Report _ of the "Exceptional Christmas " Competition .

WE have received some most entertaining descriptions of exceptional .Christrnasses, spent in the most extraordinary places, and very much regret that we have not the space to publish- a selection of these entries. To spend Christmas in the tropics is to get right away from the Christmas tradition. We have also received accounts of Christmas in jungle camps, in the African' veldt in Iceland, in the trenches during the War, in a Danish hospital,. and one spent accidentally in a church belfry. The prize of five guineas is awarded to Katherine Groesbeck, Villa Carolina, Capri, for her description of a Christmas spent in a lighthouse in the tropics.

" King Wencesias " in the Tropcs TILE Yuletide is so essentially a season of frosty nights; carols and old houses filled with evergreens - and mirth, that a Christmas Eve which we spent in the lighthouse off Tahiti has always seemed an exotic travesty. We were stranded in this white tower of the seas, while a storm lashed the waves to mountains of pale foam. Fiery clouds, presumably sent by Tawhiri, god of the whirlwind, clustered overhead, and, the .gale carried a heavy scent of copra and the hibiscus or purau flower from the island. Within the lighthouse the bare rooms were bright with boughs of the flamboydnt tree, the. red-gold oleander and pandanus. Raui and Po-Ta, two native boatmen, made the night echo with guitar and mandolin ; while "Mr." PomAre, the lighthouse keeper, padded back and forth from his beacon to the scene of festivity. `

PomAre was a half-breed of French and Polynesian parentage, and had the dark distinction which often comes from this racial inter- mixture. He smiled whenever his thoughts amused him, and shook the large white flower over his ear. The natives all called him " Mr." No one knew why. But the courtesy title obviously pleased him. . We had stopped in Tahiti for the holidays, and after the grey days of the north the colour of the tropics was so vivid as to seem an illusion. The town of Papeete lay in a mist of sunlight. The green lagoon and distant coral reefs shone in the same luminous glow. _ . . . .

The day before Christmas the heat was so oppressive that we drove to Artie for a, swim in the long curving breakers outside the lagoon. As we finished and sought the cool shadows of the cocoanut grove for a rest, Raui and Po-Ta offered to take Us fishing. They launched the crude dug-out canoe with its large out-rigger, and paddled along the coast for about an hour. The water was so clear that the coral formations and flowering sea-weed were visible. It was like an enchanted garden through which black and golden fish drifted with the tides.

But the South Seas are inconstant and treacherous. Without warning the fiery storm clouds of Tawhiri gather from all quarters, and the waves toss their white crests to the sky. Such a gale sprang up On this afternoon. Rani and Po-Ta found it impossible to reach the shore. And it was only due to incredible skill on -their part that we were thrown " right-side-up " on the lighthouse reef half an hour later.

"Mr." PomAre hurried out, tossing the white flower over his ear as he ran.

" Mamma," he called back over his shoulder. " Plenty guests for Christmas."

We had just time to reach the security of the white tower before the hurricane broke in all its fury. In the intense darkness the only light on laid or sea came froth* the-beackin, which flashed

across the waters. •

Mamma PomAre proved to be a genial soul, who welcomed us with a comforting smile.

" How nice you got saved," she cried in broken English.

Then much- to our dismay she hurried away with our wet clothes and returned with two "Mother Hubbards." These were the fruits gleaned from a past generation of missionaries, and evidently the paces de resistance of her wardrobe.

" You wear these,". she commanded. " Many peoples come. We have fine Christmas party. I bring wreaths of tiare flower for your. hair.". ' •

We were swept with a certain envy for the golden ass of Apukius, who could at least nibble his- wreath of rose leaves and return to normal form. 'However, there was nothing for it -but -to appear

at the feast in Mamma's flowing white garments. -

By the time all the branches of the Pomare family had gathered in the tower, there were indeed " plenty guests." Flower-crowned we held the seats of honour, and were served with nativedelieaciea- There were raw_ fish in cocoanut milk, turtle's eggs, tender roast pig, taro and feis and the rich purple fruit of the mango. The guitar and mandolin sounded abOve the din of happy, voices and there were soft snatches of song. Suddenly I heard a tune,

which was at once familiar and yet odd. " • • • - •

- Mamma PcimAre leaned forward expectantly. " Enigleesh

carol," she beamed. • *

With that the whole Pomire family ,burst forth into what they called the song of King Wen-Ka-La." The-carol seemed-strange in this tropical spot—like some old gentleman decked out in hibiscus flowers. But the tune was recognizable, despite the langorous rhythm, and was apparently a great, favourite. Thus while the storm raged across the South Seas, the Poidare family were welcon?.- ing* in "Mriitinats* with Good King -Wen:testae' -