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hair. His toilet was completed, and breakfast was now the order of the day. Above him hung clusters of coconuts; often these had been forced to serve. But not this morning, he told himself with a smile. Through a scene of brightness and beauty, he walked slowly toward the Moana Hotel. It was a scene that had, in its way, contributed to Mr. Smith’s downfall, for every time he sought to paint it, he threw down his brush in disgust and bemoaned the inadequacy of his talent.

On the sand outside the hotel, an early beach-boy lay strumming a steel guitar and singing a gentle song. Smith went promptly to join him.

“Good morning, Frank,” he said.

Frank turned his head. “Hello,” he answered dreamily. The beach-comber sat down beside him. Suddenly Frank looked at him, his dark eyes wide and earnest. “I’m not going to sing for tourists to-day,” the beach-boy announced. “I’m just going to sing for the blue sky.”

Smith nodded. Coming from any other race, this would have been a stilted and theatrical remark, but the beach-comber knew his Hawaiians better than that. He had watched them arrive each morning on their beloved beach, staring at it as though its beauty were brought to their attention for the first time, diving into its familiar waters with cries of delight that betokened a happiness rare in this modern world.

“That’s the ticket, Frank,” Smith nodded approvingly. He suddenly introduced a more practical note. “Got any money?” he inquired.

The boy frowned. What was this money all the haoles seemed so interested in, so vocal about? It meant nothing to him, and never would.