"The ancient Greeks would call this a garden of the Gods," remarked Oliver. "I have never seen such a variety of plants before, not even on the island of Luzon."
"Nor I," was my answer, "although some parts of Cuba are almost as picturesque. One cannot wonder at the ignorant natives being worshipers of such a mountain, or of such trees and plants. To stand here in silence gives a fellow a feeling he never gets anywhere else."
"We are close to nature's heart," said Dan. "But, come on, we didn't come out here to philosophize or to preach sermons. Let us push on to this village we are after. I am anxious to learn what sort of a chap Joe Koloa will prove to be."
Half an hour's journey brought us to a small settlement called Nonuuanonuuano—a most unpronounceable name truly—although each vowel, or vowel and the preceding consonant, represents a syllable. Here we found a Hula-hula dance in process, given by several native girls dressed in skirts bedecked with flowers and vines. The music to the dance was furnished by a player on a native guitar and another native who beat a drum without snares. We watched the dance for a while and tossed the girls some silver, and then forged ahead, soon leaving the village in the distance.
