CONTENT

POETRY

MY FIRST DAY IN 10TH STANDARD

I used to go everyday

In a building they called it school I used to go there to become wise

But came back home as a fool It went for some time, some years

I somehow passed each time And finally reached the 10th Quite mysteriously this time

The 1st day I entered the class And sat on one of the creaky benches

I realized where I was Due to the various stenches

It went by normally as normally as it goes

Crushed under the weight of books Meeting new friends and foes By foes don’t take it wrongly Coz’ i’m the friendliest of all

By foes I mean the new studies And timetables and punctured ball

Silver/Tin

A homeless man stands

Rummaging through a can

While I sit on the train,

new purchases in hand,

wearing silver jewelry

and my ADIDAS shoes.

He takes a long, quizzical sip

from a salvaged beverage.

Rejecting it, he continues on.

His motivation is desparation -

hungry for sustenance, lacking sustainability.

An aluminum soda can, plastic recyclables,

He’ll rescue anthing for a silver dime or nickel,

Taking and tasting things

I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot stick.

Why is it that I hold silver

mystery

Survivor: South Pacific

The ship began to rise, ever so gently, listing slightly to starboard. Jonathan Meade shook off his distant dreams of home

and gripped the wheel tighter to keep the Annabelle Starbuck from drifting off course. The ship continued to rise and list.

Odd indeed, such a rolling swell on the calm equatorial seas.

The lookout, high in the topgallant crosstrees, shouted something unintelligible. “Speak sensibly, man!” Meade said. The

shouting continued, with several foremast hands joining in to form a chaotic chorus. Meade followed their pointing fingers

to port.

He had never seen anything like it in his twelve years at sea - a towering wave as high as the crosstrees. The Annabelle

Starbuck rose with the sea, listing sharply to starboard as she tried to crest the nearly vertical wave. A million gallons of

roaring water drowned out the terrified cries of the crew, Meade included, as the wave crashed over the Annabelle Star-

buck. Meade’s last thought was a prayer for his wife and daughter back home in New Bedford.

How will they survive without me?

The question echoed in Meade’s head as he was knocked about in a maelstrom of crushing saltwater. He tried to swim, to

survive, though he knew it was pointless to fight the fury of the sea.

#

Saltwater gushed from Meade’s lungs in painful, retching spasms. Searing sunlight once again burned his face. The Pa-

cific had reassumed her peaceful facade.Alive? The very thought was inconceivable. Meade found just enough energy to

tread water, though he wondered why he was even bothering. All that remained of the Annabelle Starbuck, whaler of New

Bedford, was a scattering of flotsam and a few corpses bobbing on the placid surface of the ocean.

A beefy hand grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. “Mr. Meade!” someone said. “He lives!”

Meade was too weak to look up at his savior. He saw only a stone spear point hanging from an intricately braided leather

cord, the ancient missile oscillating before his face like a hypnotist’s watch. Ogle, Meade thought, as strong arms lifted him

from the sea and dragged him aboard a whaleboat that was nearly swamped with water. Two other survivors were at-

tempting to bail out the boat with sodden hats.

#

All this had occurred a month before. Now Jonathan Meade, former Second Mate of the Annabelle Starbuck, wondered if

he and the others had survived or gone to hell as he watched Malachi Ogle attempt to feed the entrails of a tiny fish to a

foremast hand named Stallings.

The four men had suffered from starvation and exposure for two weeks on the open sea, and the island they landed upon

provided only scant food and comfort. It was a miserable place, a desolate, scrub-covered rock in the middle of the Pa-

cific, home to a few elusive birds and some stunted sea life in its rocky shallows, animals that were difficult to catch and

scarcer by the day. Ogle, the strongest of the men, had explored all of the small island and proclaimed it uninhabited; no

wonder, considering it lacked a source of fresh water. If not for the wooden tub salvaged from the flotsam of the Annabelle

Starbuck—and God’s grace in filling it during a storm the previous week—the four men would likely have died of thirst.

Stallings slurped at the fish entrails, sucking them down. He then regurgitated them in a spasm of coughing.

“Blast you, boy,” Ogle said, “not so fast.”

Stallings panted, vomited some more. He won’t last much longer, Meade thought. Stallings had been a skinny, bucktoothed boy

when the Annabelle Starbuckrode the waves; he was now but a Halloween skeleton.

“Well, if you don’t want them…” said Peasbury, the fourth survivor, as he scooped up the vomited entrails, now crusted with

sand, and popped them into his mouth. Meade found the action prudent rather than disgusting. Food was food, and they needed

to make the most of what little they had.

Every whaleman knew the story of the Essex, the whaling ship rammed and sunk by an enraged sperm whale some fifteen

years before. In the aftermath of that disaster, crewmen had resorted to cannibalism to survive as they drifted on the open

ocean. Meade didn’t consider his situation quite so dire. He figured they could survive on the island’s fauna until they were res-

cued, and as the senior man among the survivors he had informed his men that cannibalism was not an option so long as poten-

tial food sources remained.

Stallings collapsed on his side in the sand. Ogle shook his head and let out a breath. “I can’t do anything for him, sir,” Og le said

to Meade. “He keeps choking on everything I put in him.”

“Then I should get the rest of the fish!” Peasbury said.

“Should you indeed?” Ogle asked. “Officers eat before the men, I seem to recall. This fish belongs to Mr. Meade.”

“No,” Meade said. “Give it to him, Ogle. He needs it more than either of us.”

Ogle nodded, tossed the fish to Peasbury, who caught it and proceeded to devour it, scales and all.

Shaking his head, Ogle stood to his full height of nearly six feet. “Perhaps there’s more where that one came from.” He grabbed

his harpoon, preparing to leave the grove of gnarled scrub trees the survivors called home. Beneath Ogle’s bush of a beard

hung the spearpoint, a symbol of his roots upon the earth—he’d found it while plowing the earth on a hardscrabble Vermont

farm—as well as the seaborne profession he’d taken to so adeptly. He was the most accurate harpooner Meade had ever seen.

“If there are, you’ll get them,” Meade said.

“A dip of water, please, sir!” Peasbury said, gasping.

“Shut your mouth,” said Ogle.

“Yes, do,” Meade said to Peasbury. “You’ve had your morning ration.”

“But, sir, I got sand in my throat!”

Meade clenched his fists. “One handful! That is all!”

Peasbury scuttled to the water tub and scooped two handfuls.

“Little wretch,” Ogle said. He snatched Peasbury by the hair and tossed him several feet. He then turned and stalked from the

shade beneath the stunted trees.

#

Meade awakened in the first rays of sunlight to the perpetual sounds of the island—the crash of surf on the nearby beach, and the

constant buzzing of flies. He stood and stretched, his stiff joints protesting. Wobbling on his feet, he gripped a tree branch as he

fought off a dizzy spell brought on by starvation. Like any ship’s officer coming on watch, he took stock of the current situation.

Stallings was missing, and a trail in the sand indicated that he hadn’t left on his own. Someone had dragged him away.

Peasbury was supposed to be on watch. Meade kicked him awake, receiving a surprised curse for his efforts.

Ogle awakened at the ruckus. “Where in blazes is my harpoon?”

Meade hadn’t noticed that their only weapon had been taken along with Stallings. He also wasn’t surprised that Ogle would miss

his harpoon more than Stallings, enough not to notice his absence at all. Meade pointed out the obvious facts to both of the

groggy men.

“He was there at the end of my watch, sir,” Ogle said. “This slacker let his guard down.”

“Perhaps I would have been more vigilant on watch if you hadn’t told us we were alone on this island,” Peasbury said.

“Are you calling me a liar, you fo’c’sle rat?” Ogle asked, gaining his feet.

“Well, we’re obviously not alone,” Peasbury said as Ogle advanced on him.

“As you were, Ogle,” Meade said, his order stopping the harpooner. “I won’t tolerate fighting. We are all to blame, and we’re going

to calmly decipher what happened here and decide on a course of action. Obviously there is someone here among us—”

“There was no one here as of yesterday, sir,” Ogle said.

“Then how do you explain that?” Peasbury asked, pointing to the drag trail in the sand.

“Boats. Cannibals in canoes. They must have rowed here from some other island. They’re probably gone already.”

Meade pondered Ogle’s theory. “I don’t know our exact location, but we are relatively far from known cannibal islands, Mr. Og le.”

“These island savages are all cannibals,” Ogle said.

“Where do you get they?” Peasbury said. “If there were more than one, wouldn’t they have carried Stallings instead of dragging

him?”

“Maybe they dragged him to obscure their tracks, Peasbury,” Ogle said. “There could be one or more; we don’t know because

Stallings wiped out their footprints.”

“Every question begets another question,” Meade said. “A full search of the island is called for. Peasbury and I will scour the

shores for further clues. As the strongest of us, Mr. Ogle, I rely on you to search the heights.”

“Yes, sir,” Ogle said. “But we must not go unarmed.”

Meade concurred, and the three turned to gathering loose rocks for use as missiles, which they carried by using their ragged

shirts as sacks. Each man broke off the stoutest branch he could find for a club. Properly armed, they set out to search the island.

They were back under the scrub by afternoon after looking high and low, their search a futile effort revealing no clues. Stallings

had vanished.

#

Cannibal or castaway, Stallings’ kidnapper(s) did not return in the following weeks. Ogle searched the entire island several more

times, finding no trace of any other inhabitants. Meade found the canoe-borne cannibal theory the most logical explanation, and

the three men kept a sharp watch day and night.

Supplies of food and water were dwindling rapidly. Only the barest of sprinkles replenished the rainwater in the tub, strictly ra-

tioned to a cupped handful per day for each man. Ogle did all of the hunting, but was unable to spear fish without his beloved

harpoon, and reduced to throwing rocks at birds who wisely scattered when he approached. Attempts to make a spear using

Ogle’s spear point were fruitless; the dwarf tree limbs were too gnarled to fashion a shaft. Meade tried to augment their food sup-

ply by weaving a crude fishing net from the several hundred feet of rope they had found floating in the flotsam. Unfortunately,

most of the tiny fish managed to slip through its coarse meshes.

Peasbury contracted dysentery, and weakened dramatically over a couple of days. He begged incessantly for fresh water to re-

place the fluids he was losing through his bowels. Meade was sympathetic, but pragmatically so. He steeled himself against

Peasbury’s cries, only once allowing him an extra handful of water.

It was déjà vu. Meade awakened one morning to find Peasbury missing, a trail leading from beneath the trees indicating that he’d

been dragged away. Ogle had fallen asleep on watch. Enraged, Meade rose on aching limbs and gathered his energy to kick

Ogle awake, yet stayed his foot at the last moment when he saw blood congealed in the tangle of Ogle’s hair. Meade felt his

scalp, and found a bleeding knot the size of a goose egg. Ogle awakened with a start, groaning in pain from the blow he’d taken.

“They’ve struck again,” Meade said, pointing to where Peasbury had lain.

Ogle gritted his teeth and growled, bounced to his feet. “Filthy bastards!” He grabbed his club and a shirt full of rocks.

“You can’t go out there,” Meade said. “We must stick together!”

“At night, yes. But in the day by damn I’ll search until I have our revenge!”

Ogle kept his word, leaving every morning to search the island and returning at dusk. He found nothing, yet still he searched, a

man fueled by anger and a lust to kill his aggressors. Meade stood in awe of his stamina and strength. Though as starved for

food as Meade, the vigorous Ogle never tired, his constitution keeping him somewhat healthy through exertions that would have

killed other men. He brought food back to camp on rare occasions, but not often enough to keep Meade from slipping further into

the death grip of starvation.

Meade felt his life force fading away as he shriveled into a husk of the man he had been. Flies buzzed around him constantly; he

felt them in his ears, digging about in the wax as they laid their eggs. He spent his lonely days staring off at the sea he had once

sailed with such confidence, a hunter who had sunk lances into the largest and most dangerous quarry in the ocean. Now he was

a captive of the sea, perhaps damned by God to die a horrible death in return for the havoc he’d wreaked upon His mightiest

creatures. He laughed as loudly as he could, and wondered if all dying men pondered such ludicrous thoughts during the final

moments of their lives. Such cogitations were pointless….

Especially when there were sails on the horizon.

Certain he was hallucinating, Meade jumped to his feet for a better look. A square-rigger she was, a military ship or a whaler,

probably seeking a source of fresh water on the island. Her captain would be disappointed, but Meade could live with that. His

prayers had been answered.

Rejuvenated with hope, Meade shuffled off into the heights to find Ogle, shouting the man’s name in his excitement. But the exer-

tions of the climb soon stole the breath from him. He gasped for air and pressed on, hoping to locate Ogle from the island’s ze-

nith.

Meade hadn’t been this high on the island for weeks. He picked his way through sharp brown rocks, the ancient remnants of the

island’s volcanic past, and came upon a shallow defile near the summit.

He noticed the corpses first. Peasbury, his carcass crawling with maggots, empty eye sockets staring toward heaven in unan-

swered supplication. A skeleton that must have been Stallings lay sprawled upon the rocks.

And Ogle, a fresh kill being slaughtered on a slab of lava rock. Meade didn’t know what to think of his butcher, a man wearing

only a loincloth, tanned like a native yet overburdened with an untended bush of sun-bleached blond hair and beard.

“ ’ello, Mr. Meade,” the man said in an Australian accent. “Nice to finally make your acquaintance.”

Meade said nothing. He stared at Ogle, who had lost the spearpoint around his neck. His butcher was using it to separate the

muscle from Ogle’s stout frame.

“Oh, so sorry. Name’s Cyrus Horsham, formerly of the whale ship Cygnus outta Sydney. I was a harpooner like Mr. Ogle.” Hor-

sham nodded toward Ogle’s harpoon, the pivoting steel point stained with its owner’s blood.

“He lied,” Meade said. “You were here the entire time.”

“Almost fourteen months, truth be known. Me captain marooned me here, some trumped-up theory that I was plottin’ a mutiny.

Can you imagine such a thing? Anyway, Mr. Ogle found me straight away—an intrepid sort he was, no hiding from him—and we

struck a deal: he got half of Stallings, as well as the next dying man, in return for keeping me a secret. They were good as dead

anyway. It worked out well for a while.”

“I’m surprised you betrayed him so soon. Still quite a bit of meat left on Peasbury.”

“He was getting a bit stale, though.” Horsham shrugged. Meade noticed he had a pot belly.

“Well, I won’t be next on your bill of fare, Horsham. There’s a ship approaching. We’ll be rescued by nightfall.”

“A ship! Well, by ginger, it’s about time someone charted this godforsaken wart on the sea. But I’m afraid you won’t be going with

me, Mr. Meade. I didn’t starve here for fourteen months to meet my maker at the end of a rope.” Horsham snatched up Ogle’s

harpoon.

“I won’t tell a soul, Horsham! You have my word.”

“Don’t need it, Mr. Meade. You know, I once sunk an iron in a sperm whale’s eye from thirty yards away. I wonder if I’ve still got

me arm….”

3. The Little Girl

1. TO the little girl he was a figure to be feared and

avoided. Every morning before going to work he came

into her room and gave her a casual kiss, to which

she responded with “Goodbye, Father”. And oh,

there was a glad sense of relief when she heard the

noise of the carriage growing fainter and fainter

down the long road!

In the evening when he came home she stood

near the staircase and heard his loud voice in the

hall. “Bring my tea into the drawing-room... Hasn’t

the paper come yet? Mother, go and see if my paper’s

out there — and bring me my slippers.”

2. “Kezia,” Mother would call to her, “if you’re a

good girl you can come down and take off father’s

boots.” Slowly the girl would slip down the stairs,

more slowly still across the hall, and push open

the drawing-room door.

By that time he had his spectacles on and looked

at her over them in a way that was terrifying to

the little girl.

“Well, Kezia, hurry up and pull off these boots

and take them outside. Have you been a good

girl today?”

“I d-d-don’t know, Father.”

“You d-d-don‟t know? If you stutter like that

Mother will have to take you to the doctor.”

3. She never stuttered with other people — had

quite given it up — but only with Father, because

then she was trying so hard to say the words

properly.

“What‟s the matter? What are you looking so

wretched about? Mother, I wish you taught this child

not to appear on the brink of suicide... Here, Kezia,

carry my teacup back to the table carefully.”

He was so big — his hands and his neck,

especially his mouth when he yawned. Thinking

about him alone was like thinking about a giant.

4. On Sunday afternoons Grandmother sent her

down to the drawing-room to have a “nice talk with

Father and Mother”. But the little girl always found

Mother reading and Father stretched out on the

sofa, his handkerchief on his face, his feet on one

of the best cushions, sleeping soundly and snoring

She sat on a stool, gravely watched him until he

woke and stretched, and asked the time — then

looked at her.

“Don‟t stare so, Kezia. You look like a little

brown owl.”

One day, when she was kept indoors with a cold,

her grandmother told her that father‟s birthday was

next week, and suggested she should make him a

pin-cushion for a gift out of a beautiful piece of

yellow silk.

5. Laboriously, with a double cotton, the little girl

stitched three sides. But what to fill it with? That

was the question. The grandmother was out in the

garden, and she wandered into Mother‟s bedroom

to look for scraps. On the bed-table she discovered

a great many sheets of fine paper, gathered them

up, tore them into tiny pieces, and stuffed her case,

then sewed up the fourth side.

That night there was a hue and cry in the house.

Father‟s great speech for the Port Authority had

been lost. Rooms were searched; servants

questioned. Finally Mother came into Kezia‟s room.

“Kezia, I suppose you didn‟t see some papers on

a table in our room?”

“Oh yes,” she said, “I tore them up for my

surprise.”

“What!” screamed Mother. “Come straight down

to the dining-room this instant.”

damned thing — see that the child‟s put to bed

6. And she was dragged down to where Father was

pacing to and fro, hands behind his back.

“Well?” he said sharply.

Mother explained.

He stopped and stared at the child.

“Did you do that?”

“N-n-no”, she whispered.

“Mother, go up to her room and fetch down the

damned thing — see that the child‟s put to bed

this instant.”

laboriously: with a lot

of effort or difficulty

wandered into: went

into, by chance

scraps: small pieces

of cloth or paper,

etc. that are not

needed

hue and cry: angry

Protest

7. Crying too much to explain, she lay in the

shadowed room watching the evening light make a

sad little pattern on the floor.

Then Father came into the room with a ruler in

his hands.

“I am going to beat you for this,” he said.

“Oh, no, no”, she screamed, hiding under the

bedclothes.

He pulled them aside.

“Sit up,” he ordered, “and hold out your hands.

You must be taught once and for all not to touch

what does not belong to you.”

“But it was for your b-b-birthday.”

8. Hours later, when Grandmother had

wrapped her in a shawl and rocked her in the

rocking-chair, the child clung to her soft body.

“What did God make fathers for?” she sobbed.

“Here‟s a clean hanky, darling. Blow your nose.

Go to sleep, pet; you‟ll forget all about it in the

morning. I tried to explain to Father but he was too

upset to listen tonight.”

But the child never forgot. Next time she saw

him she quickly put both hands behind her back

and a red colour flew into her cheeks.

9. The Macdonalds lived next door. They had

five children. Looking through a gap in the fence

the little girl saw them playing „tag‟ in the

evening. The father with the baby, Mao, on his

shoulders, two little girls hanging on to his coat

pockets ran round and round the flower-beds,

shaking with laughter. Once she saw the boys

turn the hose on him—and he tried to catch them

laughing all the time.

Then it was she decided there were different

sorts of fathers.

Suddenly, one day, Mother became ill, and she

and Grandmother went to hospital.

The little girl was left alone in the house with

Alice, the cook. That was all right in the daytime

But when Alice was putting her to bed she grew

suddenly afraid.

10. “What‟ll I do if I have a nightmare?” she asked.

“I often have nightmares and then Grannie takes

me into her bed—I can‟t stay in the dark—it all

gets „whispery‟…”

“You just go to sleep, child,” said Alice, pulling

off her socks, “and don‟t you scream and wake your

poor Pa.”

But the same old nightmare came — the butcher

with a knife and a rope, who came nearer and

nearer, smiling that dreadful smile, while she could

not move, could only stand still, crying out,

“Grandma! Grandma!” She woke shivering to see

Father beside her bed, a candle in his hand.

“What‟s the matter?” he said.

11. “Oh, a butcher — a knife — I want Grannie.”

He blew out the candle, bent down and caught up

the child in his arms, carrying her along the

passage to the big bedroom. A newspaper was on

the bed — a half-smoked cigar was near his readinglamp.

He put away the paper, threw the cigar into

the fireplace, then carefully tucked up the child.

He lay down beside her. Half asleep still, still with

the butcher‟s smile all about her it seemed, she

crept close to him, snuggled her head under his

arm, held tightly to his shirt.

Then the dark did not matter; she lay still.

“Here, rub your feet against my legs and get

them warm,” said Father.

12. Tired out, he slept before the little girl. A

funny feeling came over her. Poor Father, not so big,

after all — and with no one to look after him. He was

harder than Grandmother, but it was a nice

hardness. And every day he had to work and was too

tired to be a Mr Macdonald… She had torn up all his

beautiful writing… She stirred suddenly, and sighed.

“What’s the matter?” asked her father. “Another

dream?”

“Oh,” said the little girl, “my head’s on your heart.

I can hear it going. What a big heart you’ve got,

Father dear.”

Masters, the trader at Fana 'alu, was walking up the beach to

his house, reading a letter which he had just received from

the captain of a passing vessel. It was from his employers in

Sydney,--'We are confident that Mrs Masters and yourself

will do all you can to render the lady's stay at Fana 'alu

agreeable to her. You will find her husband, our new super-

cargo, a very fine fellow, easy to get on with, and a thor-

oughly honourable and conscientious business man.'

'Here, Melanie, old woman, where are you?' he called, as he

flung himself lazily into a cane lounge on the verandah.

Melanie, who, native-like, was combing her hair in the sit-

ting-room, rose from the mat upon which she was sitting and

came to the door.

'What is it, Tom?' she asked, leaning against the wall and

drawing the comb slowly through her long, black locks.

'Why, the barque will be here in another week or so, so this

letter says, and there's a tamaitai papalagi (white lady) on

board, and she will very likely stay here with us while her

husband, who is the new supercargo, goes away in the ship to

the Solomon Islands. He will come for her again in about six

weeks.'

* * * * *

The White Wife and the Brown 'Woman'

Melanie's dark eyes glistened with pleasure. White women were rare visitors at

lonely Fana 'alu. Every year, it was true, when the American missionary barque

touched at the island, one, or sometimes two, white ladies would come ashore;

but they were missionaries' wives, and never passed inside the door of the

trader's house to speak to his wife. That, in the eyes of the converted natives,

would have been scandalous. Melanie might, if she so wished it, have called

upon them at the native teacher's house, and paid homage afar off by sitting

down on the mats in the furthest corner of the house, while fat, greasy Lepeka,

{*} the wife of the equally fat and greasy teacher Paulo, Christianly whispered

in the ears of the holy white ladies that that was the white man's 'woman'--who

wasn't married to her 'husband.' And even a white missionary's wife must not

offend the spouse of the native teacher. So had any of these ladies wished to

talk to Melanie, they would have had to make Lepeka their medium; for in

some parts of the South Seas the usual position of vicar and curate is reversed,

and the white visiting missionary and his wife deliver themselves into the hands

of the brown curate and his wife for the time being. Perhaps it is this that makes

most white missionaries so thin--the strain of having to submit to a Kanaka

teacher's ideas of conventionality must be pretty hard to bear. And so poor

Melanie, who would have liked to have sat near the fair-faced, sweet-voiced

white ladies, or, perhaps, fondled their hands, as did the young unmarried girls

who always surrounded them, bore her lot with content. For once, when she had

brought her simple alofa (gift of love) to the missionaries, and laid it timidly

down on the mats in the centre of the room, one of the white ladies had smiled

at her and said to her husband,--

'Oh, what a pretty girl, and how nicely she is dressed. Ask her to come here and

sit by me.'

* Rebecca.

But Melanie was quick to see Lepeka's dark frown, and discreetly retired to her

usual corner, at the back of the room, and when she went home to Masters, she

did not chatter and laugh as usual when telling him of all she had seen and

heard at the teacher's house.

For, in her simple heart, there began to grow an unrest. She would

feel better, she thought, when the mission ship had sailed away

again, and she would forget the kind smile of the missionary's wife,

and forget, too, the sneering curl of Lepeka's fat lips. Three years

before, when Tom Masters had picked her up in a dancing saloon in

Apia and had asked her to come away with him to Fana 'alu as his

wife, she had thought of a marriage in the church, with its attendant

mild excitements, and gluttonies of baked pig and fowls, and palu-

sami and other delicacies, and the receiving and giving of many

presents. But when Masters--who possessed a fragmentary con-

science--told her why he could not marry her, she accepted the po-

sition calmly, and said it did not matter.

Perhaps, among the women of Fana 'alu, she stood highest in public

estimation, notwithstanding her bar sinister, for she was open-

handed and generous, and both the chiefs wife and Lepeka, the

teacher's grand lady, were of common blood--whilst she, despite

her antecedents in Apia, was of the best in Manono--the birthplace

of the noble families of Samoa.

* * * * *

So, as she stood there in the doorway, first combing and then plait-

ing her hair à la Suisse, she asked in her native tongue,--

'Is she young, Tom? Will she have hair of goldthread like that of the

wife thou hadst in Sini{*} long ago--she who married another

man?'

* Sydney.

Masters laughed. How could he tell! She might be young and fair;

she might be an olomatua (an old woman), dried up and skinny.

But that was none of their business. All that he and Melanie had to

do was to entertain her well and make much of her.

'True,' said the placid-minded Melanie; 'and even if she be as ugly

as an aitu (devil), yet will that fat-faced pig Lepeka die with envy

to see a white lady a guest in my house. Would that I could send to

Manono for my three brothers, so that they might come here and

get drunk, and beat Paulo! I hate Paulo, even as I hate Lepeka, for

they both speak evil of me, yet are for ever cringing to thee, taking

eagerly thy gifts of money to the church and the school and the

mission fund, and yet whispering of me as the dancing-house

whore.'

'Never mind that, old woman,' said Masters, softly, placing his hand upon the girl's head. 'Next year

we shall go away from Fana 'alu. We shall go to Ponapé, in the far, far north--away from these is-

lands; no bitter tongues shall pain thy heart there.' Then, picking up his hat, he sauntered down to the

beach again and stood watching his whale-boat being hauled up into the boat-shed by her native

crew.

'Like the wife he once had in Sydney, long ago.'

He lit his pipe, and began to pace to and fro on the sandy path under the cool shade of the coco-palms

and bread-fruit trees, thinking of an incident of his past life, which, although six long years had

passed, neither his subsequent wanderings in many lands, nor his three latter years' monotonously

happy and lazy existence with Melanie at Fana 'alu, had yet quite banished from his memory. And

the chance question put to him half an hour before had brought back to him a vision of the slender,

blue-eyed and golden-haired woman who was the partner of his first matrimonial venture.

They had in the beginning led a turtle-dovey kind of life in those old days on the shores of Port Jack-

son. Not long after their marriage the shipping firm in which he was employed failed, and he had to

seek for another billet; and, being an energetic, self-reliant man, with no false pride, he shipped as

steward on board the Noord Brabant, a hogged-backed, heartbroken and worn-out American lumber

ship running between Puget Sound and the Australian colonies. His wife had cried a little at first; but

he told her that no one but their two selves would know, and it was better for him to be earning five

pounds a month than idling about in Sydney.

On board the crazy old barque he found an acquaintance, who soon became a friend. This was the

second mate--another Sydney man--who had shipped on the Noord Brabant because berths on good

ships were scarce and mates and skippers were plentiful. So the two men, while the ship was being

patched up for her long voyage across the Pacific, spent their evenings together at Masters's house.

Harry Laurance--that was the second mate's name--was a fine, handsome man, with clear, honest

eyes and a merry, infectious laugh, and those evenings at his friend's house were a source of unal-

loyed happiness to him, for from his boyhood he had known no home except a ship or a squalid

boarding-house.

One night, as the three sat together in Masters's little four-roomed cottage, and Nellie Masters had

ceased playing upon the rattling fifteen-guinea box of discord called a piano, the three made plans for

the future. When they--Masters and Laurance--returned from Puget Sound, they were not to part.

Laurance, who had had long experience in the Island trade, had saved a little money--not much (as he

told Masters one day when he placed ten sovereigns in the latter's hand, and asked him to accept it as

a loan for his wife's sake), but nearly enough to buy a little thirty-ton vessel he knew of which was

for sale, and which would be just the craft to run on trading voyages from New Zealand among the

islands of the Gambier Group--if they could load her with trade goods. And he knew a man in Puget

Sound who, he thought, would lend him a few hundreds, and take a third share in the venture. Then,

when he and Masters returned from the impending voyage to Sydney, they, with Mrs Masters, would

go over to Auckland, buy the schooner and the trade goods, and then sail for Manga Reva in the

Gambier Group, where Masters and his wife were to buy a bit of land and put up a trading station,

whilst Laurance ran the little vessel to and fro among the various islands of the group, and brought

back pearl shell and copra for sale to the big German firm in Tahiti. And Masters's pretty wife smiled

joyously. She did not like to be parted from Tom for nearly seven months; but seven months was not

a lifetime--and then they would be so happy, away from the grinding poverty of their existence in

Sydney.

* * * * *

Dreams! Six weeks afterwards, as the old Noord Brabant lay groaning over on her beam ends,

thrashing her canvas to ribbons in a fierce night squall off Beveridge Reef, Tom Masters, hurrying on

deck to help the hands shorten sail, was knocked overboard by the parting of the spanker-boom guy,

and disappeared without a cry, into the seething boil to leeward.

For two hours--after the squall had ceased, and Masters was missed--the boat searched for him under

the bright rays of a silvery moon and a clear, cloudless sky. But every now and then rain fell heavily,

and though the boat rowed round and round the ship within a radius of two or three miles no answer-

ing cry came to the repeated hails of the crew. So then the Noord Brabant stood away again on her

course, and Harry Laurance lay awake all his watch below, thinking sadly of his friend and of the

dreadful shock which awaited the young wife in Sydney.

But Tom Masters did not drown. When he came to the surface of the water he found himself floating

among the debris of the quarter-boat, which, when the spanker-boom guy parted and the heavy spar

swung over to leeward, had swept the after-davit out of its socket and let the boat hang, stern down,

by the for'ard fall, until the labouring old barque, raising her stern high out of the water, smashed

down upon it as it dragged under her counter and tore out the for'ard ringbolt.

Half-stunned by the force of the blow which he had received on the back of his head from the

spanker-boom when it swept him overboard, Masters was yet able to swim to the wreckage of the

boat which he saw floating near him, and, clinging to the after part of the keel, he saw the cabin

lights of the Noord Brabant shining brightly through the square, old-fashioned ports for a minute or

two, and heard the cries of her crew as the sails were clewed up and furled. Then a sharp, hissing rain

squall hid her from view in a thick white mist, and, with agony and despair in his heart, he gave up

all hope of life, knowing that the only other boat was turned bottom up on the main hatch of the

barque, and that the ship was only half-manned by a scratch crew of long-shore loafers.

But it so happened that when the Noord Brabant, close-hauled to clear Beveridge Reef, was thrown

on her beam ends by the violence of the squall, the whaling schooner John Bright was rolling easily

along before it under shortened canvas, and the cook of the schooner, as he stood on the foc'scle,

smoking his pipe, caught a sight of floating wreckage right ahead, with the indistinct figure of a man

clinging to it, and bawled out 'Hard a-port!' just in time, or else the schooner had run right on top of

the drifting boat and finished this tale and Tom Masters as well.

But boats are lowered quickly on an American whale-ship--quicker than on any other ship afloat--

and in less than ten minutes Tom Masters was picked up and, in face of a blinding rain squall,

brought on board the John Bright. Then a long illness--almost death.

Three months afterwards, as the schooner was slowly crawling along over the North Pacific towards

Honolulu, she spoke a timber ship bound to the Australian colonies from Port Townsend in Puget

Sound; and Masters, now recovering from the terrible shock he had received, went on board and

asked the captain to let him work his passage. But the Yankee skipper of the lumber ship did not

seem to like the idea of having to feed such a hollow-eyed, gaunt-looking being for another six

weeks or so, and refused his request. And so Masters, in a dulled, apathetic sort of way went back to

the John Bright, climbed up her side, and, with despair in his heart, lay down in his bunk and tried to

sleep, never knowing that, half an hour before, when he was speaking to the captain of the lumber-

man, a letter to his wife from Laurance lay in a locker not three feet away from him, telling her of her

husband's death at sea and his own heartfelt sorrow and sympathy.

And Laurance was honest and genuine in his sympathy. He had had a warm feeling of friendship for

Tom Masters, and his heart was filled with pity for the poor little wife left alone without a friend in

the world. He had tried to express himself clearly in his letter, but all that Nellie Masters could un-

derstand was that Tom had been drowned at sea, that Laurance would be back in Sydney in a month

or two and give her all particulars, and that she was not utterly friendless and alone in the world.

Within a month of Harry Laurance's return she began to think more of him

and of his goodness to her, than of her dead husband--and then gratitude be-

came love. She was only a poor little woman, and of a weakly, irresolute na-

ture, unable to think for herself, and unfitted to battle alone with the world

and poverty. So one day when Laurance, whose big heart was full of love and

pity for her, asked her to be his wife, she gave him a happy smile and said

'Yes.' Before a second month had passed they were quietly married.

Masters, meanwhile, had been pursued by the demon of ill-luck. When the

schooner reached Honolulu, he, a mere wreck, physically and mentally, of his

former self, had been carried ashore to the hospital, and was making a slow

recovery, when the Sydney whaling brig, Wild Wave came into port with some

of her crew injured by a boat accident. One of the men was placed in a bed

next to that occupied by Masters, and one day his captain came to see him and

brought him some colonial newspapers which had just arrived.

'Here, mate,' said the sailor, tossing one of the papers over to Masters, 'you're

a Sydney man, and there's a Sydney newspaper.'

Masters took up the paper, and the first lines he read were these:--

'Laurance--Masters. On the 10th inst., at the Scots Church, Church Hill,

Henry A. Laurance to Helen, widow of the late Thomas Masters.'

Possibly, had he been well enough to have returned to Sydney, he would have

gone back and made three persons' lives unhappy. But, although an English-

man, he had not the rigidly conventional idea that the divorce court was part

of the machinery of the Wrath of God against women who unknowingly com-

mitted bigamy, and ought to be availed of by injured husbands. So, instead of

having a relapse, he pulled himself together, left the hospital, and got placidly

drunk, and concluded, when he became sober, not to disturb them.

'I suppose neither of them is to blame,' he thought. 'How were either of them

to know that I was not drowned?... And then poor little Nell had only ten shil-

lings a week to live upon until I came back.'

Still, he would have been better pleased had Harry Laurance been a stranger

to him--no man cares to know his successor in such a matter. By-and-by he

worked his passage to Samoa, where, under the assumed name of Tom Patter-

son, he soon found employment. Then one night he went into Charley the

Russian's saloon--and met Melanie.

And now he was settled down at Fana 'alu, was doing well as a trader, and had

acquired, in all its intensity, the usual dislike to the idea of ever going back to

the world again, common enough to men of his nature in Polynesia. Besides

that, Melanie understood him and he understood her. She was as open and

honest as the day, worked hard for him in his store, and was sincerely attached

to him. So he was well content.

* * * * *

There was much commotion in the village when the trading barque arrived and lay-to off Fana 'alu.

Melanie, in a dress of spotless white muslin, flitted to and fro within the house, smoking cigarettes and

cursing her women assistants' laziness and stupidity. Masters, it so happened, was away in his boat at an-

other village along the coast, and pretty Melanie was in a state of nervous trepidation at the thought of

having to meet the English lady alone. What should she do? What should she say? Her English was scant

but vigorous, having mostly been acquired from the merchant skippers, who, in her--to put it nicely--

maiden days, frequented the dance house of 'Charley the Russian' in Apia, and she was conning over the

problem of whether she should address her coming guest in that language or not. Her child, a little girl of

two, followed her mother's movements with intense curiosity; and presently a bevy of young native girls

swarmed into the room with the news that the boat had come ashore, and that the white lady and her hus-

band had landed and were now walking up to the house. Then Mrs Masters Number Two pulled herself

together and, throwing away her cigarette, went to the door and, with a graceful, modest demeanour and a

timid, bashful smile, held out her hand to a lovely being with big, bright blue eyes and thick masses of

hair of shining gold. Beside this--to Melanie--glorious vision of beauty, stood the husband--a big, black-

moustached and bronze-feced man, who stooped as he entered the door of the trader's house, and said

good-naturedly to her,--

'Glad to meet you, Mrs Patterson. Will your husband be long before he returns?'

'I don' know, sir,' answered Melanie. 'He hav' gone to Pitofanua. But he will come ver' quick when he

know that the ship hav' come.' Then, trembling with pleasurable excitement, she turned to the lady and

indicated a low easy-chair, and said in Samoan,--

'Sit thou there, O lady;' and then in English, 'I can't speak Englis' very good sometimes. But my man will

soon come.' Then she remembered something. 'Please will you come into dis room here, which is been

made all ready for you, an' take off your hat;' and then she darted over to a side table, brought a glass and

a bottle of whisky over to the lady's husband; then, with a winning smile, timidly held out her brown hand

to her guest, and led her into the bedroom.

The new supercargo helped himself to a nip of whisky and then sat down, his keen business eye taking in

the order and cleanliness of the room. In a few minutes his wife came out.

'Hang these traders, Nell! Why isn't this fellow here to meet me? He had no business to go away from his

station when the ship was due. However, he has jolly nice quarters, and so we'll make ourselves comfort-

able until he turns up. I think you'll like this place, Nell, and won't find it tedious whilst I'm away at the

Solomons. Eh, pet?'

The White Lady nodded and smiled. 'Yes, Harry, but I'll miss you terribly to-morrow. Six weeks is a long

time, dear.... Oh, Harry, do look--isn't she a lovely child?' And, bending down, she swept up Melanie's lit-

tle girl in her arms and kissed her softly, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

'Yes,' said the supercargo, shortly, as, without looking at the child, he took some papers from his pocket

and began to read. His and her hearts' desire had never been granted, and so he hated to look at the child of

another man.

'I wish this fellow would come,' he said presently, in an irritable tone, as he rose and walked to and fro....

Don't let that child paw you about like that, Nell.... Hallo, here he is at last.'

af, the trader stood in the doorway.

Fanning his heated brow with his broad hat of pandanus leaf, the trader stood in the door-

way.

'Good morning. I'm sorry I was away when you came--'

A cry, half scream and half sob, came from the supercargo's wife, as, still holding the child

in her arms, she swayed to and fro, and Melanie sprang to her side.

'Oh, Harry, it is Tom!' she said.

Then she sank back and lay upon the matted floor, with her head pillowed upon Melanie's

bosom; and the child wailed in terror.

'What the hell is the matter?' said the big supercargo, striding forward to the trader and

seizing him by the arm. Then he looked into Masters's face. 'By God, Masters, is it you? As

heaven is my judge, I swear to you that we both thought you were dead!'

The trader's eyes met his in a long, searching glance, then turned to where the unconscious,

figure of the white woman lay, supported in the arms of Melanie, who, with affrighted

eyes, gazed appealingly to them both.

He reached out his hand to the other man. 'That's all right, Laurance. Let us go outside and

talk. See, your wife has fainted, but Melanie will see to her.'

* * * * *

That night, whilst Masters and Laurance, cigars in mouth, were gravely picking out the for-

mer's trade goods on board the Palestine the White Lady and the Brown 'Woman' talked.

'Is you any better now?' said Melanie, as she caressingly ran her hand down the golden

locks of Mrs Laurance.

A smothered sob was her answer, and the yellow head buried itself among the pillows of

the couch.

Melanie turned away despairingly, and then lit a cigarette. What a fool was this beautiful

white woman--nothing but sob, sob, sob! What could be done to dry her tears?

Presently the Brown 'Woman' slid her hand under the waist of the weeping White Lady,

and pressed her cheek to hers.

'Don' you wan' to stay here now?'

'No, no, no! Let me go away. I wish I were dead!'

'What for?' and the philosophical Melanie sent two long streaks of smoke through her nos-

trils. 'Why are you 'shamed? You have a husban' now, and yo' don' wan' to faotane, do

you?'

'What is faotane?'

Melanie laughed. 'Faotane is Samoa language; it means stealing a

husban.... And yo' won' steal my husban' from me, will you? Yo'

hav' got a new husban', and yo' won' take Tom from me, will yo'?'

Mrs Laurance sprang to her feet and placed her hands on the Brown

'Woman's' shoulders.

'Tell me,' she said, 'did he ever talk of me?'

'Yes,' said the truthful Melanie. 'He tell me that yo' have hair like

gold, and that your eye was blue like the sky.'

'No more?'

Melanie shook her black locks. 'No more. My man never talk too

much. You like to eat some roast pigeon now?'

The White Lady turned her head aside and sobbed. 'And for a soul-

less being like this!' Then she remembered that Masters was not to

blame, and waited, trembling and sobbing, for the two men to re-

turn.

* * * * *

Masters, having finished his business on board the barque, held out

his hand to Laurance.

'Good-bye, Harry. Nothing can be done. Tom Masters was drowned

off Beveridge Reef years ago, and Harry Laurance married his

widow; and Tom Patterson is another man, who has a native wife,

and--'

He wrung Laurance's hand, sprang up the companion-way and

called to his boat's crew,--

'Haul the boat alongside, boys. I'm going to Pito-fanua again; and

you beggars will have to pull like hell.... Good-bye, Harry, old fel-

low. Send your boat ashore for your wife... and God bless you both!'

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