Before I could answer something entered my ear and something my nose.
These somethings buzzed and bit fearsomely. I coughed and sputtered.
An old woman on the bank was sitting in the smudge of a fire of
cocoanut husks. She was scratching her arms and legs, covered with
angry red blotches.

"The _nonos_ never stop biting," she said in French. These _nonos_
are the dread sand-flies that Père Victorien had run from to get
some sleep in Atuona. They are a kind of gadfly, red-hot needles on
wings.

We sauntered along the road, tormented by the buzzing pests at which
we constantly slapped and, crossing a tiny bridge over the brook,
approached the Mission of Tai-o-hae, that once pompous and powerful
center of the diffusion of the faith throughout the Marquesas. The
road was lined with guavas, mangos, cocoanuts, and tamarinds, all
planted with precision and care. The ambitious fathers who had begun
these plantings scores of years before had provided the choicest
fruits for their table. All over the world the members of the great
religious orders of Europe have carried the seeds of the best
varieties of fruits and flowers, of trees and shrubs and vegetables;
more than organized science they deserve the credit for introducing
non-native species into all climes.

About the mission grounds was a stone wall, stout and fairly high,
which had assured protection when orgies of indulgence in rum had
made the natives brutal. The clergy must survive if souls are to be
saved. Within the wall stood the church, the school, and a rambling
rectory, all made beautiful by age and the artistry of tropical