collect their families; some of the young men were to
live in Apia with a boat, and ply up and down the coast to A'ana and
Atua (our own Tuamasaga being quite drained of resources) in order to
supply the working squad with food. Tools they did ask for, but it was
especially mentioned that I was to make no presents. In short, the whole
of this little "presentation" to me had been planned with a good deal
more consideration than goes usually with a native campaign.

[I sat on the opposite side of the circle to the talking man. His face
was quite calm and high-bred as he went through the usual Samoan
expressions of politeness and compliment, but when he came on to the
object of their visit, on their love and gratitude to Tusitala, how his
name was always in their prayers, and his goodness to them when they had
no other friend, was their most cherished memory, he warmed up to real,
burning, genuine feeling. I had never seen the Samoan mask of reserve
laid aside before, and it touched me more than anything else. A.M.]

This morning as ever was, bright and early up came the whole gang of
them, a lot of sturdy, common-looking lads they seemed to be for the
most part, and fell to on my new road. Old Poe was in the highest of
good spirits, and looked better in health than he has done any time in
two years, being positively rejuvenated by the success of his scheme. He
jested as he served out the new tools, and I am sorry to say damned the
Government up hill and down dale, probably with a view to show off his
position as a friend of the family before his workboys. Now, whether or
not their impulse will last them through the road does not matter to me
one hair. It is the fact that they have attempted it, that they have
volunteered and are now really trying to execute a thing that was never
before heard of in Samoa. Think of it! It is road-making--the most
fruitful cause (after taxes) of all rebellions in Samoa, a thing to
which they could not be wiled with money nor driven by punishment. It
does give me a sense of having done something in Samoa after all.

Now there's one long story for you about "my blacks."--Yours ever,

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

The following was written on hearing of the death of his friend's
father.

[_Vailima, September 1894._]

MY DEAR CHARLES,--... Well, there is no more Edmund Baxter now; and I
think I may say I know how you feel. He was one of the best, t