Читать книгу Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land. A story of old Fiji онлайн

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“What is that in thy hand, Master Cook?

Carver! Carver for what, Master Cook?

For the little chap, Puck, Master Cook?

Then carve away at his Ma, Master Cook!

For the son has made off, Master Cook!”

Nothing comes amiss to these troublesome little imps when pilfering is the work to be done. The fruit trees are stripped, the ladies’ reticules and other depositories of valuables are emptied of their contents; the hot yams just ready for the evening meal are snapped out of the crock, and the fish off the rack, to the utter heartbreaking of the poor women and the irrepressible wrath of their savage lords on their return from their planting, building, fighting, or games. The only explanation is, “’Twas done by the elves!”

On the occasion of a family gathering one evening round the festive ^[3]kava-bowl, Lolóma undertook to relate a mysterious experience which had recently happened to her. “As I wandered with my playmates in the valley,” said she, “where the palm-tree bowls of nectar yields to quench the thirst of Koroivónu’s, warriors and the sacred vesi sheds its solemn shade, we heard the fairies mocking our speech. If we greeted each other with the daily salutation of ‘Good morning,’ we were sure to hear out of some tree close by ‘morning!’ Then, getting frightened, we shouted ‘The elves are coming,’ and they added to our terror by a quick, short call of ‘coming’! Following what I thought was the voice of one of my companions, I was led by the elfin tribe in roundabout ways until at last I was helplessly lost in the midst of thick forests and the blackness of night, and I heard the elfin choir merrily chanting—