FARMING IN POLYNESIA
THE planters were both whole-souled fellows; but, in other respects,
as unlike as possible.
One was a tall, robust Yankee, hern in the backwoods of Maine, sallow,
and with a long face; - the other was a short little Cockney, who had
first clapped his eyes on the Monument.
The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and
Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate from every
word beginning with one. The latter, though not the tallest man in
the world, was a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five. His cheeks
were dyed with the fine Saxon red, burned deeper from his roving
life: his blue eye opened well, and a profusion of fair hair curled
over a well-shaped head.
But Zeke was no beauty. A strong, ugly man, he was well adapted for
manual labour; and that was all. His eyes were made to see with, and
not for ogling. Compared with the Cockney, he was grave, and rather
taciturn; but there was a deal of good old humour bottled up in him,
after all. For the rest, he was frank, good-hearted, shrewd, and
resolute; and like Shorty, quite illiterate.
Though a curious conjunction, the pair got along together famously.
But, as no two men were ever united in any enterprise without one
getting the upper hand of the other, so in most matters Zeke had his
own way. Shorty, too, had imbibed from him a spirit of invincible
industry; and Heaven only knows what ideas of making a fortune on
their plantation.
We were much concerned at this; for the prospect of their setting us,
in their own persons, an example of downright hard labour, was
anything but agreeable. But it was now too late to repent what we had
done.
The first day - thank fortune - we did nothing. Having treated us as
guests thus far, they no doubt thought it would be wanting in
delicacy to set us to work before the compliments of the occasion
were well over. The next morning, however, they both looked
business-like, and we were put to.
"Wall, b'ys" (boys), said Zeke, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
after breakfast - "we must get at it. Shorty, give Peter there (the
doctor), the big hoe, and Paul the other, and let's be off." Going to
a corner, Shorty brought forth three of the implements; and
distributing them impartially, trudged on after his partner, who took
the lead with something in the shape of an axe.
For a moment left alone in the house, we looked at each other,
quaking. We were each equipped with a great, clumsy piece of a tree,
armed at one end with a heavy, flat mass of iron.
The cutlery part - especially adapted to a primitive soil - was an
importation from Sydney; the handles must have been of domestic
manufacture. "Hoes" - so called - we had heard of, and seen; but they
were harmless in comparison with the tools in our hands.
"What's to be done with them?" inquired I of Peter.
"Lift them up and down," he replied; "or put them in motion some way
or other. Paul, we are in a scrape - but hark! they are calling;" and
shouldering the hoes, off we marched.'
Our destination was the farther side of the plantation, where the
ground, cleared in part, had not yet been broken up; but they were
now setting about it. Upon halting, I asked why a plough was not
used; some of the young wild steers might be caught and trained for
draught.
Zeke replied that, for such a purpose, no cattle, to his knowledge,
had ever been used in any part of Polynesia. As for the soil of
Martair, so obstructed was it with roots, crossing and recrossing
each other at all points, that no kind of a plough could be used to
advantage. The heavy Sydney hoes were the only thing for such land.
Our work was now before us; but, previous to commencing operations, I
endeavoured to engage the Yankee in a little further friendly chat
concerning the nature of virgin soils in general, and that of the
valley of Martair in particular. So masterly a stratagem made Long
Ghost brighten up; and he stood by ready to join in. But what our
friend had to say about agriculture all referred to the particular
part of his plantation upon which we stood; and having communicated
enough on this head to enable us to set to work to the best
advantage, he fell to, himself; and Shorty, who had been looking on,
followed suit.
The surface, here and there, presented closely amputated branches of
what had once been a dense thicket. They seemed purposely left
projecting, as if to furnish a handle whereby to drag out the roots
beneath. After loosening the hard soil, by dint of much thumping and
pounding, the Yankee jerked one of the roots this way and that,
twisting it round and round, and then tugging at it horizontally.
"Come! lend us a hand!" he cried, at last; and running up, we all four
strained away in concert. The tough obstacle convulsed the surface
with throes and spasms; but stuck fast, notwithstanding.
"Dumn it!" cried Zeke, "we'll have to get a rope; run to the house,
Shorty, and fetch one."
The end of this being attached, we took plenty of room, and strained
away once more.
"Give us a song, Shorty," said the doctor; who was rather sociable, on
a short acquaintance. Where the work to be accomplished is any way
difficult, this mode of enlivening toil is quite efficacious among
sailors. So willing to make everything as cheerful as possible,
Shorty struck up, "Were you ever in Dumbarton?" a marvellously
inspiring, but somewhat indecorous windlass chorus.
At last, the Yankee cast a damper on his enthusiasm by exclaiming, in
a pet, "Oh!
