and bade me write my letters at the old desk. I
thought it would be presumptuous to do that; it was sufficient for me
to enter the hall on the floor of which the "Writer of Tales,"
according to the Samoan custom, was wont to sit.

Coming through the main street of Apia one day, with my hosts, all
bound for the _Spray_, Mrs. Stevenson on horseback, I walking by her
side, and Mr. and Mrs. Osbourne close in our wake on bicycles, at a
sudden turn in the road we found ourselves mixed with a remarkable
native procession, with a somewhat primitive band of music, in front
of us, while behind was a festival or a funeral, we could not tell
which. Several of the stoutest men carried bales and bundles on poles.
Some were evidently bales of tapa-cloth. The burden of one set of
poles, heavier than the rest, however, was not so easily made out. My
curiosity was whetted to know whether it was a roast pig or something
of a gruesome nature, and I inquired about it. "I don't know," said
Mrs. Stevenson, "whether this is a wedding or a funeral. Whatever it
is, though, captain, our place seems to be at the head of it."

The _Spray_ being in the stream, we boarded her from the beach
abreast, in the little razeed Gloucester dory, which had been painted
a smart green. Our combined weight loaded it gunwale to the water, and
I was obliged to steer with great care to avoid swamping. The
adventure pleased Mrs. Stevenson greatly, and as we paddled along she
sang, "They went to sea in a pea-green boat." I could understand her
saying of her husband and herself, "Our tastes were similar."

As I sailed farther from the center of civilization I heard less and
less of what would and what would not pay. Mrs. Stevenson, in speaking
of my voyage, did not once ask me what I would make out of it. 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