AUWAE'S SCHOOL.
ON the morning after the picnic the little brown maiden is awake bright
and early. After her breakfast of poi and yams she weaves a wreath of
fresh flowers for her head, and, taking her books under her arm, begins
her walk to the village school. Her way leads past Upa's home, and the
boy is already waiting for her. As she comes near he shouts:
"Oh, Auwae, I have something to show you. You've got time to stop a few
minutes without being late to school. Come with me."
And the boy leads the way down a path to a tree covered with vines
trailing from the topmost branches to the ground. It makes a perfect
bower of the sweet-smelling blossoms; but it is not this Upa wishes to
show. He leads Auwae close to the trunk of the tree and bids her look
straight upward to an odd nest gnawed in the trunk far above them. From
the hole two bright eyes are peering down at the children. They belong
to a large rat that has made his home in the tree; perhaps he did this
to be sure of safety from small boys. Or possibly it was to secure
himself from the raids of the mongoose, so common in Hawaii nowadays.
[Illustration: "A LITTLE STREAM WHERE TWO WOMEN ARE WASHING"]
"Poor little fellow," says Auwae, "I don't blame him. Father says that a
good many rats live in the trees near here, but I never saw them there
before. And father says, too, that the white men brought the mongoose
here from India to drive out the rats, but the little fellows are not
satisfied with killing them off; they want our chickens, too. It's a
perfect shame. I wish they had stayed in their own country."
As the children now hurry on their way, they are obliged to cross a
little stream where two women are washing. There are neither tubs,
scrubbing-boards, nor soap to be seen. The clothing is dipped into the
soft water and the parts most soiled are rubbed on flat stones. It must
be rather hard on garments made of fine cloth, and it seems as though
the women would get tired bending down. After all, there are but few
things to wash, and, as the people do not work hard, their clothing
cannot get badly soiled.
But look! Here come some of Auwae's schoolmates to join them. They are
swimming down the stream. Each carries her clothing in a small bundle in
her hand; she holds it out of the water as she paddles along. It is such
a common matter that Auwae is not in the least surprised.
The schoolhouse is soon reached. It has but one large room, as there
are but thirty children in the village. Much of the time the gentle
schoolmaster sits with his pupils under the large tree near by. Auwae
likes that much the best. She can never get used to the close air inside
the house. But to-day the children must do some writing, so they sit at
their desks and compose letters to their adopted brothers and sisters in
America.
How odd it seems to see the schoolmaster tend his baby while he teaches
the children! Why didn't he leave it with his wife at home? Because in
this island of flowers it is the duty of men as well as women to act as
nurses. It seems a strange idea to us, but, if they are satisfied, it
must be all right.
Look at the baby! He is wrapped in enough clothing for six such tiny
beings, and drops of perspiration are running down his face; but he does
not cry.
"Aloha!" says our little Auwae, as she bows before her teacher. And
"Aloha!" he replies, in a kind sweet voice. How many things this one
word means! It answers for "good morning," "good-bye," "love," "thanks,"
and I don't know what else. But the smile that goes with it seems always
to explain its meaning and make it the most delightful of words.
In Auwae's land the language was never written until the white people
came to teach and help the Hawaiians. But it is very easy to understand,
and Auwae could read when she had been at school only a few weeks. She
had only twelve letters to learn. Every word and syllable of the
Hawaiian language ends in vowels, and there are no hard sounds to
pronounce. The sentences flow like music; so it is no wonder that Auwae
composes poems so easily. They are very pretty, however, and her teacher
is proud of her.
Auwae can tell you a great deal of the history of her island home.
There are some parts of it that she loves to hear over and over again.
On many a warm night as she lies on the grass with her head in her
father's lap, she will look up into his kind eyes, and say:
"Papa, do tell me again about the very first Hawaiians. How did people
come to live here after the island had grown up out of the sea? I can
seem to see the seeds and twigs floating on to the shores with the tide.
I can see the seeds sprouting and shooting up into tall trees out of the
lava soil. But I wish you would describe again the boats loaded with
people coming here from far away."
Then Auwae's father tells her of the time when there were no grass
houses, nor brown children playing about them. He relates the stories
handed down for hundreds of years about people living on distant islands
across the equator. They were not treated kindly in their own land, and
wished to find a new home where they could be happy and free. They were
much like the Pilgrims who left Europe, and were willing to bear
hardship and danger in New England.