lamenting until at sunset the spirit left her body. When she was dead, they took her to Raiatea and buried her in her marae. After that the two men returned to Papenoo, and when the king died the son of the Lizard Woman reigned long in his stead. These are true words, for the blood of Swimmer in the Sea, born of the Lizard Woman, flows in my veins."

Old Airima ceased to speak. From the coconut shell at her side she took a lump of black native tobacco and began to tear off a leaf for a fresh cigarette. Her granddaughter turned on one side -head resting on a folded forearm-and looked at me.

"Aye, those are true words," she said; "for is my name not the same as that of the Lizard Woman? During a thousand years, perhaps more mai tahito mai: since the beginning-the women of our family have been called Tehinatu. You yourself, though we call you Tehari, have a real name among us-Au Moana, after her son. These names belong to us; no other family does well to use them."

The flare of a match illuminated for an instant the wrinkled and aquiline face of Airima. As she tossed the glowing stick aside, the moonlight smoothed away the lines; I was aware only of her black eyes, wonderfully alive and young. "Tell him of Poia," she suggested, "and the dead ones in robes of flame.'

"Aué," said the girl; "that is a strange tale, and it came about because of a name." She sat up, shaking the hair back over her shoulders.

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"The woman who saw these things,' she went on, was another of our ancestors. She was called Poia, a name her grandfather had given.

"One day, in midafternoon, Poia was sitting in the house beside her mother, busy with the weaving of a mat. All at once a darkness closed in before her eyes and she felt the spirit struggling to leap from her body. It was like the pangs of death, but at last her spirit was free and with its eyes she saw her

body lying as if in sleep, and perceived that there were strangers in the housetwo women and a man. The women were very lovely, with flowers in their hair and robes of scarlet which seemed to flicker like fire. They were Vahinetua and Vivitautua, ancestors dead many years before, who loved Poia dearly. The man was likewise dressed in flaming scarlet, and he wore a tall headdress of red feathers. He was Tanetua, another of Poia's ancestors. The three had come from the marae to seek Poia, and they spoke to her kindly, saying, 'Come with us, daughter.' And though she felt shame when she looked down at her dull dress and disordered hair, she followed where they led.

"They took her to the marae of Tai Nuu Rahi, and there Poia saw a huge woman waiting for them. The right side of that woman was white, and the left side black; when she saw them coming she fell on her knees and began to weep for joy. 'Is it you, Poia?' she cried. "Then welcome!' As Poia stood there, marveling, the stone of the marae opened before her like the door of a great house, and Vahinetua and Vivitautua said to her, 'Go in.' The door gave on a chamber of stone-the floor was of stone, and the ceiling and the walls. They passed through another door into a second empty room of stone, and thence into a third, and there Poia chanced to look down at herself. She had become lovely as the others; her hair was dressed with flowers and her robe was scarlet, seeming to flicker like fire. While she was looking at herself, no longer ashamed, the two women said to her: 'You must stay here, for you belong to us. We are angry with your grandfather because he called you Poia. That is not all of your name-your true name is Tetuanui Poia Terai Mateatea. That name belongs to us, and you must have it, for you are our descendant and we love you.'

"She did not know that this was her name; she thought it was only Poia. In spite of their kindness she was fright

ened and told them that she wished to go home. They took her to the door of her house and left her there; and she found herself lying with the half-woven mat in her fingers. Her mother, who was sitting beside her, only said, 'You have slept well.' But Poia, in fear and wonder at what she had seen, said nothing to her mother, not even when the two went to bathe.

"The next day, in midafternoon, Poia again felt the darkness close in before her eyes, the pangs of death as her spirit struggled and at last escaped from the body. But this time she found herself gloriously clothed and beautiful at once. All went as before until they came to the third chamber of the marae; there were leaves spread on the floor of that place as if for a feast, but the only food was purple flowers. The others sat down and began to eat, and Poia attempted to do likewise, but the taste of the flowers was bitter in her mouth. Again the two women said, 'You belong to us; you must not be called Poia, but Tetuanui Poia Terai Mateatea.' And they coaxed her to stay with them, but she wept and said that she could not bear to be separated from her husband, whom she loved. As before, they were kind to her and took her to her house, where she awoke as if from sleep, and said nothing.

"It was the same the next day, but this time, when they had come to the third chamber of the marae, Vehinetua and Vivitautua said: 'Now you must no longer think of returning; you are ours and we wish you to stay here with us.' Poia wept at their words, for she began to think of the man she loved. 'I must go,' she said; if I had no husband I would gladly remain with you here.' At last, when her tears had fallen for a long time, the three dwellers in the marae took her home; they bade her farewell reluctantly, saying that next day she must come to them for good.

"This time Poia awoke in great fear, and she told the story to her mother when they went to bathe together. Her mother went straight to the grand

father, to tell him what she had seen and ask him if her true name was Poia, as he had said years before. Then the old man said that he had done wrong, for the name was not only Poia, but Tetuanui Poia Terai Mateatea, a name which belonged to Vahinetua, and Tanetua and Vivitautua. And these three came no more to get Poia; they were content, for they loved her and wanted her to have their name."

a

As she finished her story, Tehinatu lay down once more, resting her head on her grandmother's knee. My thoughts were wandering far away-across great ocean and a continent-to the quiet streets of New Bedford, set with old houses in which the descendants of the whalers live out their ordered lives. In all probability, the girl beside me, Polynesian to the core and glorying in a long line of ancestors whose outlandish names fell musically from her lips-had cousins who lived on those quiet streets; for she was the granddaughter of a New Bedford whaling captain, the husband of Airima-a puritan who ate once too often of the fei, and lingered in the islands to turn trader, and rear a family of half-caste children, and finally to die. The story is an old one, repeated over and over again in every group: the white cross; the half-white children at the parting of the ways; their turning aside from the stony path of the father's race to the pleasant ways of the mother. And so in the end the strain of white, further diluted with each succeeding generation, shows itself in nothing more than a name... seldom used and oftentimes forgotten. It is Nature at work, and she is not always cruel.

"Is it the same with names in your land?" Airima was asking. "Are certain names kept in a family throughout the years?"

"It is somewhat the same," I told her, "though we do not prize names so highly. My father and grandfather and his father were all named Charles, which you call Tehari."

"Among my people," she said, "the

possession of a name means much. As far back as our stories go, there has been a man named Maruae in each generation of my father's family. Some of these Maruaes were strange men. There was Maruae Taura Varua Ino, who fished with a bait of coconut for the spirits of men drowned in the sea; and another was Maruae Mata Tofa, who stole a famous shark-the adopted child of a man of Fariipiti. That was a good shark; it lived in the lagoon, harming no one, and every day the man and his wife called it to them with certain secret words. But Maruae coveted the shark, and he prepared an underwater cave in the coral before his house. Then, when the cave was ready, he hid in the bushes on the shore of the lagoon while the man was calling his shark, and in this way Maruae learned the secret words of summons. When the man and his wife had gone, Maruae called out the words; the shark appeared close inshore and followed him to the cave, where it stayed, well content. And that night he taught it new words. Next day the man and his wife called to their shark; and when it did not come they suspected that Maruae had enticed it away. After that they went to the house of Maruae and accused him of the theft; but he said: 'Give the call, if you think I have stolen your shark. I have a shark, but it is not yours.' They called, but the shark did not come. Then Maruae called and the shark came at once, so he said, 'See, it must be my shark, for it obeys me and not you.' As he turned away to return to Fariipiti, the other man said, 'I think it is my shark, but if it will obey you and no other, you may have it.'

"Some days later, a party of fishermen came to Maruae's cave, where the shark lived. They baited a great hook and threw it into the water, and as it sank into the cave they chanted a magic chant. Then the shark seized the bait, and as they hauled him out they laughed with joy and chanted, 'E matau maitai puru maumau e anave

VOL. CXLII.-No. 851.-78

maitai maea i te rai.' This chant is something about a good hook and a good line, but the other words are dead -what they mean no man knows today. That night there was feasting in the houses of the fishermen, but next morning, when Maruae went down to the sea and called his shark, nothing came, though he stayed by the lagoon, calling, from morning till the sun had set. After that he learned that his shark had been killed and eaten, and from that day none of Maruae's undertakings prospered; finally he pined away and died.”

Tehinatu stirred and sat up, eyes shining in the moonlight. The subject of sharks has for these people a fascination we do not understand, a significance tinged with the supernatural.

"They did evil to kill that shark," she said, "for all sharks are not bad. I remember the tale my mother told me of Viritoa, the long-haired Paumotuan woman- -wife of Maruae Ouma Ati. Her god was a shark. It was many years ago, when the vessels of the white men were few in these islands; Maruae shipped on a schooner going to New Zealand, taking his wife with him, as was permitted in those days. That woman was not like us; she understood ships and had no fear of the sea; as for swimming, there were few like her. When she came here the women marveled at her hair; it reached to her ankles, and she wore it coiled about her head in two great braids, thick as a man's arm.

"The captain of that schooner was always drinking; most of the time he lay stupefied in his bed. As they sailed to the south the sea grew worse and worse, but the captain was too drunk to take notice. The men of the crew were in great fear; they had no confidence in the mate, and the seas were like mountain ridges all about them. The morning came when Viritoa said to Maruae: 'Before nightfall this schooner will be at the bottom of the sea; let us make ready. Rub yourself well with coconut

SPUR

PURRED by the restlessness of youth, most red-blooded Americans of the present generation have at some period of their boyhood more or less seriously considered, I will wager, the project of running away from home to join the army. And if the parents of other boys were like mine they met the proposal, if they learned of it, with unqualified disapproval and vigorous opposition.

"What do you want to go into the army for?" our fathers would demand, with ill-concealed impatience. "There's no future in it for you. It doesn't fit you for anything except fighting. And the associations are not the kind that you have been accustomed to."

It must be admitted that the regular army of the 'eighties and 'nineties did not offer a particularly promising career to an intelligent and ambitious lad of good upbringing. In the old army the opportunities for education and selfimprovement did not seek out the soldier; he had to seek them. There were post schools, it is true, but they were poorly equipped and indifferently conducted, attendance at them being voluntary, though sometimes disciplinary.

When his routine duties had been performed, the soldier was free to spend his ample leisure in "bunk fatigue," or to seek less wholesome forms of recreation, for in those unregenerate days the saloon, the gambling house, and the brothel were as recognized features of every community as the town hall, the opera house, and the fire station, nor was there any legal means of driving such establishments from the vicinity of military reservations. In spite of these temptations, the old army, with its

ordered life and stern discipline, was an undeniable force in character building, though its most loyal supporters would scarcely venture to claim that it afforded the soldier very much in the way of education. Yet there were many who used the army, in spite of all its defects and weaknesses, as a ladder on which they climbed to success and fame, as witness those officers, some of whom now wear on their shoulders the twin stars of major-generals, who began their military careers as enlisted men. But their success was due in most cases, I think, to their inherent ability and determination rather than to the influence of their surroundings.

The old army was the closest of close corporations. Its personnel, commissioned and enlisted alike, were as clannish as the members of a college fraternity. They were as far removed from the life of the nation as a body of cloistered monks. The man in uniform, whether officer or private, looked with a certain supercilious tolerance on those who wore "cits," and this attitude the civilians returned with interest. It was no uncommon thing, indeed, for men in uniform to be informed that their room was preferable to their presence in certain places of entertainment.

Suddenly the Great War burst upon the world in a hurricane of fire and carnage, and the wearers of the uniform which had not been welcomed in the theaters and the dance halls were frenziedly acclaimed as "the thin brown line of heroes" to which the nation looked for its defense. There followed the declaration of war, and the draft; and the very men who had derided and condemned their sons for wanting to join the army