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receive our injured friend alone; and the interview must have lasted hard upon an hour, for he was loath to tear himself away. "You go 'way. I see you no more—no, sir I" he lamented; and then looking about him with rueful admiration, "This goodee ship!—no, sir! — goodee ship!" he would exclaim: the "no, sir,'' thrown out sharply through the nose upon a rising inflection, an echo from New Bedford and the fallacious whaler. From these expressions of grief and praise, he would return continually to the case of the rejected pig. '' I like give plesent all the same you," he complained; "only got pig: you no take him!" he was a poor man; he had no choice of gifts; he had only a pig, he repeated; and I hail refused it. I have rarely been more wretched than to see him sitting there, so old, so grey, so poor, so hardly fortuned, of so rueful a countenance, and to appreciate, with growing keenness, the affront which I had so innocently dealt him; but it was one of those cases in which speech is vain.

Tari's son was smiling and inert; his daughter-in-law, a girl of sixteen, pretty, gentle, and grave, more intelligent than most Anaho women, and with a fair share of French; his grandchild, a mite of a creature at the breast. I went up the den one day when Tari was from home, and found the son making a cotton sack, and madame suckling mademoiselle. When J had sat down with them on the floor, the girl began to question me about England; which I tried to describe, piling the pan and the cocoa shells one upon another to represent the houses, and explaining, as best I was able, and by word and gesture, the over-population, the hunger, and the perpetual toil. "Pas de cocotiers? pas de popoi?"3 she asked. I told her it was too cold, and went through an elaborate performance, shutting out draughts, and crouching over an imaginary fire, to make sure she understood. But she understood right well; remarked it must be bad for the health, and sat a while gravely reflecting on that picture of unwonted sorrows. I am sure it roused her pity, for it struck in her another thought always uppermost in the Marquesan bosom; and she began with a smiling sadness, and looking on me out of melancholy eyes, to lament the decease of her own people. '' Ici pas de Kanaques,"* said she; and taking the baby from her breast, she held it out to me with both her hands. "Tenez'>—a little baby like this;

s "No cocoa-palms? no bread-fruit trees?"
* "Here no more Kanakas!"
B "See here!"

then dead. All the Kanaques die. Then no more." The smile, and this instancing by the girl-mother of her own tiny flesh and blood, affected me strangely; they spoke of so tranquil a despair. Meanwhile the husband smilingly made his sack; and the unconscious babe struggled to reach a pot of raspberry jam, friendship's offering, which I had just brought up the den; and in a perspective of centuries I saw their case as ours, death coming in like a tide, and the day already numbered when there should be no more Beretani,8 and no more of any race whatever, and (what oddly touched me) no more literary works and no more readers.


Give to me the life I love,

Let the lave7 go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above

And the Dyway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,

Bread I dip in the river—
There's the life for a man like me,

There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,

Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around

And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,

Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek the heaven above

And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me

Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,

Biting the blue finger:
White as meal the frosty field—

Warm the fireside haven—
Not to autumn will I yield,

Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,

Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,

And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,

Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask the heaven above,

And the road below me.

• I. o.. Brltannl. Britons. The language of the Kanakas being so largely vocalic, they find It difficult to pronounce two consonants In succession without interposing a vowel.

7 The leave, the rest; a familiar word In Burns.


The morning drum-call on my eager ear
Thrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew

Lies yet jndried along my field of noon.
But now I pause at whiles in what I do,
And count the bell, and tremble lest I hear

(My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon.


The embers of the day are red
Beyond the murky hill.
The kitchen smokes: the bed
In the darkling house is spread:
The great sky darkens overhead,
And the great woods are shrill.
So far have I been led,
Lord, by Thy will:

So far I have followed, Lord, and wondered still.

The breeze from the embalmed land
Blows sudden toward the shore,
And claps my cottage door.
I hear the signal, Lord—I understand.
The night at Thy command
Comes. I will eat and sleep and will not ques-
tion more.


Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.


The page number Is given first; a superior numeral or character Indicates the note. When It
Is necessary to distinguish columns, the letters a and 6 are used. Occasionally the references are
to numbered lines on a page.

Not all notes are Indexed. Notes upon authors and titles may be found through the Indexes to
authors and titles. In general this index has been restricted to such notes as are likely to be
wanted for purposes of cross-reference and comparison (see Introduction); but a few others, that
seemed of especial Intrinsic importance, have been added.

The glossary Is inserted here in one alphabetical order with the Index, but the words begin
with small letters. It has likewise been restricted to the Items of most Importance. Since practically
every strange or archaic usage Is explained as it occurs, it seemed useless to repeat tbem all here,
especially those that occur only once, or have only a contextual significance. Thus, the vocabulary
of Chaucer has been largely omitted from the glossary, and so also have the Scotticisms. But
all such archaisms as are to be found widely scattered through our literature are given, with
nearly always one or more references to Illustrate their use.

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