It was only when I gave up all thoughts of sleep that I recognized that
the Maori was talking English. Up to that moment I thought the pair were
arguing in some unfamiliar tongue, but suddenly their conversation
gripped me, and I strained my ears to listen.
"There's the white waterfall," chanted the Maori.
"Yes, the white waterfall," repeated the Fijian.
"An' you go along sixty paces."
"To the right?" questioned the Fijian.
"No! To the left, you fool!" screamed his companion.
"All right, you go to the left," muttered the rebuked one. "An' that's
the way to heaven!" cried the Maori.
"The way to heaven," echoed the Fijian; then the two lifted up their
voices and chanted:
"That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven,
That's the way to heaven out
Of Black Fernando's hell."
The incident stirred my curiosity. If I had only heard the words of the
chant I would not have puzzled my brain to determine their meaning, but
it was the manner in which the Maori instructed his friend as to the
direction in which one must walk from the white waterfall that made me
interested.
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