ge
of his fellows by whether or no they are careful to be never separated
from their weapons, and Europeans who, in humble imitation of Gordon,
prefer to go about unarmed, make a great mistake, since a Malay is apt
to interpret such action as being dictated by cowardice. Bayan bathed in
the river, filled his bamboos, and began to carry them to his house; but
To' Muda Long had been watching his opportunity, and he and two of his
followers, all fully armed, had taken up a position in the middle of the
path, by which Bayan must pass back to his house.

'Thou wast over arrogant to me last night,' said To' Muda Long as Bayan
approached, 'and now I will repay thee!'

'Have patience, To' Muda, have patience,' said Bayan. 'Thy servant did
not speak to thee; it was the boys who were unmannerly, and thy servant,
being an old man, did reprove them!'

'It is not for the like of thee to reprove men, and the said boys are my
people, the sons of my loins. I will cover their shame!' said To' Muda
Long, for the wolf was determined to pick a quarrel with the lamb, bleat
he never so wisely.

'Have patience, To' Muda!' again cried poor Bayan, but the words were
hardly out of his mouth before To' Muda Long struck at him with his
spear, but missed him. Then, as Bayan retreated step by step, defending
himself with the clumsy bamboo from the deft spear thrusts, no more
words passed between them.

At last the spear went home. '_Basah! Basah!_ I have wetted thee!' cried
To' Muda Long, and he went in at his enemy, _kris_ in hand, Bayan
beating him about the head with the now empty bamboo. When he got to
close quarters, the deed was soon done, and the body of Bayan the
Paroquet, with seventeen rending wounds upon it, lay stark and hideously
staring at the pure morning sky.

There was loud talk of blood-money, and equally loud talk of reprisals,
but nothing came of it; and though I often meet To' Muda Long, who is as
soft spoken and as gentle in his manners as ever, Bayan's death was
never revenged, and the fact that he ever lived and sang is now
well-nigh forgotten, even by those who knew him, and loved to hear his
tales.

A TALE OF A THEFT

The voice of your complaining
At the little ills you know,
The crumpled leaf that's paining,
At the soil that's yours to sow,
At the exile from your caste-mates,
At the toil, the sweat, the heat,
Bears down our cry against the Fates!
We suff'rers roun