 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
IV.
To this effusion nought replied
The listeners; only said aside,
“The Stranger mocks us;” quietly—
Too courteous for expressed dissent,
Too proud to show astonishment
Or ignorance of their Guest's intent.
That laughing lunch-purveyor, he
Only to Miroa muttered low:
“A tito this—a fib, I know;
'Tis nothing like what Mapou says
Of their white Átua and his ways;
And he can tell, who visits most
And learns all news that reach the coast.
This Stranger too,”—and here the grin
Grew broader,—“by his dress at least
Is not a Tohunga, a Priest;
For Mapou says, they always go
In shining black from top to toe,
With two white plumes beneath their chin,
Just like that Tu-i, Mapou thought.”
And Ranolf smiled, whose quick ear caught
The fancy, as he saw just then
The bird they spoke of, down the glen
Come dashing, with its glossy coat
Like jet-black satin shot with green
And blue reflexions—at its throat
Two dainty-pencilled plumes of snow;
And once again admired, as oft
Before, its lively ways and mien;
As flitting, shifting to and fro
It ransacked every kowhai-tree
In yellow bloom, and loudly coughed
And loudly whistled in its glee,
And turned quite over, bending low
Its busy head to reach and dip
Into the pendent flowers and sip
Their juice, in fluttering glad unrest,
Unceasing in its honey-quest.
The listeners; only said aside,
“The Stranger mocks us;” quietly—
Too courteous for expressed dissent,
Too proud to show astonishment
Or ignorance of their Guest's intent.
That laughing lunch-purveyor, he
Only to Miroa muttered low:
“A tito this—a fib, I know;
'Tis nothing like what Mapou says
Of their white Átua and his ways;
And he can tell, who visits most
And learns all news that reach the coast.
This Stranger too,”—and here the grin
Grew broader,—“by his dress at least
Is not a Tohunga, a Priest;
For Mapou says, they always go
In shining black from top to toe,
With two white plumes beneath their chin,
191
And Ranolf smiled, whose quick ear caught
The fancy, as he saw just then
The bird they spoke of, down the glen
Come dashing, with its glossy coat
Like jet-black satin shot with green
And blue reflexions—at its throat
Two dainty-pencilled plumes of snow;
And once again admired, as oft
Before, its lively ways and mien;
As flitting, shifting to and fro
It ransacked every kowhai-tree
In yellow bloom, and loudly coughed
And loudly whistled in its glee,
And turned quite over, bending low
Its busy head to reach and dip
Into the pendent flowers and sip
Their juice, in fluttering glad unrest,
Unceasing in its honey-quest.
“That may be true,” said Miroa, “too;
For 'tis averred they are like a bird
In this (although it seems a joke)
They cannot speak like other folk,
But always sing what they would say,
E'en when they to their Átua pray.”
—But here that feather-crested Dame
Who this light chatter overheard
Rebuked them—feeling it became
Her sage experience to repress
Such sallies of mere sauciness:
“Oh foolish you! we always do
Ourselves in all our prayers the same!
Do we not sing for all we want?
May they not know some potent chaunt
To charm their Átua from his haunt,
As we coax eels to leave the mud?”—
Such reasoning they could not gainsay,
It nipped their satire in the bud.
For 'tis averred they are like a bird
In this (although it seems a joke)
They cannot speak like other folk,
But always sing what they would say,
E'en when they to their Átua pray.”
—But here that feather-crested Dame
Who this light chatter overheard
Rebuked them—feeling it became
Her sage experience to repress
Such sallies of mere sauciness:
192
Ourselves in all our prayers the same!
Do we not sing for all we want?
May they not know some potent chaunt
To charm their Átua from his haunt,
As we coax eels to leave the mud?”—
Such reasoning they could not gainsay,
It nipped their satire in the bud.
| Ranolf and Amohia | |