Sailor and beachcomber by A. (Arnold) Safroni-Middleton

Author:A. (Arnold) Safroni-Middleton [Safroni-Middleton, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction & Literature
ISBN: 9783965371194
Google: hxNeyQEACAAJ
Publisher: Otbebookpublishing
Published: 2019-05-09T04:00:00+00:00

South Sea Lagoon

“Well, Middleton,” he said, as our host sat down to an old American organ and started playing softly, his feet going up and down ten revolutions a second, as he pedalled the leaky bellows, “which do you like the best, the Old Country or the South Seas?”

“Well, for climate and novelty, I like this place, but I often have a longing for the homeland.”

“So do I. We all love our native land the best at heart,” he said, and I could see by his expression that his dreams were often overseas, for he lapsed into silence, threw the cigarette away that he had only just lit, and placed another one in his mouth, and walked up and down, as was his habit at times when in conversation with anyone.

I remember that he asked me if I was going back to England again, also if I liked sea life, and when I told him of some of my bush experiences he seemed deeply interested, and asked me a good deal about the Australian blacks. He was greatly interested in their habits, and seemed to know a lot about their history and wandering instincts, and remarked upon the great difference between the intellects of the blacks and the Islanders of the South Seas, as he sat there gazing with his keen inquiring eyes, fingering his chin as the cool wind drifted through the open window. I can still vividly remember the delight in his face as he watched the native servants. I played the violin, accompanied by our host on the organ, who played by ear, and made up for his indifferent accompaniment by singing at intervals, as I did my best to entertain. R.L.S. joined in by humming. We were suddenly disturbed by a jabbering noise outside, and then the door opened and a native woman, with barely anything on except the ridi, poked her head and body half in the room and said something to our host the American, in the Samoan language. It appeared that he was a medical man, and had been attending her child who was suffering through influenza, which had become suddenly worse, so she and a gathering of friends had rushed hurriedly to our host for help. R.L.S. and I accompanied him, as he quickly shut down the organ lid, and off we all went out into the night.

Across the forest track we hurried. Like big children, Samoan mothers, men, and their naked little ones, went running along the moonlit track in front of us, the wailing mother and father of the sick child pattering beside us, looking with relieved eyes, because we were white men, thinking that our different skin made us potent and that all would be well when the doctor reached their child. We had to walk almost half-a-mile, and then they all turned off the forest track to the left, and under the palms, to where stood their large hut homes; bending down we all entered the sick-room. It was a sweet little mite, emaciated through chest trouble.

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