THE HAUNTS OF THE PARROT. II3 
but that was a name too long and savoring too much 
of English for these idle aborigines, and he was at 
once and forever rechristened. 
“Meyong !” 
“Out, monsteur.” 
You must pardon Meyong for frequent lapses into 
French, and for saying, “Oud, monsieur,” instead of 
“Yes, sir.” The fact is, he has no language he can 
call his own. Though born a Carib, he never heard 
the Carib tongue, save from some very old woman or 
warriors. He was born under English rule, but never 
learned the English language. His parents spoke a 
degenerate French, but never owed allegiance to the 
French government. Meyong, then, speaks a patois, 
or dialect of his own, derived from the French, who 
once owned this island. His speech is abominable 
alike to cultivated Frenchman and Englishman. 
* Are you ready, Meyong?” 
“Out, monsieur.” 
“And Coryet?” Coryet is his inseparable com- 
panion, with whom he roves sea and forest. 
“Coryet come long time, m’sieur; he come ebry- 
ting.” 
“Very well; then bring me my coffee.” 
While he was preparing my coffee I drew on my 
boots and hastened to the river to bathe. Darkness 
still covered everything, but the low, uneasy twitter- 
ing of birds gave token of the near approach of dawn. 
Crickets and locusts and all the nocturnal insects had 
hushed their chirpings, and all the valley was wrapped 
in the silence that preceded the break of day. 
Each of my young hunters had a large pannier 
strapped to his shoulders, like a knapsack made of 
8 
