When I
came to a Samoan village, the chief did not ask the price of gin, or
say, "How much will you pay for roast pig?" but, "Dollar, dollar,"
said he; "white man know only dollar."
"Never mind dollar. The _tapo_ has prepared ava; let us drink and
rejoice." The tapo is the virgin hostess of the village; in this
instance it was Taloa, daughter of the chief. "Our taro is good; let
us eat. On the tree there is fruit. Let the day go by; why should we
mourn over that? There are millions of days coming. The breadfruit is
yellow in the sun, and from the cloth-tree is Taloa's gown. Our house,
which is good, cost but the labor of building it, and there is no lock
on the door."
While the days go thus in these Southern islands we at the North are
struggling for the bare necessities of life.
For food the islanders have only to put out their hand and take what
nature has provided for them; if they plant a banana-tree, their only
care afterward is to see that too many trees do not grow. They have
great reason to love their country and to fear the white man's yoke,
for once harnessed to the plow, their life would no longer be a poem.
The chief of the village of Caini, who was a tall and dignified Tonga
man, could be approached only through an interpreter and talking man.
It was perfectly natural for him to inquire the object of my visit,
and I was sincere when I told him that my reason for casting anchor in
Samoa was to see their fine men, and fine women, too.
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