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- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.153Z
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- 7348
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- CHAPTER LIII.
FARMING IN POLYNESIA
The planters were both whole-souled fellows; but, in other respects, as
unlike as possible.
One was a tall, robust Yankee, born in the backwoods of Maine, sallow,
and with a long face;—the other was a short little Cockney, who had
first clapped his eyes on the Monument.
The voice of Zeke, the Yankee, had a twang like a cracked viol; and
Shorty (as his comrade called him), clipped the aspirate from every
word beginning with one. The latter, though not the tallest man in the
world, was a good-looking young fellow of twenty-five. His cheeks were
dyed with the fine Saxon red, burned deeper from his roving life: his
blue eye opened well, and a profusion of fair hair curled over a
well-shaped head.
But Zeke was no beauty. A strong, ugly man, he was well adapted for
manual labour; and that was all. His eyes were made to see with, and
not for ogling. Compared with the Cockney, he was grave, and rather
taciturn; but there was a deal of good old humour bottled up in him,
after all. For the rest, he was frank, good-hearted, shrewd, and
resolute; and like Shorty, quite illiterate.
Though a curious conjunction, the pair got along together famously.
But, as no two men were ever united in any enterprise without one
getting the upper hand of the other, so in most matters Zeke had his
own way. Shorty, too, had imbibed from him a spirit of invincible
industry; and Heaven only knows what ideas of making a fortune on their
plantation.
We were much concerned at this; for the prospect of their setting us,
in their own persons, an example of downright hard labour, was anything
but agreeable. But it was now too late to repent what we had done.
The first day—thank fortune—we did nothing. Having treated us as guests
thus far, they no doubt thought it would be wanting in delicacy to set
us to work before the compliments of the occasion were well over. The
next morning, however, they both looked business-like, and we were put
to.
“Wall, b’ys” (boys), said Zeke, knocking the ashes out of his pipe,
after breakfast—“we must get at it. Shorty, give Peter there (the
doctor), the big hoe, and Paul the other, and let’s be off.” Going to a
corner, Shorty brought forth three of the implements; and distributing
them impartially, trudged on after his partner, who took the lead with
something in the shape of an axe.
For a moment left alone in the house, we looked at each other, quaking.
We were each equipped with a great, clumsy piece of a tree, armed at
one end with a heavy, flat mass of iron.
The cutlery part—especially adapted to a primitive soil—was an
importation from Sydney; the handles must have been of domestic
manufacture. “Hoes”—so called—we had heard of, and seen; but they were
harmless in comparison with the tools in our hands.
“What’s to be done with them?” inquired I of Peter.
“Lift them up and down,” he replied; “or put them in motion some way or
other. Paul, we are in a scrape—but hark! they are calling;” and
shouldering the hoes, off we marched.
Our destination was the farther side of the plantation, where the
ground, cleared in part, had not yet been broken up; but they were now
setting about it. Upon halting, I asked why a plough was not used; some
of the young wild steers might be caught and trained for draught.
Zeke replied that, for such a purpose, no cattle, to his knowledge, had
ever been used in any part of Polynesia. As for the soil of Martair, so
obstructed was it with roots, crossing and recrossing each other at all
points, that no kind of a plough could be used to advantage. The heavy
Sydney hoes were the only thing for such land.
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