You see this is the sort of thing one hears
And don’t believe, until one sees the spot.
We left New York in snow up to its ears;
And now a Paradise! the palm, the rose,
The Boaganvillia, and the breath of summer.
I tell you, Honolulu is a hummer.
It pays for six long days upon the ocean —
And those sad memories of a ship’s queer motion
There’s one thing, though, that’s disappointed
The much exploited Honolulu maid.
I haven’t seen a beauty in the town.
They’re thick as ripe bananas on a tree.
You have not been observing, I’m afraid.
Ethel (shrugging her shoulders)
Oh well, tastes differ; I don’t care for brown,
At least for this pronounced Hawaiian shade;
I really can’t imagine how a man
Could love a girl dyed to a chronic tan.
Some one has said, ‘Love goes where it is sent.’
I think that true; one can not guide its bent.
But I must go; and will you come along?
Your mother said to bring you.
Not quite yet;
I’ll wait until that bird completes its song;
The last I’ll hear, till many a sun has set.
Just tell the folks I’ll meet them on the pier.
[Exit Ethel, looking disappointed.
Ralph (sitting down in a reverie)
A nice girl, Ethel; but, by Jove, it’s queer
The way a fellow’s stubborn mind will turn
To something that he should forget. That face —
I saw once on a San Francisco street,
How well I do recall the time and place.
‘A girl from Honolulu,’ some one said.
I wonder where she is now! Married? Dead?
[A silent reverie for a moment. Then speaks again.]
I planned this trip with just one crazy thought —
To look upon that strange girl’s face once more.
That is the luny project which has brought
The four of us to this idyllic shore.
[Laughs and lights a cigar.]
My scheme was worked with such consummate care
That mother thinks she planned the whole affair.
Then she invited Ethel as her guest.
[Silence for a moment.]
Well, sometimes mothers know just what is best
For wayward sons.
And yet, and yet, and yet,
Why is it one girl’s face I can’t forget?
Why is it that I feel despondent hearted
In missing that fool hope for which I started?
Four thousand miles is something of a chase
To run to cover one elusive face
And then to fail.