The Quaint Brown Little Women Lined Up To Close The
End Of This Hollow Square, Of Which Our Group Was, Roughly
Speaking, The Fourth Side.
Then all came to attention.
The song
now rose to a wild and ecstatic minor chanting. The beebees,
still singing, one by one cast their burdens between the files
and at our feet in the middle of the hollow square. Then they
continued their chant, singing away at the tops of their little
lungs, their eyes and teeth showing, their pretty bodies held
rigidly upright. The warriors, very erect and military, stared
straight ahead.
And the chief? Was he the centre of the show, the important
leading man, to the contemplation of whom all these glories led?
Not at all! This particular chief did not have the soul of a
leading man, but rather the soul of a stage manager. Quite
forgetful of himself and his part in the spectacle, his brow
furrowed with anxiety, he was flittering from one to another of
the performers. He listened carefully to each singer in turn,
holding his hand behind his ear to catch the individual note,
striking one on the shoulder in admonition, nodding approval at
another. He darted unexpectedly across to scrutinize a warrior,
in the chance of catching a flicker of the eyelid even. Nary a
flicker! They did their stage manager credit, and stood like
magnificent bronzes. He even ran across to peer into our own
faces to see how we liked it.
With a sudden crescendo the music stopped.
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