Or take an experience of Mr. Donat’s on the island of Anaa.  It was a night of a high wind, with violent squalls; his child was very sick, and the father, though he had gone to bed, lay wakeful, hearkening to the gale.  All at once a fowl was violently dashed on the house wall.  Supposing he had forgot to put it in shelter with the rest, Donat arose, found the bird (a cock) lying on the verandah, and put it in the hen-house, the door of which he securely fastened.  Fifteen minutes later the business was repeated, only this time, as it was being dashed against the wall, the bird crew.  Again Donat replaced it, examining the hen-house thoroughly and finding it quite perfect; as he was so engaged the wind puffed out his light, and he must grope back to the door a good deal shaken.  Yet a third time the bird was dashed upon the wall; a third time Donat set it, now near dead, beside its mates; and he was scarce returned before there came a rush, like that of a furious strong man, against the door, and a whistle as loud as that of a railway engine rang about the house.  The sceptical reader may here detect the finger of the tempest; but the women gave up all for lost and clustered on the beds lamenting.  Nothing followed, and I must suppose the gale somewhat abated, for presently after a chief came visiting.  He was a bold man to be abroad so late, but doubtless carried a bright lantern.  And he was certainly a man of counsel, for as soon as he heard the details of these disturbances he was in a position to explain their nature.  ‘Your child,’ said he, ’must certainly die.  This is the evil spirit of our island who lies in wait to eat the spirits of the newly dead.’  And then he went on to expatiate on the strangeness of the spirit’s conduct.  He was not usually, he explained, so open of assault, but sat silent on the house-top waiting, in the guise of a bird, while within the people tended the dying and bewailed the dead, and had no thought of peril.  But when the day came and the doors were opened, and men began to go abroad, blood-stains on the wall betrayed the tragedy.

This is the quality I admire in Paumotuan legend.  In Tahiti the spirit-eater is said to assume a vesture which has much more of pomp, but how much less of horror.  It has been seen by all sorts and conditions, native and foreign; only the last insist it is a meteor.  My authority was not so sure.  He was riding with his wife about two in the morning; both were near asleep, and the horses not much better.  It was a brilliant and still night, and the road wound over a mountain, near by a deserted marae (old Tahitian temple).  All at once the appearance passed above them:  a form of light; the head round and greenish; the body long, red, and with a focus of yet redder brilliancy about the midst.  A buzzing hoot accompanied its passage; it flew direct out of one marae, and direct for another down the mountain side.  And this, as my informant argued, is suggestive.  For why should a mere meteor frequent the altars of abominable gods?  The horses, I should say, were equally dismayed with their riders.  Now I am not dismayed at all—­not even agreeably.  Give me rather the bird upon the house-top and the morning blood-gouts on the wall.