for use the meal is mixed with water, made into a thin cake or damper, and baked in the ashes.  Prepared in this way the cake resembles a coarse ship’s biscuit.  In other parts, the beans are scraped by means of mussel-shells into a vermicelli-like substance, prior to soaking in water.  Our blacks have a more ingenious method of preparation, and employ a specially formed culinary implement, which is used for no other purpose.  They take the commonest of the land shells—­“kurra-dju” (XANTHOMELON PACHYSTYLA)—­and breaking away the apex grind down the back on a stone until but little more than half its bulk remains.  The upper edges being carefully worked to a fine edge, the only housewifery implement that the blacks possess is perfect.  With the implement in the right hand, between the thumb and the second finger—­the sharp edge resting on the thumb-nail—­the beans are planed, the operator being able to regulate the thickness of the shaving to a nicety.

It is women’s work to collect the beans, make the shell-planes, and do the shredding.  In the first place the beans are cooked, the oven consisting of hot stones covered with leaves.  In three or four hours they are taken out and planed, a dilly-bag (basket made of narrow strips of lawyer cane or grass) full of the shavings is immersed in running water for two or three days, the food being then ready for consumption without further preparation.  In appearance it resembles coarse tapioca, and it has no particular flavour.  To give it zest, some have a shell containing sea-water beside them when they dine, into which each portion of the mess is dipped.  As saponin is very soluble in water, by soaking the shredded beans for a few days the blacks resort to an absolutely perfect method of converting a poisonous substance into a valuable and sustaining, if tasteless, food.  No doubt, made up into a pudding with eggs, milk, sugar and flavouring, shredded beans would pass without comment as a substitute for tapioca.

MESSAGE-STICKS

There came to our beach one afternoon some poor exiles from Princess Charlotte Bay—­300 miles to the north.  Exiled they felt themselves to be, and were longing to return to their own country although their engagement for a six months’ cruise in quest of the passive beche-de-mer had but just begun.  One boy stepped along with an air of pride and importance.  His companions were deferential to a certain extent, but they, too, exhibited an unusual demeanour.  Some of the glory and honour that shone in Mattie’s face was reflected in theirs.  With the assurance of an ambassador bearing high credentials he saluted me—­

“Hello, Mister!  Good day.”

“Good day,” I responded.  “You come from that cutter?”

Mattie—­“Yes, mister.  Mickie sit down here, now?  Me got ’em letter.  Brother belonga gin, belonga Mickie; him gib it!”

“No; Mickie sit down alonga Palm Islands.  Come back, bi’mby.”