With trade clothing from the store we clad our nakedness. The baptism business had given us an appetite, and we soon rummaged out a cold collation. Maoris are always fair trenchermen, but I never saw one put away such a feed as Puketawa did then. Eat? Long after I had finished I sat and watched the stuff disappearing—tinned salmon, potted beef, spiced ox-tongue, dried fish, ham and chicken, pine-apple, Worcester sauce. King Solomon in all his glory never had such an appetite.
Next day, as though to make amends for the inconvenience we had suffered, and show that the popular feeling was not directed against us but against the “tapu” alone, the Maoris flocked to the store with cash and barter, and I did the best day’s trade of my life. In two days they had built me a better house than that destroyed. It was as if the ceremony of purification had conferred a sort of brotherhood upon me, and I found myself on a better footing with them than ever before. I never discovered, however, how they learnt of our transgression.
To this day the question of how the “tohunga” became aware of our accidental presence on the sacred island remains a mystery. That we were alone there I am certain. Under the circumstances of the storm and the thick mist, it is equally certain our presence was not observed from the shore. The “kainga” was six miles distant, a range of hills intervening. It was a black night; Maoris are chary of being out after dark. Altogether the possibility of our having been seen may be dismissed. Puketawa, of course, leaned to the supernatural. Old stories of occultism practised by the priests, of spiritualism and uncanny mental telepathy with the spirit world, he told for my benefit. I do not like mystery, and have no leaning towards the occult, but, dismissing all this as unworthy of credence, there yet remains the query of how the “tohunga” knew of our “breaking of the ’wahi-tapu’” (breach of the sanctity of a burial-place).
In the fullness of his heart at my successful whitewashing, old Te Horo offered to give me his youngest and prettiest daughter in marriage, with a thousand acres of tribal land as a dowry. Between you and me, there have since been times when I have regretted that I didn’t clinch the bargain.
The Finches’ Festival.
A BIRD-SINGING COMPETITION IN FLANDERS.
By A. Pitcairn-Knowles.
Bird-singing competitions, in which substantial money prizes are awarded to the owner of the songster making the greatest number of “trills” in a specified time, are very popular in the North of France and Flanders. In this article the author describes and illustrates a typical bird-singing festival in a Flemish village. From photographs by the author.
The inhabitants of the rural district of that part of Belgium which goes by the name of Flanders seem to be possessed of a genius almost unique for instituting and organizing quaint and curious competitions designed to administer to that keen taste for friendly rivalry which is so characteristic of the population of King Leopold’s little domain. Any stranger penetrating into the heart of the country at the time of the year when many of the hamlets are about to hold their annual fairs—spun out to last a week, or even longer—cannot fail to be interested in the long posters adorning the walls of every “estaminet,” announcing a separate event for each day of the festive season, and testifying to the great hold this healthful spirit of emulation exercises upon the minds of these simple peasants.
Being one of those strangers in a strange land, I was overcome by a spirit of curiosity when a very limited acquaintance with the Flemish tongue helped me to the conclusion that the “Prijskamp voor Blinde Vinken,” announced for a certain Sunday at the untimely hour of seven in the morning, was a competition in which blind birds were to be the candidates for honour and distinction, and I resolved to be present at what promised to be a curiously interesting spectacle.
