ne to another. At the entrance to the
village my mother got out of her chair and we walked on. The _manaia_,
or beauty man of the village, accompanied by two magnificent looking
aides, came forward to meet us. They were oiled and polished till they
shone like bronze, and on their heads they wore the great ceremonial
headdresses. Their only garments were short kilts of _tapa_, which
made a fine display of their lace-like tattooing. On their right arms
they wore twists of green with boars' tusks, while their ankles were
encircled with green wreaths and their necks with the whale-tooth
necklaces that denote rank. It seemed strange to be received by young
men, for in all our other trips either Louis or Lloyd was the guest of
honor--making it a man's party--and to them the village maid, or
_taupo_, with her girl attendants, acted as hostess. As ours was a
woman's party, we were received by young men. The _manaia_ gave his
hand to my mother, the other two escorted me and the English lady,
and, with the poor husband trailing along behind, we walked with
stately pomp across the _malae_[62] to the guest house. There was not
a soul in sight, and, though the children must have been bursting with
interest and curiosity, not one was to be seen. The guest house stood
in the centre of the little village, which lay on the seashore,
overlooking a small bay. Behind it the forest climbed the slopes of
steep mountains, down which several streams and waterfalls rushed
into the sea, and in front the smooth wide beach stretched its white
length. On each side were the plantations of bananas, cocoanuts, and
other tropic fruits, while scattered here and there among the brown
thatched houses the breadfruit trees spread out their huge branches of
shining green.

[Footnote 62: The _malae_ is the green lawn around which
all Samoan villages are built.]

"The guest house had been decorated with leaves, ferns, and flowers.
As we ducked under the eaves, our eyes a little dazzled by the
brightness of the sunlight, we were received by the _taupo_ and her
maidens, who were spreading fine mats for us to sit on. Oh the sweet,
cool, clean freshness of a native house! It would not be fair to call
it a hut, for that suggests squalor, or makeshift, whereas these
houses are works of art. The roof rises inside like a great dome, the
inner thatch being intricately woven in patterns, while the floor is
made of clean pebbles, neatly laid