THE Indians called it Guanaja, but the Admiral, the Isle of Pines.

It was far, far, from Hispaniola, far, far, from Jamaica, over a wide and stormy sea, reached after many days of horrible weather.

Guanaja, small, lofty, covered with rich trees among which stood in numbers the pines we loved because they talked of home.

To the south, far off, across leagues of water, we made out land.

Mainland it seemed to us, stretching across the south, losing itself in the eastern haze.