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Updated: June 15, 2025
This was due in part to his habit of standing with his back to the scene which he proposed to paint and, bending over until his head almost touched the ground, peering at the landscape between his outspread legs. "It intensifies the color," he explained. "Try it." Baahaabaa bestowed a title on our artist "Maimaue Ahiiahi" "Tattooer of Rainbows" by which he was loudly acclaimed.
Whinney and I used to sing, "He's always tattooing rainbows!" but artistic vanity was proof against such bourgeoisie. Baahaabaa was tireless in suggesting new subjects for him to paint.
Whinney foolishly tried to compete with Swank by means of his camera foolishly, I say, though the result was one of the finest spectacles I have ever witnessed. For days Whinney had been stalking Swank, photographing everything he painted. In a darkroom of closely woven panjandrus leaves the films were developed and a proof rushed off to Baahaabaa long before the artist had finished his picture.
Gentle, dignified Baahaabaa, shall I ever forget you as you stood with your hands resting on my shoulder, confidently expecting to see me on the morrow! Merry Hitoia-Upa, kindly Ablutiluti, and Moolitonu, oh! that I might send some message across the waste of waters to tell your loving hearts of the love which still kindles in mine. We did not dare visit our wives.
We could only look our astonishment. "Yes," continued the chief, smiling benignly, "first among you all is he to have his name recorded in our ancient fashion." As he pronounced these words Baahaabaa lifted his left foot solemnly and pointed to his own royal appellation tattooed on the sole. Our wives did likewise. "What is his name?" Whinney asked.
A blithe incident enlivened that peaceful period, preceding tragic events which must be told in their proper place. On the fairest of tropical mornings Kippy and I heard a gentle tapping at the trunk of our tree and, peering over the floor, saw below Baahaabaa, his face shining with happiness.
The purple shadow of the Mountain rested on our tiny craft but a shadow yet deeper shrouded our hearts. Each of us carried the consciousness of a terrible duty. We ought to leave the Filberts. Broken-heartedly we talked over the situation. "Getting worse," was Whinney's report. "Saw Baahaabaa scratching his leg this morning probably got it." Poor Baahaabaa, how my heart ached for him.
In all the history of great friendships there is nothing more touching and more noble than the beautiful bond which existed between Baahaabaa, the simple, primitive chief of the Filbertines and the white men who spent the happiest months of their lives on his island and then so strangely vanished. For several days after their departure he spoke no word.
It was grand opera on a titanic scale, with the added distinction of really meaning something. Baahaabaa spoke first in fact I think I may say that he spoke first, last and all the time. I can conscientiously claim that he is the champion long-distance orator of the world. Ever and anon he gave way to a guest but only for a moment.
When the rivals showed up on the beach at the appointed time I regret to say that Swank was not himself. He had spent the night with Baahaabaa and Hitoia-Upa, who supported him on either side, and balanced him precariously on his sketching-stool where he promptly fell asleep.
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