ife before he was leading
the party. If Mr. Stevenson called for his horse and started to town it
was always Pola who flew to open the gate for him, waving a "_Talofa_!"
and "Good luck to the traveling!"

The Samoans are not reserved, like the Indians, or haughty, like the
Arabs. They are a cheerful, lively people, who keenly enjoy a joke,
laughing at the slightest provocation. Pola bubbled over with fun, and
his voice could be heard chattering and singing gaily at any hour of the
day. He made up little verses about me, which he sang to the graceful
gestures of the Siva or native dance, showing unaffected delight when
commended. He cried out with joy and admiration when he first heard a
hand-organ, and was excitedly happy when allowed to turn the handle. I
gave him a box of tin soldiers, which he played with for hours in my
room. He would arrange them on the floor, talking earnestly to himself
in Samoan.

"These are brave brown men," he would mutter. "They are fighting for
Mata'afa. Boom! Boom! These are white men. They are fighting the
Samoans. Pouf!" And with a wave of his arm he knocked down a whole
battalion, with the scornful remark, "All white men are cowards."

After Mr. Stevenson's death so many of his Samoan friends begged for his
photograph that we sent to Sydney for a supply, which was soon
exhausted. One afternoon Pola came in and remarked, in a very hurt and
aggrieved manner, that he had been neglected in the way of photographs.

"But your father, the chief, has a large fine one."

"True," said Pola. "But that is not mine. I have the box presented to me
by your high-chief goodness. It has a little cover, and there I wish to
put the sun-shadow of Tusitala, the beloved chief whom we all revere,
but I more than the others because he was the head of my clan."

"To be sure," I said, and looked about for a photograph. I found a
picture cut from a weekly paper, one I remember that Mr. Stevenson
himself had particularly disliked. He would have been pleased had he
seen the scornful way Pola threw the picture on the floor.

"I will not have that!" he cried. "It is pig-faced. It is not the shadow
of our chief." He leaned against the door and wept.

"I have nothing else, Pola," I protested. "Truly, if I had another
picture of Tusitala I would give it to you."

He brightened up at once. "There is the one in the smoking-room," he
said, "where he walks back and forth. That pleases me, for it looks like
him." He