That’s whater you ares!”
“What did the old crab, the chief, I mean, say then?” said I, as the old poet leaned his chin right down to the hieroglyphic tattoo of his chest, lapsing into deep thought. In respectful attitude I awaited his next inspiration, which came in this wise:
He wise ole crab-chief and know much, O Pagalagi.
So he look up at me and say in voice like deep music of waters:
“O Le Langi, greatest high chief of these parts,
O Chief who ’ave listen to the Miserilinaries[[6]] and hung head,
But still thoughter mucher of great gods all while,
I say: the gods of Poluto and the great Tangaloa
Still tramp, tramp across the great sky-floors of shadowland.
They do say with voice of thunders in mountains: