As I still dream on and look about on the glorious light of the night skies, I seem to breathe in the very poetry of nature. Over my head the beautiful bread-fruit trees and plumed palms wave their richly adorned branches. The deep, primeval silence, only disturbed by the cry of the solitary Mamoa uli bird, seems to steal into my very being. I can smell the wild, rich odour of the forest, as the night’s faint breath steals from the hollows, laden with scented whiffs from the decaying tropical flowers and the damp undergrowth, that, a few hours before, was pierced by glorious sunlight and musical with bees. Suddenly I hear the sound of soft-footed feet, then a burst of song—it is Tamafanga. He has returned with the present.
When we arrived back again at the hut, old Matafa and his wife rushed to the door to greet me.
“Matafa,” I said, “you have befriended her whom I loved, and so I now give unto thee that which the gods have sent you, through the tenderness of my heart.” With delight they both stared at me, their eyes were alive, shining with gratitude as they put forth their hands and clutched the O le oloa (sacred gift)—a bottle of the best unsweetened gin. I felt that it was wrong to give them that stimulant after the fifty years of missionaries’ supreme efforts. But they were old, and I knew that even old people in the countries where the missionaries hailed from like and need a little invigorating stimulant to buck them up when they can ever hear that prophetic tapping—thump! thump!—as the kind gravedigger pats the soil down, nicely and neatly over their old, tired heads and cold hearts.
We were all feeling sad that night, for I had at last secured a berth on a full-rigged ship that lay out in Apia Harbour. She was bound for Nuka Hiva and San Francisco.
I had promised the Matafas that I would return again some day.
“Cheer up,” I said, and I told them that I had some idea that I would find the beautiful girl Waylao back in Nuka Hiva. At that they clapped their hands with delight, and then, alas! the reaction set in and they wept.
As we all sat there, and they imbibed the contents of that bottle of gin, Tamafanga sang to us. He reminded me very much of my dear dead comrade Hermionæ the Marquesan. As he sang, and the lights burnt low, his eyes shone with light, for he was happy with the thought that he was going away on the big sea with me. For Tamafanga had gone on board the Rockhampton directly he heard that I had got a berth and asked for a job as deck hand—and had secured one.
The Matafas were very sorry to find that he was going with me; but I had promised to look after him and he had promised them that, if he ever saw Waylao in Hivaoa, he would persuade her to return to them.
As we sat there together, for the last night, for the ship sailed next day, the old Matafas sobbed as their Tamafanga sang. His song was one of longing, for his head was full of the romantic idea that he was going away across the big seas to search for the beautiful Waylao. This is how it ran:
“O eyes of the night, O voice of the winds,