s a thing I
would despise in anybody else; but he is so jolly insidious and
ingratiating! No, sir, I can't dislike him; but if I don't make hay of
him, it shall not be for want of trying.

Yesterday, we had two Germans and a young American boy at lunch; and in
the afternoon, Vailima was in a state of siege; ten white people on the
front verandah, at least as many brown in the cook-house, and countless
blacks to see the black boy Arrick.

Which reminds me, Arrick was sent Friday was a week to the German Firm
with a note, and was not home on time. Lloyd and I were going bedward,
it was late with a bright moon--ah, poor dog, you know no such moons as
these!--when home came Arrick with his head in a white bandage and his
eyes shining. He had had a fight with other blacks, Malaita boys; many
against one, and one with a knife: "I KNICKED 'EM DOWN, three four!" he
cried; and had himself to be taken to the doctor's and bandaged. Next
day, he could not work, glory of battle swelled too high in his
threadpaper breast; he had made a one-stringed harp for Austin, borrowed
it, came to Fanny's room, and sang war-songs and danced a war dance in
honour of his victory. And it appears, by subsequent advices, that it
was a serious victory enough; four of his assailants went to hospital,
and one is thought in danger. All Vailima rejoiced at this news.

Five more chapters of David, 22 to 27, go to Baxter. All love affair;
seems pretty good to me. Will it do for the young person? I don't know:
since the Beach, I know nothing, except that men are fools and
hypocrites, and I know less of them than I was fond enough to fancy.

TO MRS. CHARLES FAIRCHILD

[_Vailima, August 1892._]

MY DEAR MRS. FAIRCHILD,--Thank you a thousand times for your letter. You
are the Angel of (the sort of) Information (that I care about): I
appoint you successor to the newspaper press; and I beg of you,
whenever you wish to gird at the age, or think the bugs out of
proportion to the roses, or despair, or enjoy any cosmic or epochal
emotion, to sit down again and write to the Hermit of Samoa. What do I
think of it all? Well, I love the romantic solemnity of youth; and even
in this form, although not without laughter, I have to love it still.
They are such ducks! But what are they made of? We were just as solemn
as that about atheism and the stars and humanity; but we were all for
belief anyway--we held atheism and sociology (of which none of us, nor