“Funny way to make a living, Mate-Woman!” Often he thinks aloud about his selection of a means of livelihood, and ever grows more convinced that he chose the best of all ways for him—and me. “I carry my office in my head, and see the world while I earn the money to see it with.”
Entered Gretchen with her lovely babe, breathing beauty and comfort and cleanliness, followed by her husband who announced luncheon with a jolly: “Come on, you famished seafarers, and see what there is to eat!” But first we must be crowned, I with a wreath of small pink rosebuds, dainty as a string of coral, while around Jack’s neck was laid a wide circlet of limp green vine, glossy and fragrant. Commodore Macfarlane was decorated in the same charming way that the white dwellers of the Islands have adopted from the native custom.
The meal was furnished forth on a wide veranda, or lanai (lah-nah’-e—quickly lahn-I), screened with flowering vines, and our host and hostess were on tiptoe to see whether or not we would try the native dishes which form part of their daily menu. As Jack said afterward, they “let us down easy,” because, instead of experimenting on our malihini (newcomer) palates with straight poi, some of the smooth pinkish gray paste was diluted with cold water and milk, and a pinch of salt was added. Served in a long thin glass, it was called a poi cocktail. I scarcely see how one could dislike it. The plain thick poi, unseasoned, would be debatable to those unfortunates who dread sampling anything “odd”; but we took to it instanter. It must have excellent food value, being as it is the staple of all Pacific native peoples who are lucky enough to have right conditions for its raising. They showed us how to combine the unseasoned poi with accessories—a spoonful of the cool gray mush with a bite of meat or salt dried fish. Eaten by itself, poi is somewhat flat in taste, like slightly fermented starch. I do not know whether they were joking, but our friends told us that it is used successfully for wall-paper paste! In these days it is manufactured by machinery in nice sanitary factories. Originally it was made by first roasting the tuber of the plant known throughout the South Seas as taro, Arum esculentum (kalo in the old Hawaiian), wrapped in leaves, among heated rocks in the ground, then pounding the malleable mass with stone pounders and manipulating it with the hands. It would be noteworthy if foot work had not also been utilized, as by the Italians in macaroni making.
Also we were regaled with the tuber itself fresh boiled—a very good vegetable, prepared like a potato, with butter, salt, and pepper. It would be hard to give an idea of the flavor, and so many writers have failed to describe foreign tastes that as yet I am not going to try, save to state that I feel sure taro would prove a palatable substitute for both bread and potatoes, if one were deprived of the old standbys.
Jack was interviewed by several perspiring newspaper men who had taken the first train to Pearl City after the elusive Snark had passed out of sight; and in the mid-afternoon we were guided to our new dwelling, distant about ten minutes’ walk. We met the entire crew bound for the village to see what they could see. Tochigi, cabin-boy, alas, failed to return until evening, so that I was obliged to do the unpacking. For Jack had developed a vicious headache, due to smoking cigarettes after abstaining during the voyage, and I hastened to reduce all confusion and establish a serene home atmosphere; but I must confess that the really happy task was an uphill one, when it wasn’t downhill, due to the sad walk that led me devious ways and many extra steps, with frequent halts to orient a revolving brain.
By seven, with still no Tochigi, and not a scrap to eat, came a tap on the door. As if in answer to a wish, there stood a smiling woman bearing a tray of enormous tomatoes and cucumbers, a napkined loaf of newly baked bread, and a generous pat of homemade butter. She is our nearest neighbor, Miss Frances Johnson, descendant of an old missionary family, with whom we have made arrangements to board.
No sooner had she gone, than another neighbor brought an offering of papaias (pah-py’-ahs)—wonderful green-and-yellow melon things that grow on trees—and asked what further he could do for us. The combination of old-world and new-world neighborliness was quite overwhelming, and I was more than grateful, for by now poor Jack had taken to the big white bed, although he weakly admitted that he might eat a tomato if urged.
At length, he fell sound asleep under the well-tucked cloud of fine bobinet that graces all Hawaiian beds and I breathed a sigh of relief.
My troubles had only begun.
When the crew passed through on their return to the yacht, I softly called Martin to look at the kitchen-sink faucet, which was not working properly. No sooner had he turned on the water, than up wriggled a truly appalling centipede all of five inches in length, the only thing comparable to a serpent in this Eden. The leathery toughness of the monstrous insect, which was as thick as my finger, made the slaying of it an eminently lively and disgusting tussle. Martin finally vanquished the leggy foe, but we kept a wary eye for its possible mate. Fate left it to me, alone in the bathroom—for I would not disturb Jack’s healing slumbers,—to deal with the bereft one. After scissoring off its ugly fanged head, I fled to bed, fervently trusting to dream of things with wings—birds, butterflies, angels. No remembered assurances of the very mild venomousness of this transplanted little dragon can ever lessen its hideous offensiveness. In my mind there is filed away a word of protest for its every leg, of which, despite its name, I counted but seventy-four. The people here pay scant attention to this insect’s bite.