“Ole Misson-loom mans (mission-room man) who mournful voice, and who look at me and tell me that I one big liar!”
“Why?” said I, as the old poet’s face seemed to flush beneath its tawny hue at the thought of such an affront to his veracity.
“I tells ’im I wanter no go white man’s ’eaven. I go ’eathen ’eaven. Then ’e says, ‘There am no ’eathen ’eaven; yous sinfuls mans!’”
Saying this, the old poet squatted down on his mat, which he ever carried under his arm, and inspired by grief dropped into the following poetic effusion. (The sun had long since set, and the shadows lay deep in the hollows by Mutoua. I sat down beside him, and as he commenced in sombre tones, the o le manoa sang its passionate strain up in the flamboyants over and over again.)
I recall the very note of that strange night-bird’s song as O Le Langi meandered on in this wise:
O white mans from across big waters,
I die not though my body die, be dust:
The waving pauroas, the ripening coco-nuts,
The maona in the forest singing, singing,
The stars softly dropping from great darkness