Mystic Isles of the South Seas. by Frederick O'Brien
page 219 of 521 (42%)
page 219 of 521 (42%)
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"It were better to go directly up the valley and out of the heat,"
she advised. "We shall have many pools to bathe in." It was at the next that I took from my pocket "Rarahu, ou le mariage de Loti," a thin, poorly printed book in pink paper covers that I had possessed since boyhood, and which I had read again on the ship coming to Tahiti. The princess, like all reading Tahiti, knew it better than I, for it was the first novel in French with its scenes in that island, and for more than forty years had been talked about there. "Here at this pool," she said, with her finger on the page, "Loti surprised Rarahu one afternoon when for a red ribbon she let an old and hideous Chinese kiss her naked shoulder. Mon dieu! That French naval officer made a bruit about a poor little Tahitian girl! We will talk about her when we are at déjeuner." Déjeuner! My heart leaped. Whence would the luncheon come? Had this child of Tahiti arranged beforehand that she should be met by a jinn with sandwiches and cakes? I dared not ask. We pushed on, and passed many residences of natives. They were almost all of European construction, board cottages, because the houses of native sort are forbidden within the municipal limits. Beyond them we saw no houses. The Tahitian families were cooking their breakfasts, brought from the market, on little fires outside their houses. They all smiled, and called to us to partake with them. "Ia ora na! Haere mai amu!" "Greeting! Come eat with us!" |
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