The Story of Longa-Poa

But she was the daughter of a “Sacred King”; and he could not lift his hand against her, for she was nearer to the gods than he.

So it fell on a certain day that Longa-poa came back from Haa-pai, whither he had gone sailing with his warriors because the War-King Kano-ku-bolu, the “Heart of Samoa,” had said, “Let Longa-poa hoist his sail and go to the men of Haa-pai, that they may know the evil of their ways, in that they have not sent the yearly tribute.” And he came back, bringing the tribute, a great store of wealth; for the souls of the Haa-pai folk were small before him, and they feared because of their revolt. Therefore they gave much more than the appointed gifts; and Longa-poa was glad of heart as he came sailing back to Tonga with his deep-laden canoes; and a joyful chief was the War-King when the property was brought to his Great House. He said to his men, “Bring hither a pig, that Longa-poa may eat. Make ready a feast for him, and for his men. Good is his sailing! A happy voyage! Eat now, Longa-poa, and then go away to your house. Is not your wife waiting for you there?” Whereupon a cloud came over the face of Longa-poa, which had brightened up when the king spoke of the pig.

So, after the feast was over, he went his way; and coming to the house, he found his wife there, beating one of her women with a stick, as her manner was, for she was always either beating or scolding, and indeed often both of the two at once. When he lifted the mat that hung in the doorway, she turned round and saw him.

“You are come back, then!” said she, in a scornful voice.

“I am come, Fekai,” answered Longa-poa. “And where, then, are the bodies of your foes?” asked the Ferocious One, twitching a tuft of hair from the head of the girl that she had been beating; for she had clutched her by the hair with one hand, while she was thrashing her with the other; nor had she let go when her lord came in, “Where are your bokolas?” she cried. “Let our share be dragged up to the house, and let the young men — the lazy, the useless ones — let them make ready the ovens.”

“There are no bokolas, O Fekai,” said Longa-poa. “Their souls were small, the men of Haa-pai, and they brought a peace-offering, giving also great store of wealth. Therefore they live, and there are no hokolas.”

Great then was the Ferocious One’s wrath. Her eyes glared, and the foam flew from her lips, as she flung the tuft of hair, that she had pulled out, in the face of her lord — great chief as he was — a thing not to be endured by any man. “Let that be your food!” she cried. “Cursed be the winds that brought you back! Man of a watery soul! Weak one! Coward! A chief, perhaps? Truly a great chief! A mighty lord!” And rushing upon him, she smote him with the stick with which she had just been beating the girl. He leaped to his feet and fled from the house, and she ran after him, cursing him, till she was out of breath and could follow him no longer.

Longa-poa ran to the seaside, where he sat down on the prow of his canoe, which was hauled up on to the beach; and covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud, while his young men gathered round him, sitting it his feet in awe-struck silence.

“Are you all here?” said he at length; “Lolo-hea, Pulu, Tama-eiki, are you all here?”

“We are all here, my lord,” answered Lolo-hea in a subdued tone, for he was full of distress at the sorrow of his chief, and so were they all.

“Let the canoe float!” said the wretched chief. “Drag her down to the deep water!” And the young men leaped to the work with a loud shout; and they dragged the great canoe into the deep water till it was well afloat, and no longer grated along the sand. Then said Longa-poa, as he rose to his feet, tall and strong: “Listen to me,” he cried. “Hear my words this day, and let them sink down into your souls. I am going away. Henceforth let no man say that Longa-poa is a Tongan. A stranger am I in the land where that woman dwells. You, therefore, whose souls are small, you who are afraid, go back to the shore, and stay with the women. But you who love your chief, you whose hearts are strong, come with me, and we will find a new land wherein we may dwell. My words are spoken!”

Then there was a great silence, and the young men looked into each other’s faces.

“I will go with my lord,” said Pulu. And as he spoke, the tears ran down his cheeks; for he thought of Fonua, the young girl to whom he had spoken, and whose friends were then making ready the marriage-feast. A fine young chief was Pulu, and beautiful exceedingly was the girl Fonua. “We will all go,” said Lolo-hea. “We will follow you, Longa-poa. If we die in the midst of the waters, we will all die together; and if we find a strange land, we will fight with its people, making them our servants, and you shall reign over us and them.” And thus said they all.

THE SAILING OF THE EXILES

So when they had hastily gathered food and water they hoisted the sail, and the great canoe moved swiftly over the waters till the land grew dark behind them, and the sun went down into the western sea.

Then cried Longa-poa in a cheery voice from the top of the deck-house where he was sitting: “Let not your hearts be sore, my men. Good is our sailing! A good wind! A smooth sea! It will be a fine night, for there are many stars. See also how they twinkle! Therefore will this north-east wind continue to blow. Strike up a song, that our hearts may be glad; for that woman will not live for ever, and we shall yet go back to our own land in peace.”

Then Moala, the gleeman, began the canoe-chaunt, and the young men clapped their hands, keeping time as they took up the strain, while Longa-poa cheered them on from the top of the deck-house, singing also himself in company with them. But when they came to the part of the chaunt where it is said,

“The sun has set, and the land is far away,”

the strong voice of Moala faltered, and grew weak and quavering, like the voice of a little child — of a little child that is about to weep; and lowering their heads, the young men wept with a bitter weeping, as they thought of their land now hidden in the darkness, of their homes, their kinsfolk, and their friends, all left behind without so much as a word of parting, and never more to be seen by them again.

But Longa-poa sang on, as he sat on the top of the deck-house. Changing the strain, in a loud voice and a stern, he chaunted a song of war. It rang out over the waters full and clear above the noise of the weeping, as it told how their tribe had taken the stronghold of Vavau in the olden days. Nor was it long before the young men raised their heads, and the noise of the weeping ceased; for their souls grew hot within them as they hearkened to the words; till, when the chief came to the song of triumph which their fathers sang after the victory, they leaped to their feet, shouting the war-cry, and joined with him in that terrible chaunt which is called “The Song of Death.”

Thus they went sailing throughout that night and the following day, passing island after island of the group, until at last Niua sank down into the waters behind them; after which no land was seen for many days, and the crew said to one another, “We have passed the ends of the earth. There is now nothing but water.” Nevertheless they came to other lands, sailing continually, till the canoe became to them even as their house, and the sea their land; nor were they content to stay quietly ashore; but ever after a few days they longed to be sailing again. True children of the sea had they become.

Too long were it to tell you of all the mighty deeds they wrought in the lands to which the winds carried them; of all their fightings and feastings, and of all the hunger and thirst and hardships they endured. How Moala, the gleeman, was treacherously slain on the beach of an island, which stands alone in the midst of the sea, being thrust through the back with a spear as he was gathering firewood; wherefore Longa-poa smote all that people, men, women, and children, leaving not one alive; so that the land is empty even unto this day. How Pulu forgot Fonua, being ensnared by a young girl of another land, who prevailed upon him to hide himself in the mangroves when his comrades sailed away, that he might be her husband; and how she murdered him on that very night as he lay asleep, and shared his body out among her friends. How Longa-poa, coming back in the morning to look for Pulu, found her people feasting upon the body, and the head stuck on the point of a spear, which was thrust into the ground in the midst of the public square; whereupon the Tongans, shouting their war-cry, rushed forward, and smote the townsfolk with a great and terrible slaughter, leaving none alive but a few, who fled to the hills, and so escaped. How, sailing thence for many days without seeing land, they grew desperate in their hunger, and ran their canoe down upon a sleeping whale, leaping all of them upon him, stabbing him with their spears, and so fighting with and killing him. How thereupon they grew mad with pride, and said, “We are gods! We are gods! No children of men could have done the mighty deeds that we have done.” And how the gods heard them, and were sore displeased, and took counsel together how they should slay them. All this were too long to tell.

But after that the exiles had killed the whale, nothing went well with them; for how can they prosper with whom the gods are wroth? First, there smote them suddenly a raging blast, that tore their sail, breaking the mast also, and coming near to sink the canoe. But they baled her out, and fought stoutly with the tempest, scudding before it for many days, till they were well-nigh spent with hunger and weariness. Then they came to a land where they thought to rest their limbs and recruit; but the people crept secretly upon them in the night, and killed three of them before they could snatch up their weapons to fight with. Two more also fell, and Longa-poa himself was shot through the arm by an arrow as they attacked the town in the morning. Nevertheless they took the place, and burnt it to the ground, with all the townsfolk. Here they made another sail for themselves, and cut a new mast in the place of that which the storm had broken, resting also for many days, until the chiefs wound was healed. After this they sailed away again, and then came the end.

FEKAI ENDS HER SCOLDING

When they had been two days at sea, Longa-poa said to one of the young men, “Climb now to the mast-head and look around. There may perchance be land in sight.”

“There is nothing, sir,” cried the youth from aloft, when he had looked all around. But just as he was about to glide down the mast his eye caught a little speck far away on the waters to windward, and he shouted, “A sail! A sail!”

Glad then were the hearts of the Tongans; and seizing their weapons, they struck up the “Song of Death” as the strange canoe ran swiftly down towards them. But when they were very near, and had risen to their feet, making ready to leap on board and smite with the club, then suddenly the chieFs heart became as water, and scrambling down from the roof of the deck-house he thrust the steersman away from the big sheer-oar, and luffed close up into the wind. Great then was the wonder of his crew; but not long did they wonder; for from the strange canoe a laugh rang out across the water, loud, and fierce, and shrill. And they trembled as they heard it; for they knew the voice — it was the voice of Fekai!

“Good is your sailing!” shrieked that terrible woman. “Good is your sailing! A happy voyage! Long have we been looking for you, and now we have found you at last. O villainous chief! O crew of rascals! We have you at last. Rise, my men, and let these, our friends, see what manner of gifts we have brought them.” And, springing to their feet with a dreadful shout, they brandished their weapons of war. “These are our gifts,” they cried. “Come now and take them!”

And the hearts of Longa-poa and his men died within them as they looked upon the faces of the other crew, and saw that every one of them was their bitter foe. There was Lutui, the Haa-pai chief, whose brother Longa-poa had slain, and Mafi, whose wife he had taken away by force, giving her to one of his own men — the wife of a chief to a commoner — an insult never to be forgotten. This he had done unwillingly on the urging of Fekai herself, against whom Mafi’s wife had offended. There too was Fuaki, whose house he had burned, and Moa, whose face he had smashed with a back-handed blow of his club. Old Napa, also, of Navau was among them, whose two sons he had killed at sea, running their canoe down in the midst of the waters because they had kept their flag flying when he was in sight. Napa was old and grey-headed, and his limbs were feeble; yet he stood there shaking a heavy club, and shouting more savagely than them all; for the thought of his two lads burned within his soul, and made him strong. These and many more had Fekai gathered together to hunt her lord, for she longed to kill him; and now, after many days, they met in the open sea.

So Longa-poa fled before his wife, trying to escape; but so equal in their speed were the two canoes, that he could not shake her off, nor could she come nearer to him, for she had gone to leeward when he luffed up into the wind to prevent her from running him down, and now both canoes were sailing close-hauled, with Longa-poa’s to windward. For three days they thus sailed, he fleeing and she pursuing — a wretched time; for when it was day, Longa-poa and his men could see their foes chasing them; and during the night the awful voice of Fekai ceased not to ring in their ears as she taunted and reviled them.

On the fourth day land was seen; and Longa-poa said to his men, “Let us go ashore on that island. Here will we make a stand against our foes. We shall be there before them, for we are still leading. Leap ashore quickly, my men, as soon as the canoe touches the beach; then shall we be all in order, and ready to smite them as they land.”

So they steered for the shore, and Fekai yelled with joy. “They are going to land,” she cried; “now we have them! They are going to flee to the land.”

But when they were not yet near the island a great and terrible thing befell; for they sailed into water that was leaping and bubbling like a boiling pot; and a raging current seized the two canoes, whirling them round and round, and carrying them nearer and nearer to a great black rock, where the water plunged downwards, white and roaring, into a deep, dark cavern, which was — as our fathers said — one of the places where men’s ghosts went down to Bulu, the land of spirits. Here the two canoes were brought close together; but no one thought of smiting his foe, for they all crouched down in speechless terror, and even Fekai was silent. Her canoe was the first to go. Never before had her tongue been idle; but silent she went to her death, and there was an end to her scolding.

When Longa-poa saw her canoe plunge down into the abyss, his soul came back to him again. “She is gone!” he cried; and he laughed in the face of Death. “Cheer up, my men, for there is yet a chance. Stand you all ready, and when we come close to the rock, leap for your lives.”

And even as he spoke, the canoe was caught by the downward rush, and whirled swiftly towards the rock.

“Leap!” shouted Longa-poa, springing forward with a mighty bound, and clutching a bush which grew out of a cleft in the rock. It was a fearful leap; and he, alone of them all, reached the shore. Looking back, he saw that they had all gone down, excepting one young man, who, though he fell into the water, had leaped far enough to clutch the rock with his hands. He held on for a moment, and then with a cry of “Farewell, my chief!” he loosed his hold, and gave himself to death. A pang smote the heart of Longa-poa; but so full of joy was he at the thought of being now rid of Fekai for evermore, that his being left thus alone in a strange land seemed but a little thing; and clambering over the rock, he came to a sandy beach, where he lay down at the foot of a palm tree and fell asleep, for he was faint and weary.

THE TREE OF FEASTS

Nevertheless, when he awoke in the morning his soul was very sad, for he thought of his brave men, of all the wars to which they had followed him; how true and faithful they had ever been, even when he led them into the very jaws of death. Moreover, he now began to think of Tonga, his native land, and the longing to return thither was like a burning fire in his soul. But how was he to get back? His canoe was sunk, and his men were dead! Truly in an evil case was Longa-poa! He began to be very hungry also, for heaviness of soul does not do away with emptiness of stomach. So he said, “If I stay here I shall perish with hunger; I will go and look for food. If the dwellers on this land meet me and kill me, I can but die.” So, taking a heavy stick in his hand, he set forth on his search after something to eat.

All that day he searched, but nothing did he find, neither food, nor dwelling, nor any living thing — not so much as even a crab, for it was an empty land. There were palms along the beach, but the coconuts on them were small, not one of them was as large as an orange; and when the second night came on Longa-poa threw himself upon the ground in utter despair, weeping and moaning because of his wretched fate. Then there came a shrill voice to his ears from the darkness above him, calling, “Longa-poa! Longa-poa!”

“Who calls me?” he cried, springing to his feet in great fear; but still the voice continued its call, “Longa-poa! Longa-poa!”

“Here am I, my lord,” he said again; “here is that wretched man. But who are you, my lord? Who is it that speaks to me?” And moving round the palm-tree, at the foot of which he had been lying, he saw a strange thing between him and the star-lit sky, for just on the very end of a long palm-leaf, which would not have supported the weight of a rat without bending, there sat astride a little old man, bobbing up and down as the leaf swayed and tossed in the night wind. Very little was he, no taller than the length of an arm from hand to elbow; but his head was big, and so were his eyes, which glared through the darkness, glowing like firebrands, so that Longa-poa could see the face of the little old man because of the brightness that shone from his eyes; and his heart died within him, for he knew that it was a god who had spoken.

“What are you crying for, Longa-poa?” asked the little old man. “What are you crying for? You are a god, you know. You said so when you killed the whale. What then are you crying for? It is not the custom of the gods to weep?”

Then was the chief terribly afraid; and he crouched down on the ground, clapping his hands softly. “Be not angry, my lord,” said he in a low tone. “Let not your soul be evil against me. Those were foolish words. But many are dead; let that suffice; is it not enough?”

“Where is your wife, Longa-poa?” asked the little old man again, chuckling a grim laugh as he swayed up and down on the end of the palm-leaf. “Where is Fekai? Where can I find that excellent woman? Why did you flee from her, Longa-poa? You are a god, you know. You said so when you killed the whale. Why then did you run away? It is not the custom of the gods to flee before women.”

“I wish you had her to wife,” said Longa-poa within himself. “She would make you glad to run away, god though you be.” But he took good care not to utter his thought aloud, and his only answer was a groan.

“Where are your men, Longa-poa?” cried the little old man. “Where are those great and mighty gods? They are gods, you know. They said so when they killed the whale. Surely they are not drowned in the whirlpool over there! It is not the custom of the gods to drown,” And once more Longa-poa answered with a groan.

“Are you hungry, Longa-poa?” his tormentor asked. “What are your worshippers about? for you are a god, you know. Why do they not make a feast for you? It is not the way of the gods to be hungry. They eat and are full.”

Then was the chiefs soul hot within him, and he was mad with rage; nevertheless he answered not a word, and the little old man mocked on.

“Do you want to go back to Tonga, Longa-poa?” said he with a grin. “Where is your canoe? Is it at anchor, or is it perhaps hauled up on the beach? Call your men, Longa-poa; hoist your sail and start, for the wind is fair. You are a god, you know, and the gods go whither they will.”

“Look you!” cried Longa-poa, starting to his feet, “let there be an end to these words of yours. It is enough. I will bear with you no longer. My canoe is sunk; my men are drowned; I am hungry; I want to go to Tonga; a stranger am I in a strange land. These are the things that made me weep. And now come down from the tree and kill me if you like. I can but die, and death is not so bitter as are bitter words to one who is helpless and without a friend.”

Then the little old man screamed with laughter. Long and loud laughed he from his perch on the palm-leaf. “Well spoken, Longa-poa!” he cried at last. “Good are your words! You are a brave man after all, though you be not a god, and I will take pity upon you. Be of good cheer, for your troubles are over. Get ready now an oven, for your hunger must first be appeased.”

“You are mocking me,” said Longa-poa. “Why should I make ready an oven? Where is the food?”

“Dig out the oven and heat it,” said the other. “That is your share of the work, the food is mine.” So he got ready the oven, digging it in the sand, and putting dry sticks in it with stones on the top of them, and the god dropped a fire-stick down to him to light the wood. After a time the little old man spoke again —

“Is the oven ready?” he asked. “Are the stones well heated? Go now to that tree on your right hand and break ofF a small branch. Bring it hither. Lay it on the hot stones, and cover the oven with plenty of earth.”

But the chief was very angry. “This is worse than all your taunts,” he cried. “What is the use of baking a stick? Come down from the tree and kill me at once!”

“Do as I bid you, foolish man!” the god replied. “Follow my words, and your hunger shall be satisfied. Why should you wish to die?”

Then Longa-poa laid the branch in the oven and covered it up, heaping the earth carefully over it. And having done this, he sat down in silence and in great unbelief, while the little old man, with the big head and fiery eyes, went on swinging himself up and down on the end of the palm-leaf

“The food is cooked,” he cried at length. “Dig up your feast, Longa-poa, for it is ready.”

And Longa-poa cleared the earth from the top of the oven, expecting to find nothing but a scorched branch in it. But as soon as he thrust in the piece of wood he had used as a digging-stick a savoury steam rose up into his nostrils, and he shouted aloud for joy.

“It smells well,” said the little old man, sniffing the air. “Ah, the pleasant smell! Dig, Longa-poa, dig! and let us feast together.”

A joyful man was Longa-poa when he had cleared away the earth with which the oven had been covered; for there, under the large leaves which he had laid upon the branch, as the custom is before the earth-covering is put upon the food in an oven, he saw a great pig, and ducks, and fowls, and turtle, and all manner of fish, and yams, and sweet potatoes — a rich feast, all well cooked, pleasant to see, and sweet to smell. “Here now is a wonderful thing!” said Longa-poa.

So they ate together till their hunger was satisfied. Longa-poa made full amends for his long abstinence; but, though he was so many sizes larger than his companion — all but his head — he could not eat one-tenth part as much as the little old man did, and he was lost in wonderment to know how he had bestowed it.

“I am thirsty,” said the little old man at last.

“Climb one of these palms, Longa-poa, and throw down me green coconuts, that we may drink.” “The nuts are small, my lord,” the chief replied. “There is not one full-grown one on the island. Have I not been searching all the day?”

“Climb nevertheless,” said the other, and Longa-poa did as he bade him, throwing down a cluster of the little nuts. Then, coming down from the tree, he fixed a pointed stick slanting in the ground, with which he tore off the husks; and piercing the eye of a nut, he gave it to the little old man, and then made one ready for himself He drank and drank again till his thirst was fully satisfied, and when he ceased there was milk still in the nut, although he had drunk till he could drink no more. “Here again is a wonderful thing!” he cried. “Truly this is a land of wonders.” At this the little old man laughed a merry laugh.

“And now, Longa-poa,” said he, “it is time that you were going, if you want to get to Tonga before sunrise.”

“To Tonga!” cried the chief in a doleful voice, while his eyes grew moist. “Tonga before sunrise! Wonderful was the feast, and wonderful the nut; but Tonga before sunrise, that were the most wonderful of all! Why! the stars are already growing pale in the east. Take pity upon me, my lord, and mock me no more.”

“Man of an unbelieving soul!” said the god. “Why will you still doubt my words? Is it then so great a thing that I should be able to send you back to your home before the sun rises from the sea? Not so! It is but a little thing. Go now to the tree whence you cut the branch, and take thence a slip, that you may plant it in Tonga, and hunger no more for ever. Then come back hither to me.”

So Longa-poa did as the god bade him; and when he returned, behold a bird great and terrible! — so tall that the tops of the palms looked but breast-high against it, as it walked upon the ground, and he was afraid.

“Fear not!” said the little old man. “It is my bird, and it will do you no harm. Tie yourself to its legs with your waistcloth. Tie yourself tight to it above its knee, and fear not. It will take you back to your land; and when you reach Tonga, plant then at once that slip from the Tree of Feasts. Plant it before sunrise. Be sure to do that. Before sunrise; do not forget! And now, Longa-poa, farewell, for it is time to go; the middle of the night is past.”

“I am your man, my lord,” said the chief, as he tied himself to the leg of the bird above its knee. “ Henceforth and for ever will I be your man, for you surely are the mightiest of all the gods.” And therewith the great bird spread its wings and flew swiftly away. When it rose from the earth it drew up its legs and thus held him tightly to its breast so that he went safely and at his ease.

“Farewell, Longa-poa,” shouted the little old man after him, in his shrill voice that carried so far. “Farewell! Remember to plant the slip before sunrise I And, Longa-poa! if ever you chance to kill another whale, don’t reckon yourself therefore to be a god.” And a shrill cackle of laughter came faintly up, as the bird rose higher and higher into the night.

When the day had begun to break over the land, the bird alighted upon Tonga-tibu, near to the town of the king; whereupon Longa-poa untied himself from its leg, and ran up into the town, wellnigh beside himself with joy; and whom should he see coming out of the king’s house, but his own little son, Vea, his only child! And, when he saw him, he had no thought for aught else, albeit the twig was still in his hand, for had he not his boy in his arms, clinging round his neck, and crying aloud, “My father! My father! It is my father. He is not dead, as they told me. He has come back to me again. My father! My own father!” And the shouting woke the king.

“What is this?” he cried in anger. “What is the meaning of this?” and seizing his club, he rushed out of doors. But, when he saw who it was, he threw down the club, and running up to Longa-poa, he caught him in his arms, and kissed him, weeping over him, for he loved him, and had long thought that he had been dead.

Quickly spread the news, and soon the whole town was in an uproar, all the people running together towards the king’s house to see the great chief who had just returned to his own. Only Fonua came not with them, for she was ashamed. She had grown tired of waiting for Pulu, and had married one-eyed Lua, who beat her every day.

“Come into the house, Longa-poa,” said the king, “for the sun is hot outside.”

“The sun!” cried Longa-poa with a start, and looking down upon the twig which he still carried in his hand, he continued, “The sun! Wretched man that I am!” And hastily scratching a hole in the ground with his fingers, he thrust the slip into it, and called some of the men to put a fence round it at once. To this the king gave permission at his request, for it was within his own precincts. “What is it? Why are you troubled, Longa-poa?” he asked. “Let us go into the house,” was the reply, “and I will tell you all. It is a long tale, and sad.”

So they went in together, and the house was filled with people who had a place there; and Longa-poa told all that had befallen him, to which the king and the people listened in breathless silence, till he had done; and then the king said, “Marvellous things are these!” and the people answered, “It is true!”

There was much rejoicing that day in Tonga-tabu because the great chief — the wise, the mighty, the pillar of the land — who had been mourned as dead, had at last returned. But there was much weeping also among the kinsfolk of the dead.

“And so Fekai is gone!” said the king. “Truly she was a wonderful woman. Let us make ready to-day her death-feast. A rich feast, my people, for she was a great lady, and the daughter of a king.”

So the people made ready the death-feast, and mourned for Fekai, because she was dead. Many voices were loud in their wail, but never an eye was wet with tears; and when the old man, Afu, spoke aloud, the feast being over, and said, “She who never did aught but evil while she lived, has done good in her death; for on her account I have eaten, and am full,” they all burst into a roar of laughter, and Longa-poa’s laugh was the loudest of all.

Now the king had no sons. Daughters had he in plenty, but his wife had given him no sons. So, when he died in the following year, Longa-poa was made Tui, or Master, of Tonga, and ruled in his stead, for he was of the royal kin, and all the people honoured him. A good king was Longa-poa, for he learned many things from what had befallen him during his travels; so that he became kinder of heart, and more humble of soul, than he was when Fekai threw the tuft of hair in his face, and drove him away with her stick.

The slip, which he planted from the Tree of Feasts, grew up strong and flourishing; but when he baked a branch of it, as he had done in the empty land, no savoury steam came forth from the oven, and nothing but a branch was found therein, when it was afterwards uncovered; for had not the sun risen before the slip was planted? And often, as he looked upon the tree, he said with a sigh, “Oh that I had remembered the words of the little old man!” And thus here ends the Story of Longa-poa.

Running and expanding this site requires resources: from maintaining our digital platform to sourcing and curating new content. With your help, we can grow our collection, improve accessibility, and bring these incredible narratives to an even wider audience. Your sponsorship enables us to keep the world’s stories alive and thriving. ♦ Visit our Support page