This was a custom of the old days, said Great Fern, with those too-innocent eyes opened artlessly upon me.  It has ever been the ceremony of Thanks-giving to the ancient gods, for a bountiful harvest, a propitiation, and a begging of their continued favor.  As for him, he was a Christian.  Such rites were held no more in Atuona.

I asked no more questions.  Thanks-giving to an omnipotent ruler for the fruits of the harvest season is almost universal.  We have put in a proclamation and in church services and the slaughter of turkeys what these children do in dancing, as did Saul of old.

The season’s task completed, Great Fern and Apporo sat back well content, having provided excellently for the future.  Certain of their neighbors, however, filled with ambition and spurred on by the fact that there was plenty of mei for all with no suspicion of greediness incurred by excessive possessions, continued to work until they had filled three pits.  These men were regarded with admiration and some envy, having gained great honor.  “He has three popoi pits,” they said, as we would speak of a man who owned a superb jewel or a Velasquez.

[Illustration:  A volunteer cocoanut grove, with trees of all ages]

[Illustration:  Climbing for cocoanuts]

The grated breadfruit in the holes was called ma, and bore the same relation to popoi as dough bears to bread.  When the ma was sufficiently soured Apporo opened the pit each morning and took out enough for the day’s provision, replacing the stones on the banana leaves afterward.  The intrusion of insects and lizards was not considered to injure the flavor.

I often sat on her paepae and watched her prepare the day’s dinner.  Putting the rancid mass of ma into a long wooden trough hollowed out from a tree-trunk, she added water and mixed it into a paste of the consistency of custard.  This paste she wrapped in purua leaves and set to bake in a native oven of rocks that stood near the pit.

Apporo smoked cigarettes while it baked, perhaps to measure the time.  Marquesans mark off the minutes by cigarettes, saying, “I will do so-and-so in three cigarettes,” or, “It is two cigarettes from my house to his.”

When the cigarettes were consumed, or when her housewifely instinct told Apporo that the dish was properly cooked, back it went into the trough again, and was mashed with the keatukipopoi, the Phallic pounder of stone known to all primitive peoples.  A pahake, or wooden bowl about eighteen inches in diameter, received it next, and the last step of the process followed.

Taking a fistful of the mass, Apporo placed it in another pahake, and kneaded it for a long time with her fingers, using oil from crushed cocoanuts as a lubricant.  And at last, proudly smiling, she set before me a dish of popoi kaoi, the very best popoi that can possibly be made.