Old Samoan Days. 
r 93 
Presently from out the darkness of the forest 
depths sounds the murmuring of voices. It is 
the men of the village returning from the Fono. 
Nearer and nearer they come, and now the 
women make the fires blaze up brightly by 
throwing on them the shells of coconuts. Here 
are the men—twenty of them—and a brave 
sight they make, as with a steady tramp, they 
march two deep over the gravelly square, the 
firelight playing fitfully on their oil-glisten¬ 
ing, copper-coloured bodies, and shouldered 
rifles. Every man is in full fighting fig-—bodies 
oiled, hair tied up over the crown of the head 
with a narrow band of Turkey red cloth, and 
round their waists broad leather belts with cart¬ 
ridge pouches. Some carry those long, ugly, 
but business-like looking implements, the Nifa- 
oti , or death knife, used expressly for decapita¬ 
tion. A few have heavy revolvers of a superior 
pattern, and tied round the brawny arms and 
legs of all are ornaments of white shells or 
green and scarlet leaves intermingled. The 
chief calls halt, and then in a semi-military 
fashion dismisses them, and each seeks his house, 
their women-kind following. 
Stooping his tall frame, the chief enters the 
i4 
