Passing through the market place we saw that feature of Honolulu under its most favorable auspices—that is, in the full glory of Saturday afternoon, which is a festive¹ day with the natives. The native girls by twos and threes and parties of a dozen, and sometimes in whole platoons and companies, went cantering up and down the neighboring streets astride of fleet but homely² horses, and with their gaudy³ riding habits streaming like banners behind them. Such a troop of free and easy riders, in their natural home, the saddle, makes a gay and graceful⁴ spectacle. The riding habit I speak of is simply a long, broad scarf, like a tavern⁵ table cloth brilliantly colored, wrapped around the loins once, then apparently⁶ passed between the limbs and each end thrown backward over the same, and floating and flapping behind on both sides beyond the horse’s tail like a couple of fancy flags; then, slipping the stirrup-irons between her toes, the girl throws her chest forward, sits up like a Major General and goes sweeping⁷ by like the wind.