romance and adventure. It is wonderful what strange tales flit across the mind when looking at these hills; what scenes have been enacted there in times gone by, and now, how calm they seem! Granville, the small business part of Port Moresby, consists of a few corrugated iron-roofed houses, the head store of Messrs. Burns Philp, the great Australasian Trading Company, and the {17} homes of a few Government officials, and Government House, which lies back a little and looks solitary and out of place in this weird land of pile-built huts. There is the Mission House also, a low, white wood house with a big verandah running round it and a garden of palms and beautiful flowers.