To the north stood a giant phallus of stone, buried in the earth, but protruding six feet, and inclined toward the north.  It was a foot in diameter, and was carved au naturel as the Maori lingam and yoni throughout Polynesia, and in India, where doubtless the cult originated.  Before the break-down of their culture, this stone had been sprinkled with water, or anointed with cocoanut-oil, and covered with a black cloth, as in Hawaii.  The Greeks called their similar god, Priapus, the Black-Cloaked.

A trench had been made on the west side of the pit from which to ignite the fuel, a torch lit by fire struck from wood by friction.  I did not see the lighting, which occurred Friday morning, thirty-six hours before the ceremony.  The ordinance was set for eight o’clock.  I swam in the river at five on Saturday, and lay down in my bird cage to be thoroughly rested for the night.  It was not easy to fall asleep.  There was a thicket of pandanus near my house, the many legs of the curious trees set in the sand of the upper beach, and these trees were favorite resort of the mina birds, which were as familiar with me as children of a family, and in many cases impudent beyond belief.  They were the size of crows, and had bronzed wings, lined with white; but their most conspicuous color was a flaring yellow, which dyed their feet and their beaks and encircled their bold eyes like canary-colored rims of spectacles.  Their usual voice was a hoarse croak that a raven might disavow, but they also emitted a disturbing rattle and a whistle, according to their moods.  They were thieves, as I have said, but one was more audacious than the others.  He would come into my open house at daybreak, and perch on my body, and awaken me pecking at imaginary ticks.  He picked up a small compass by its chain and flew away with it.

This particular wretch had learned to speak a little, and would say, “Ia ora na oe!” sharply, but with a decided grackle accent.  Despite the irritating cacophony of the mina, I must have slept more than an hour; for when I was suddenly awakened, the sun was almost lost behind the hills.  The talking mina was dancing on my bare stomach and calling out his human vocabulary.

I sprang up, my tormentor uttering a raucous screech as I tossed him away.  While I hastily cooked my supper, the colors of the hiding sun spread over the sky in entrancing variety.  I could not see the west, but to the northeast were rifts of blood-red clouds edged with gold over a lake of pearly hue, and to the right of it a bank of smoke.  Against this was a single cocoa on the edge of the promontory, a banner my eye always sought as the day ended.  Rising a hundred feet or more, the curving staff upheld a dozen dark fronds, which nodded in the evening breeze.