Not at first--but later. At first they welcomed the whites, and were eager to trade with them--particularly for muskets; for their pastime was internecine war, and they greatly preferred the white man's weapons to their own. War was their pastime--I use the word advisedly. They often met and slaughtered each other just for a lark, and when there was no quarrel. The author of "Old New Zealand" mentions a case where a victorious army could have followed up its advantage and exterminated the opposing army, but declined to do it; explaining naively that "if we did that, there couldn't be any more fighting." In another battle one army sent word that it was out of ammunition, and would be obliged to stop unless the opposing army would send some. It was sent, and the fight went on.

In the early days things went well enough. The natives sold land without clearly understanding the terms of exchange, and the whites bought it without being much disturbed about the native's confusion of mind. But by and by the Maori began to comprehend that he was being wronged; then there was trouble, for he was not the man to swallow a wrong and go aside and cry about it. He had the Tasmanian's spirit and endurance, and a notable share of military science besides; and so he rose against the oppressor, did this gallant "fanatic," and started a war that was not brought to a definite end until more than a generation had sped.


There are several good protections against temptations, but the surest is cowardice. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwep is pronounced Jackson. --Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar.

Friday, December 13. Sailed, at 3 p.m., in the 'Mararoa'. Summer seas and a good ship-life has nothing better.

Monday. Three days of paradise. Warm and sunny and smooth; the sea a luminous Mediterranean blue . . . . One lolls in a long chair all day under deck-awnings, and reads and smokes, in measureless content. One does not read prose at such a time, but poetry. I have been reading the poems of Mrs. Julia A. Moore, again, and I find in them the same grace and melody that attracted me when they were first published, twenty years ago, and have held me in happy bonds ever since.

"The Sentimental Song Book" has long been out of print, and has been forgotten by the world in general, but not by me. I carry it with me always--it and Goldsmith's deathless story.

Indeed, it has the same deep charm for me that the Vicar of Wakefield has, and I find in it the same subtle touch--the touch that makes an intentionally humorous episode pathetic and an intentionally pathetic one funny. In her time Mrs. Moore was called "the Sweet Singer of Michigan," and was best known by that name. I have read her book through twice today, with the purpose of determining which of her pieces has most merit, and I am persuaded that for wide grasp and sustained power, "William Upson" may claim first place


Air--"The Major's Only Son." Come all good people far and near, Oh, come and see what you can hear, It's of a young man true and brave, That is now sleeping in his grave.

Now, William Upson was his name If it's not that, it's all the same He did enlist in a cruel strife, And it caused him to lose his life.

He was Perry Upson's eldest son, His father loved his noble son, This son was nineteen years of age When first in the rebellion he engaged.

His father said that he might go, But his dear mother she said no, "Oh! stay at home, dear Billy," she said, But she could not turn his head.

He went to Nashville, in Tennessee, There his kind friends he could not see; He died among strangers, so far away, They did not know where his body lay.

He was taken sick and lived four weeks, And Oh! how his parents weep, But now they must in sorrow mourn, For Billy has gone to his heavenly home.

Oh! if his mother could have seen her son, For she loved him, her darling son; If she could heard his dying prayer, It would ease her heart till she met him there

How it would relieve his mother's heart To see her son from this world depart, And hear his noble words of love, As he left this world for that above.

Mark Twain
Classic Literature Library

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