Fables

XIII. – THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER

Once upon a time there came to this earth a visitor from a neighbouring planet. And he was met at the place of his descent by a great philosopher, who was to show him everything.

First of all they came through a wood, and the stranger looked upon the trees. “Whom have we here?” said he.

“These are only vegetables,” said the philosopher. “They are alive, but not at all interesting.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the stranger. “They seem to have very good manners. Do they never speak?”

“They lack the gift,” said the philosopher.

“Yet I think I hear them sing,” said the other.

“That is only the wind among the leaves,” said the philosopher. “I will explain to you the theory of winds: it is very interesting.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “I wish I knew what they are thinking.”

“They cannot think,” said the philosopher.

“I don’t know about that,” returned the stranger: and then, laying his hand upon a trunk: “I like these people,” said he.

“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher. “Come along.”

Next they came through a meadow where there were cows.

“These are very dirty people,” said the stranger.

“They are not people at all,” said the philosopher; and he explained what a cow is in scientific words which I have forgotten.

“That is all one to me,” said the stranger. “But why do they never look up?”

“Because they are graminivorous,” said the philosopher; “and to live upon grass, which is not highly nutritious, requires so close an attention to business that they have no time to think, or speak, or look at the scenery, or keep themselves clean.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “that is one way to live, no doubt. But I prefer the people with the green heads.”

Next they came into a city, and the streets were full of men and women.

“These are very odd people,” said the stranger.

“They are the people of the greatest nation in the world,” said the philosopher.

“Are they indeed?” said the stranger. “They scarcely look so.”

XIV. – THE CART-HORSES AND THE SADDLE-HORSE

Two cart-horses, a gelding and a mare, were brought to Samoa, and put in the same field with a saddle-horse to run free on the island. They were rather afraid to go near him, for they saw he was a saddle-horse, and supposed he would not speak to them. Now the saddle-horse had never seen creatures so big. “These must be great chiefs,” thought he, and he approached them civilly. “Lady and gentleman,” said he, “I understand you are from the colonies. I offer you my affectionate compliments, and make you heartily welcome to the islands.”

The colonials looked at him askance, and consulted with each other.

“Who can he be?” said the gelding.

“He seems suspiciously civil,” said the mare.

“I do not think he can be much account,” said the gelding.

“Depend upon it he is only a Kanaka,” said the mare.

Then they turned to him.

“Go to the devil!” said the gelding.

“I wonder at your impudence, speaking to persons of our quality!” cried the mare.

The saddle-horse went away by himself. “I was right,” said he, “they are great chiefs.”

XV. – THE TADPOLE AND THE FROG

“Be ashamed of yourself,” said the frog.

“When I was a tadpole, I had no tail.”

“Just what I thought!” said the tadpole.

“You never were a tadpole.”

XVI. – SOMETHING IN IT

The natives told him many tales. In particular, they warned him of the house of yellow reeds tied with black sinnet, how any one who touched it became instantly the prey of Akaänga, and was handed on to him by Miru the ruddy, and hocussed with the kava of the dead, and baked in the ovens and eaten by the eaters of the dead.

“There is nothing in it,” said the missionary.

There was a bay upon that island, a very fair bay to look upon; but, by the native saying, it was death to bathe there. “There is nothing in that,” said the missionary; and he came to the bay, and went swimming. Presently an eddy took him and bore him towards the reef. “Oho!” thought the missionary, “it seems there is something in it after all.” And he swam the harder, but the eddy carried him away. “I do not care about this eddy,” said the missionary; and even as he said it, he was aware of a house raised on piles above the sea; it was built of yellow reeds, one reed joined with another, and the whole bound with black sinnet; a ladder led to the door, and all about the house hung calabashes. He had never seen such a house, nor yet such calabashes; and the eddy set for the ladder. “This is singular,” said the missionary, “but there can be nothing in it.” And he laid hold of the ladder and went up. It was a fine house; but there was no man there; and when the missionary looked back he saw no island, only the heaving of the sea. “It is strange about the island,” said the missionary, “but who’s afraid? my stories are the true ones.” And he laid hold of a calabash, for he was one that loved curiosities. Now he had no sooner laid hand upon the calabash than that which he handled, and that which he saw and stood on, burst like a bubble and was gone; and night closed upon him, and the waters, and the meshes of the net; and he wallowed there like a fish.

“A body would think there was something in this,” said the missionary. “But if these tales are true, I wonder what about my tales!”

Now the flaming of Akaänga’s torch drew near in the night; and the misshapen hands groped in the meshes of the net; and they took the missionary between the finger and the thumb, and bore him dripping in the night and silence to the place of the ovens of Miru. And there was Miru, ruddy in the glow of the ovens; and there sat her four daughters, and made the kava of the dead; and there sat the comers out of the islands of the living, dripping and lamenting.

This was a dread place to reach for any of the sons of men. But of all who ever came there, the missionary was the most concerned; and, to make things worse, the person next him was a convert of his own.

“Aha,” said the convert, “so you are here like your neighbours? And how about all your stories?”

“It seems,” said the missionary, with bursting tears, “that there was nothing in them.”

By this the kava of the dead was ready, and the daughters of Miru began to intone in the old manner of singing. “Gone are the green islands and the bright sea, the sun and the moon and the forty million stars, and life and love and hope. Henceforth is no more, only to sit in the night and silence, and see your friends devoured; for life is a deceit, and the bandage is taken from your eyes.”

Now when the singing was done, one of the daughters came with the bowl. Desire of that kava rose in the missionary’s bosom; he lusted for it like a swimmer for the land, or a bridegroom for his bride; and he reached out his hand, and took the bowl, and would have drunk. And then he remembered, and put it back.

“Drink!” sang the daughter of Miru.