e dead in these abhorred
activities is still the same. In Samoa, my informant had no idea of the
food of the bush spirits; no such ambiguity would exist in the mind of a
Paumotuan. In that hungry archipelago, living and dead must alike toil
for nutriment; and the race having been cannibal in the past, the
spirits are so still. When the living ate the dead, horrified nocturnal
imagination drew the shocking inference that the dead might eat the
living. Doubtless they slay men, doubtless even mutilate them, in mere
malice. Marquesan spirits sometimes tear out the eyes of travellers; but
even that may be more practical than appears, for the eye is a cannibal
dainty. And certainly the root-idea of the dead, at least in the far
eastern islands, is to prowl for food. It was as a dainty morsel for a
meal that the woman denounced Donat at the funeral. There are spirits
besides who prey in particular not on the bodies but on the souls of the
dead. The point is clearly made in a Tahitian story. A child fell sick,
grew swiftly worse, and at last showed signs of death. The mother
hastened to the house of a sorcerer, who lived hard by. "You are yet in
time," said he; "a spirit has just run past my door carrying the soul of
your child wrapped in the leaf of a purao; but I have a spirit stronger
and swifter who will run him down ere he has time to eat it." Wrapped in
a leaf: like other things edible and corruptible.

Or take an experience of Mr. Donat's on the island of Anaa. It was a
night of a high wind, with violent squalls; his child was very sick, and
the father, though he had gone to bed, lay wakeful, hearkening to the
gale. All at once a fowl was violently dashed on the house wall.
Supposing he had forgot to put it in shelter with the rest, Donat arose,
found the bird (a cock) lying on the verandah, and put it in the
hen-house, the door of which he securely fastened. Fifteen minutes later
the business was repeated, only this time, as it was being dashed
against the wall, the bird crew. Again Donat replaced it, examining the
hen-house thoroughly and finding it quite perfect; as he was so engaged
the wind puffed out his light, and he must grope back to the door a good
deal shaken. Yet a third time the bird was dashed upon the wall; a third
time Donat set it, now near dead, beside its mates; and he was scarce
returned before there came a rush, like that of a furious strong man,
against the door, and a whistle as loud as that of a ra