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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


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 Starbuck. 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 Pacific 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 attempting 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 Pacific, 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 rescued, and as the senior man among the survivors he had informed his men that cannibalism was not an option so long as potential 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,” Ogle 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. Ogle.”

“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 rationed 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 supply 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 replace 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 exertions of the climb soon stole the breath from him. He gasped for air and pressed on, hoping to locate Ogle from the island’s zenith.

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 unanswered 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.” Horsham 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.”

The White Wife and the Brown 'Woman' 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 supercargo, a very fine fellow, easy to get on with, and a thoroughly 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 sitting-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.' *





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 palusami and other delicacies, and the receiving and giving of many presents. But when Masters--who possessed a fragmentary conscience--told her why he could not marry her, she accepted the position 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 openhanded 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 plaiting her hair Ă 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 PonapĂŠ, in the far, far north--away from these islands; 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 Jackson. 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 unalloyed 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 answering 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 lumberman, 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 understand 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 became love. She was only a poor little woman, and of a weakly, irresolute nature, 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 Englishman, 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 committed 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 shillings 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 Patterson, 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 another 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 husband 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, blackmoustached 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 comfortable 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 little 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 doorway. '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 former'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 nostrils. '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 soulless being like this!' Then she remembered that Masters was not to blame, and waited, trembling and sobbing, for the two men to return. *





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



its a book for homework

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