THE WHITE WHALE 53 
the thing — though in truth he was entirely so, concerning the precise 
way in which to manage the barrow — Queequeg puts his chest upon 
it ; lashes it fast ; and then shoulders the harrow and marches up the 
wharf. “Why,” said I, “Queequeg, you might have known better than 
that, one would think. Didn’t the people laugh ?” 
Upon this, he told me another story. The people of his island of 
Kokovoko, it seems, at their wedding feasts express the fragrant water 
of young cocoanuts into a large stained calabash like a punchbowl; 
and this punchbowl always forms the great central ornament on the 
braided mat where the feast is held. Now a certain grand merchant 
ship once touched at Kokovoko, and i»ts commander — from all accounts, 
a very stately punctilious gentleman, at least for a sea captain — this 
commander was invited to the wedding feast of Queequeg’s sister, a 
pretty young princess just turned of ten. Well; when all the wedding 
guests were assembled at the bride’s bamboo cottage, this Captain 
marches in, and being assigned the post of honour, places himself over 
against the punchbowl, and between the High Priest and his Majesty 
the King, Queequeg’s father. Grace being said — for those people have 
their grace as well as we — though Queequeg told me that unlike us, 
who at such times look downwards to our platters, they, on the contrary, 
copying the ducks, glance upwards to the great Giver of all feasts — 
grace, I say, being said, the High Priest opens the banquet by the im- 
. memorial ceremony of the island : that is, dipping his consecrated and 
consecrating fingers into the howl before the blessed beverage circulates. 
Seeing himself placed next to the Priest, and noting the ceremony, and 
thinking himself — being Captain of a ship — as having plain precedence 
over a mere King, especially in the King’s own house — the Captain 
coolly proceeds to wash his hands in the punchbowl ; — taking it I sup- 
pose for a huge finger-glass. “How,” said Queequeg, “what you tink 
now ? — Didn’t our people laugh ?” 
At last, passage paid, and luggage safe, we stood on hoard the 
schooner. Hoisting sail, it glided down the Acushnet river. On one 
side, Hew Bedford rose in terraces of streets, their ice-covered trees 
all glittering in the clear, cold air. Huge hills and mountains of casks 
on casks were piled upon her wharves, and side by side the world- 
wandering whale ships lay silent and safely moored at last ; while from 
others came a sound of carpenters and coopers, with blended noises of 
