"An' you go along sixty paces."

"To the right?" questioned the Fijian.

"No! To the left, you fool!" screamed his companion.

"All right, you go to the left," muttered the rebuked one. "An' that's
the way to heaven!" cried the Maori.

"The way to heaven," echoed the Fijian; then the two lifted up their
voices and chanted:

"That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven out
Of Black Fernando's hell."

The incident stirred my curiosity. If I had only heard the words of the
chant I would not have puzzled my brain to determine their meaning, but
it was the manner in which the Maori instructed his friend as to the
direction in which one must walk from the white waterfall that made me
interested. I turned the words over in my mind as I watched them saunter
slowly toward me. Black Fernando's hell and the white waterfall were
places that I had never heard of. I thought of all the missionary hymns
that I had ever listened to afloat and ashore, but the lines that the
pair had chanted were not familiar.

The two walked on in silence for a few minutes after they had lifted up
their voices in the chant, then the Maori began to cross-question his