I thought I had fully explained to the reverend gentleman the uses of an umbrella. I had over and over again hammered into him that it was meant to protect one from rain. But it appears that the idea failed to reach his mind.
When Tama left the shanty it looked threatening to rain, so I unfurled the umbrella, and placed it open in his hand. He stumped off proudly with it held above him. We watched him go down the clearing towards the river, where his boat was moored. Presently it came on to rain in earnest. Then Tama seemed to hesitate, it evidently occurring to him that something was wrong. In an undecided sort of way he inverted the umbrella, and held it handle upwards in front of him; but as the rain came thicker and faster, even this seemed unsatisfactory.
At last he stopped altogether, having apparently come to the conclusion that the wet would injure the umbrella. After a prolonged struggle, for the catch was a mystery to his unaccustomed fingers, he managed to close it. Then he took off his coat, laid it flat upon the ground, and placing the umbrella upon it, wrapped that up in the coat. Lastly, he cut some strips from a flax-bush close by, and carefully tied up the parcel. Then he put it under his arm, and marched off in his shirt-sleeves contentedly, evidently feeling that he had got the better of the pouring rain.
Tama keeps the umbrella stowed away in the recesses of his wharè. He often tells me, with a quiet, good-humoured sneer, as of one talking to a child, that it does not keep off the rain. His view is that I, in my incomprehensible Pakeha way, imagine the thing to be an anti-rain fetish; a notion which superior Maori wisdom has found to be erroneous.
I saw that umbrella once again. It was a fine moonlit night, and two or three of us were rowing up the river on a return from some excursion. On the way we passed a boat-load of Maoris coming down. In the stern of their boat sat Tama, and above him he held the umbrella open. As the boats crossed, he called to me:—
"It is not raining to-night. But it is not this thing that keeps it off; it is God only who does that!"
And so the good man went on his way, doubtlessly glowing at the thought that he had fitly rebuked my folly; for, like some other Christians, though he might retain some superstitions of his own, yet those are real, and all other people's false.
On another occasion Old Colonial had been away in Australia. On his return, Tama and his wife came up to welcome him home again. Old Colonial had brought back presents for all our Maori friends; and he had selected for Tama a silver watch, with a gorgeous guard and seals. This pleased the old fellow mightily; and for three mortal hours did Old Colonial strive to instruct him in how to tell the time, and how to wind it up. He thought at last that he had thoroughly succeeded in enlightening the Maori about his new acquisition. Tama departed with ill-concealed glee, stopping every now and then, as he went, to listen to the watch ticking.
However, the next morning, as we sat at breakfast, Tama appeared, with a serious and sad expression on his face. He would eat nothing; but, drawing Old Colonial aside, communicated to him the distressing intelligence that the watch had died during the night. Without betraying any amusement, Old Colonial wound up the watch again, and proceeded to give another lecture on its action to the ancient child.
He went away apparently satisfied, and much lightened in his mind; but we began to have a fear that the watch would prove an injudicious present. The next morning Tama appeared again, with the same sad and serious aspect, this time complicated with a look of intense puzzlement. He contemplated Old Colonial's hands as he wound up the watch again and set it going. This was a total mystery to the old fellow. He said he had been "doing that" to the watch all night long, talking to it, and telling it not to die. We opined that he had not succeeded in opening the case of the watch, but had sat twiddling the key about the outside of it.