It was most beautiful, with mountains and forests and
vales and plains and rivers.

The twelfth day of December we came to anchor in a
harbor which the Admiral named Concepcion.

On this shore the Indians fled from us. We found a
village, but quite deserted. Not a woman, not a man, not a
child! Only three or four of those silent dogs, and a great
red and green parrot that screamed but said nothing.
There was something in this day, I know not what,
but it made itself felt. The Admiral, kneeling, kissed the
soil, and he named the island Hispaniola, and we planted a
cross.

For long we had been beaten about, and all aboard the
ships were well willing to leave them for a little. We had
a dozen sick and they craved the shore and the fruit trees.
Our Indians, too, longed. So we anchored, and mariners
and all adventurers rested from the sea. A few at a time,
the villagers returned, and fearfully enough at first. But
we had harmed nothing, and what greatness and gentleness
was in us we showed it here. Presently all thought they
were at home with us, and that heaven bred the finest folk!

Our people of Hispaniola, subjects now, since the planting
of the flag, were taller, handsomer, we thought, than the
Cubans, and more advanced in the arts. Their houses were
neat and good, and their gardens weeded and well-stocked.
The men wore loin cloths, the women a wide cotton girdle or