But the subject is too exasperating to write about.
A mile and a half from town, I came to a grove of tall cocoanut trees, with clean, branchless stems reaching straight up sixty or seventy feet and topped with a spray of green foliage sheltering clusters of cocoa-nuts--not more picturesque than a forest of collossal ragged parasols, with bunches of magnified grapes under them, would be.
I once heard a gouty northern invalid say that a cocoanut tree might be poetical, possibly it was; but it looked like a feather-duster struck by lightning.

I think that describes it better than a picture--and yet, without any question, there is something fascinating about a cocoa-nut tree--and graceful, too.
About a dozen cottages, some frame and the others of native grass, nestled sleepily in the shade here and there.

The grass cabins are of a grayish color, are shaped much like our own cottages, only with higher and steeper roofs usually, and are made of some kind of weed strongly bound together in bundles.

The roofs are very thick, and so are the walls; the latter have square holes in them for windows.

At a little distance these cabins have a furry appearance, as if they might be made of bear skins.