unmoved. Their gods and devils are not ours.

From our side, too, the abyss is impassable. Civilization with its
refinements and complexities has stripped us of the power of
complete surrender to simple impulses. The white who would become
like a natural savage succeeds only in becoming a beast. "_Plus
sauvage que les kanakas_," is a proverb in the islands. Its
implications I had occasion to heed ere the evening was ended.

Wrapped only in a gorgeous red _pareu_, I sat on the _paepae_ of the
chief's house, now become mine. I was the especial care of Mrs. Seventh
Man Who Wallows, who all afternoon long had sat on her haunches over
a cocoanut husk fire stirring savory foods for me. Fish, chickens,
pigs, eggs, and native delicacies of all kinds she had cooked and
sauced so appetizingly that I conferred on her the title of "Chefess"
_de Cuisine_, and voiced my suspicions that some deserting cook
from a flagship had traded his lore for her kisses. Her laughter was
spiced with pride, and the chief himself smilingly nodded and gestured
to assure me that I had guessed right.

Now in the quiet of the evening, empty bowls removed, pandanus-leaf
cigarettes lighted, and pipe passing from hand to hand, we sat
rejoicing in the sweet odors of the forest, the murmur of the stream,
and the ease of contentment. Many elders of the village had come to
meet the stranger, to discuss the world and its wonders, and to
marvel at the ways of the whites. The glow of the pipe lighted
shriveled yet still handsome countenances scrolled with tattooing,
and caught gleams from rolling eyes or sparkles from necklace and
earring. Above the mountains a full moon rose, flooding the valley
with light and fading the brilliant colors of leaf and flower to