the music of the drum and the bugle or the tin-whistle.
From a hamlet close to my own doors a contingent of six men marched out.
Their leader's kit contained one stick of tobacco, four boxes of
matches, and the inevitable red handkerchief; in his case it was of
silk, for he had come late to the purchasing, and the commoner materials
were exhausted. This childish band of braves marched one afternoon to a
neighbouring hill, and the same night returned to their houses, on the
ground that it was "uncomfortable" in the bush. An excellent old fellow,
who had had enough of war in many campaigns, took refuge in my service
from the conscription, but in vain. The village had decided no warrior
might hang back. One summoner arrived; and then followed some
negotiations--I have no authority to say what: enough that the
messenger departed and our friend remained. But, alas! a second envoy
followed and proved to be of sterner composition; and with a basket full
of food, kava, and tobacco, the reluctant hero proceeded to the wars. I
am sure they had few handsomer soldiers, if, perhaps, some that were
more willing. And he would have been better to be armed. His gun--but in
Mr. Kipling's pleasant catchword, that is another story.

War, to the Samoan of mature years, is often an unpleasant necessity. To
the young boy it is a heaven of immediate pleasures, as well as an
opportunity of ultimate glory. Women march with the troops--even the
Taupo-sa, or sacred maid of the village, accompanies her father in the
field to carry cartridges, and bring him water to drink,--and their
bright eyes are ready to "rain influence" and reward valour. To what
grim deeds this practice may conduct I shall have to say later on. In
the rally of their arms, it is at least wholly pretty; and I have one
pleasant picture of a war-party marching out; the men armed and
boastful, their heads bound with the red handkerchief, their faces
blacked--and two girls marching in their midst under European parasols.

On Saturday, July 8th, by the early morning, the troops began to file
westward from Apia, and about noon found found themselves face to face
with the lines of Mataafa in the German plantation of Vaitele. The
armies immediately fraternised; kava was made by the ladies, as who
should say tea, at home, and partaken of by the braves with many
truculent expressions. One chief on the King's side, revolted by the
extent of these familiarities, began to beat his followers