uits," I said, quietly, "if you will
explain why you told a wicked lie and pained the heart that loved you."

"Teuila," he cried, anxiously, "I love you. I would not pain your heart
for all the world. But they are starving in the village. My father, the
chief, divides the food, so that each child and old person and all shall
share alike, and today there was only green baked bananas, two for each,
and tonight when I return there will be again a division of one for each
member of the village. It seems hard that I should come here and eat and
eat, and my brother and my two little sisters, and the good Tumau also,
should have only one banana. So I thought I would say to you, 'Behold, I
have eaten the two biscuits,' and then you would give me two more and
that would be enough for one each to my two sisters and Tumau and my
brother, who is older than I."

That night my brother went down to the village and interviewed the
chief. It was all true, as Pola had said, only they had been too proud
to mention it. Mr. Stevenson sent bags of rice and kegs of beef to the
village, and gave them permission to dig for edible roots in our forest,
so they were able to tide over until the taro and yams were ripe.

Pola always spoke of Vailima as "our place," and Mr. Stevenson as "my
chief." I had given him a little brown pony that exactly matched his own
skin. A missionary, meeting him in the forest road as he was galloping
along like a young centaur, asked, "Who are you?"

"I," answered Pola, reining in his pony with a gallant air, "am one of
the Vailima men!"

He proved, however, that he considered himself a true Samoan by a
conversation we had together once when we were walking down to Apia. We
passed a new house where a number of half-caste carpenters were briskly
at work.

"See how clever these men are, Pola," I said, "building the white man's
house. When you get older perhaps I will have you taught carpentering,
that you may build houses and make money."

"Me?" asked Pola, surprised.

"Yes," I replied. "Don't you think that would be a good idea?"

"I am the son of a chief," said Pola.

"I know," I said, "that your highness is a very great personage, but all
the same it is good to know how to make money. Wouldn't you like to be a
carpenter?"

"No," said Pola, scornfully, adding, with a wave of his arm that took in
acres of breadfruit trees, banana groves, and taro patches, "Why should
I work? All this land belongs to me."