"A serenade," whispered Swank, and Whinney shush-ed him savagely.
Through the forest glades we could see the choir approaching, the dusky flash of brown bodies swaying, palpitating to the intoxicating rhythm of the song. Slowly and with great dignity they entered the clearing and stood, a score of slender creatures, in the full blaze of the moon, their lithe-limbed bodies clad only in delicate mother-of-pearl rigolos.
Thus standing, they again burst into the melody of their national love-song. I transcribe the original words which for simple, primitive beauty are without rival.
A-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a
E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
I-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i
O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
U-u-u-u-u-u-u-u-u
and sometimes
W-w-w-w-w-w-w-w-w
And
Y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y-y
The music is indescribable, I can only say that it is as beautiful as the words.[Footnote: "The peculiarly liquid quality of Polynesian phonetics is impossible for foreigners to acquire. Europeans who attempt a mastery of these sounds invariably suffer from what etymologists call metabelia, or vowel complaint."—Prof. C.H. Towne, Nyack University.]
On the third encore they turned and slowly but surely filed out of the clearing into the forest. Long after they had disappeared our eyes still hung over the edge of our apartment and we could hear in our memories the sweet refrain—