Why not?
Amongst the many social events we attended, that are the life of the Island metropolis, there were days and nights when we met Prince Cupid and our First Princess, at Sam Parker’s. The old Colonel’s devoted girls, Eva Woods and Helen Widemann, entertained informally, and we saw the gallant spendthrift host of other days failing, failing.... It was the year before, one of the last days he ever left the house, that in our Beach Walk cottage we had Colonel Parker for luncheon, together with his life-long friend, that good Bohemian and gentleman, Frank Unger, both old comrades, since dead. The two wore about their Panama hats orange leis of ilima, now so rarely seen in these days of careless paper imitations, which they presented to Jack and me. And it is these cherished garlands of wilted flower-gold that now wreathe their friend’s ashes in the Valley of the Moon.
A fine gentleman was Colonel Samuel (Kamuela) Parker, if ever I saw one—courtly in manner yet bearing himself with that careless, debonair sweetness we so rarely have the privilege of knowing. He combined all the geniality and large-heartedness of his double heritage. He died on March 19, 1920. Less than a week before, he had pressed my hand in farewell.
The seven days in which the body lay in his house in Kapiolani Park, where he had peacefully slipped into unconsciousness, was characteristic of the stately observance attending Hawaii’s distinguished dead. The spacious living-room was banked with orchids and roses, its walls entirely covered with the floral tribute. Four-hour watches, by daylight and dark, were kept by members of the Chiefs of Hawaii, who first sent the Tabu Stick of deep yellow chrysanthemums to stand at the head of the bier. At the foot hung the faithful replica of a feather cape, made of the same royal-hued blossoms, with a pattern traced in blood-red carnations.
For one night, in regal splendor of real yellow-feather mantle, Ahuala, and feather-lei upon her blue-black hair, there sat Princess David (Abigail) Kawananakoa, a picture of mourning, at the head of her friend’s coffin. Behind her was a young Hawaiian maiden; and to right and left two helmeted Warriors, each with upright spear in hand, stood motionless. Between these and two similar impressive figures at the foot of the dead chief, were ranged on either side in full regalia the highest in rank of the Daughters of Warriors.
Certain ancient men and women, with rigid discipline in the matter of chiefly precedence, maintained the ceremonial of that splendidly somber week of honor to the alii. The music, chanted, or played upon ukulele and guitar, that wove softly into the spirit of the occasion, was mostly old meles of the days of the monarchy.
In high contrast to these traditional rites was one day of service by the Church of Christ, Scientist, in whose faith this man had gone to sleep. His Masonic Chapter also held its ceremony.
Colonel Parker’s body was taken “home” to Mana on the Parker Ranch. There, beneath the cypresses of the quaint family graveyard, his casket, swathed in the choicest blooms that grow, was laid in the vault with his first wife, Panana, and their daughter, Hattie.
So ended one of the monarchy’s most picturesque careers—that of a man once accounted remarkable by those of more than many countries, for his extraordinary good fellowship, the gracious kindliness of his heart, and his grandeur of physique and address.
A little story, and I am done. It is too gentle a thing, too simple and illuminating of the past and present of Polynesia and all mankind, to lay aside with the countless notes no book of reasonable length can encompass. It comes to me through one who accompanied the funeral party, composed of representatives from the different branches of the Parker family, from Honolulu to Mahukona on Hawaii. There they disembarked with the coffin, en route to Mana.