Most visitors begin their Papuan experiences at Port Moresby, but you begin yours at a smaller place, where I have spent the last seventeen years. The village is called Delena, and you can find it on the shore of Hall Sound. Nothing grand will impress you as you draw near to the shore, but no matter at what time you land you will find a crowd of young children running to meet you; no matter what your age, whether you are man, woman, boy or girl; no matter what the time of day, you will be greeted with “Good-morning, sir,” and little hands will go up to the salute, many of them as awkwardly as though the joints belonged to wooden Dutch dolls. These are the youngsters I want to introduce to you first.

Several things will attract your attention. First, perhaps, that they have no clothes such as we wear. They do not need them and are content to be clothed for the most part in mud and sunshine. Neither mud nor sunshine allows much scope for originality in fashion, but you will notice that the ordinary originality comes in in the way the hair is served. Many of the youngsters will have their heads shaved clean. Some will have two tufts left, one in front and one behind, like convenient handles to hold on by. Some have a ridge left along the top of the head, like a cock’s comb. Some have alternate bands of hair and bare scalp, and some the full bushy head of hair which is so distinctive of the Papuan.

As a rule they keep to the patterns they learnt from their fathers, but one day in school I saw a stroke of decided originality. A little fellow came in with a new pattern, and gradually I worked out the bare lines into the first three letters of the native alphabet, A, E, I, and then followed this dialogue:—

Missionary.—“Who cut your hair in that fashion?”

Boy.—“My big brother.”

Missionary.—“What did he do it with?”

Boy.—“A bit of a broken bottle.”

Missionary.—“Did it hurt?”

Boy.—“Only a little.”

The letters were not well formed, but there was no doubt about them, and I wondered if the elder brother thought the younger so thick-headed that there was a doubt about his getting the letters inside and so made sure that he should have them outside. Be that as it may, there the letters were till the hair grew again.

As a rule there is no fuss when a little Papuan comes into the world, but occasionally his arrival is celebrated with quite royal pomp and pageantry, and the women of his tribe have their turn at wearing the family finery, and going in for a big dance. A few years ago I was fortunate enough to come across one of these celebrations at Maiva.

Some sixty women with wonderful feather head-dresses, gay as the brightest feathers of tropical birds could make them, and wearing all kinds of shell ornaments, took part. The central square of the village had been carpeted with cocoanut fronds to keep down the dust, and provide a stage. Down this came the women in two parties, chanting, swinging their grass skirts, and waving in front of them branches of vividly coloured crotons. At the end where we were standing, the two parties turned right and left, and then formed figures something like the spokes of a wheel, and each revolving round the group in the centre, worked their way back to the other end of the village.

In small parties the women went to the house where the new baby was, and he was brought out and presented to them. Bowing themselves away backwards from him they swept the ground with the branches they had in their hands, chanting all the time, and, so it seemed to me, trying to sweep the child’s pathway into life clean. (That is just what the missionary tries to do from the time the child is old enough to come to school.)

Another interesting feature was the by-play of four old women, each of whom carried something that would be used by the child when he grew up. One with nets represented hunting and fishing. One, with digging sticks, told of the time when he would have to take his part in the planting. What the third was I have forgotten, but of the fourth there could be no doubt. Her bow and arrows and stone club, and the ornament she carried in her mouth to make her look savage, all told of war. Right and left she pretended to shoot the onlookers, and at times it seemed as though she would let an arrow slip from the string and so start real trouble.

As a baby the little Papuan receives unlimited attention from both father and mother. One’s ideas of the savage have to be modified when big men are seen carrying their young children about and fondling them as tenderly as any white parent could do.

This fondness is, however, carried to excess, and starts the child on the wrong path. He is allowed to please himself from his very earliest days. If you ask a father why his child did something that was sure to result in injury to himself, or trouble to others, the only reply you will get is, “Ia sibona” or “Ia ura.” Both mean much the same, though in the first case the expression puts it that it was the child’s own action, while in the second case there is the direct statement that the child wished to do it. The father does not interfere with the child’s action, or thwart its wishes, and so arises one of the greatest defects in the Papuan character, and most serious obstacles in the way of progress. Of obedience the Papuan knows nothing, unless there is a big stick, or a heavy hand, or the fear of the sorcerer, at the back of the command.

From early childhood right on through life the boy gets the best of it, as far as the amount of work he has to do is concerned. Very soon the young girls have to fetch water; collect firewood; and nurse their younger brothers and sisters, while the boys amuse themselves. Most of their amusements take the form of preparation for what they will have to do in later life, and they put as much energy into their games as an English boy would into his cricket or football. During this free and easy time the Papuan boy is much better off than the dweller in the crowded street in a big town, and his preparation for adult life is a more pleasant process than the grind in a factory. He enjoys making and sailing his model canoe, or building his model house, and shouts with delight when he has got as far as throwing his toy spear so as to hit the mark. Usually two parties stand facing each other. From the one a cocoanut husk is hurled, and as it goes bounding along the members of the other party try to spear it before it breaks through their ranks. So for an hour at a time, it is kept up from end to end.

Only two games as far as I have seen are the same as in England, and each year the time comes round when “Whip tops are in season.” The top is all wood, and the whip usually a piece of fibrous bark that can be teased out into something like a cat-o’-nine-tails.

The second game that would be familiar is the swing, but you cannot sit comfortably in it as you can in those at home. A length of vine hangs from a slanting cocoanut palm, and on the bottom end is lashed a piece of stick T fashion, only the T is the wrong way up, like this—?. Holding on to this T you swing as far as the length of the vine will allow. If a tree can be found at the bend of a river so much the better, for then the fun is to start from one bank and drop off on the other. If ever you have the chance to try this, be sure you take a good run to start with, or you may be left swinging over the river like the pendulum of a big clock, and have to be hauled back by the laughing onlookers, as I once was.

As before the introduction of schools the Papuan child spent most of his time in play, I think I had better give you more information as to his games.

In Tom Brown’s School Days you can read the experience of a new boy when tossed in a blanket. A Delena boy could tell you something the same, except that there is no blanket in his case. In the game called “Paroparo,” or “The Frog,” he is tossed on the arms of two rows of his companions. Each boy grasps the arms of the one facing him, so forming a rough gutter at one end of which a small boy is placed face downwards. Gradually he is jerked forwards till his feet have left the couple who first held him. They run to the front and are ready to receive the head of the “Frog” when he has been jerked far enough along. In turn each couple comes to the front, and so “keeps the pot boiling” till an unlucky toss, or an intentional one, lands the poor “Frog” out on the sand, and his place is taken by another.

King of the Castle is suggested by another game, but the name is just “Eaea” and in playing it the girls are matched against the boys. A party of girls dig a hole in the sand and in it bury some of the fruit of the Nipa Palm, and then all sit down in a bunch on top and challenge the boys. The boys have to dislodge the girls, and dig up and take possession of the fruit, but as the girls are never out of play, and can struggle back as often as their strength will allow, it is some time before the boys capture the fruit and claim their turn at burying it. This is one of the games, and there are others, which beginning in play often end in a fight, drawing in the friends and relatives of the players.

The Papuan lack of self-control, unfortunately, often causes a game to end in a fight, and the reason for the winner only in a contest having a prize, they cannot understand. At Port Moresby there are three villages, and many years ago, hoping to add interest to the sports, we pitted the children of the three villages against each other in a tug-of-war. When B team was getting the best of the tug the parents of A team lent their children a hand. The parents of B team then tried to push away those who were helping A team. That led more to join in, and some good hard knocks were exchanged, and in the end the tug-of-war became a free fight, and our sports came to an abrupt end. The promoters had their work cut out to put a stop to the trouble they had unintentionally raised.

On another occasion when the people of several villages were gathered at Kerepunu there was a canoe race in which one canoe from each village took part. Near the end of the race when the Kerepunu crew had lost the leading place, a man got up from the bottom of their canoe and calmly put a spear into one of the paddlers in the leading canoe. The loss of one paddle enabled Kerepunu to again take the lead and win the race. When spoken to about his conduct the spearman replied, “What right have people from another village to come and win a race in our waters?”

Contending for a prize seemed quite foreign to the Papuan mind. In the first regattas at Port Moresby we had to try and introduce the idea. After four canoes had raced and the prize had been handed to the winners, those in the other canoes wanted to know where their payment was. We explained that the winners only received the prize, and were met by the question, “Why? We have brought our canoe as far as they have, and have paddled just as far as they have. They finished only a little ahead of our canoe.” They understand prizes now, but before they reached that stage those trying to introduce British pastimes had a real difficulty because the native looked upon the prize as payment for taking part in the event.

Only a few years ago the Delena people refused to take part in the Christmas sports, and when pressed for a reason said that the men from a neighbouring village had carried off most of the prizes the year before, and they were not going to put up with that as I lived in their village and belonged to them.

In a country where snakes are so plentiful it is not to be wondered at that a game takes both its name and its movements from a snake. The big carpet snake is, at Delena, called Auara, and the girls have a game of that name. A long string of girls, with arms outstretched, clasp hands, and then, swinging their grass petticoats to the rhythm, they chant repeatedly:—

“Auara ehaina. Auara kaito ehaina.”

Having worked up steam, the first girl, representing the head of the snake, twists round and passes under the arms of numbers two and three. Then numbers one and two pass under the arms of three and four, and so on to the end, the twisting representing the tortuous movements of the snake as it travels round and up a tree. The rhymes used in this and other games seem to have little more meaning than some of those repeated during English games. Very often neither the children nor the adults can give the meaning of the words used.

Another game takes its name from an animal. The Cuscus is common to all districts, and you will see in the picture the Papuan idea of representing its movements along the branch of a tree. The children cannot, however, come up to the real animal.

One of the most picturesque and exciting games is played in many districts under different names. In one it represents wasps stealing raw sago, while in another it is the wind and sea wrecking a lakatoi. (Lakatoi is the Motu name of a big trading canoe, or a ship). A dozen or so girls get together like a Rugby scrum. Away in the distance you can see boys waving branches and humming to represent the wind. As they come nearer the sound increases and the branches are waved more vigorously. The pace increases, and at last with a rush and a shout the branches are thrown on to the girls. These waves, though they may produce discomfort (especially if a few stinging ants have been left amongst the leaves), do not smash up the lakatoi, so the boys themselves commence the attack, and try to pull the girls apart so as to represent the breaking up of the lakatoi. Often it is a long job, for the girls can hold their own.

If all work and no play makes a dull boy, all play and no school will not fill an empty head. Part of the missionary’s aim is to fill the head as well as change the heart, so we will turn from play to school.

With schools all around you, books at your disposal from the time the first picture alphabet was put into your hands, and letters and papers always bringing you fresh news, it will be difficult for you to imagine a whole country where a few short years ago the people knew nothing of either writing or reading, and where it is still possible to go into a village where not a man, woman or child is able to read a word. There are many such in Papua. News is conveyed by word of mouth, and appointments made in the same way, with a little mechanical help thrown in. Only a short time ago I saw a man send word to a friend in another village that he should expect him to come in six days. He told the boy who was to take the message and then gave him a piece of string with six knots in it. The boy started on his journey, and that night before he slept he would bite off one of the knots. The next night he would bite off another, and the following morning hand the string, with its four remaining knots, to the friend to whom the message was sent. He would go through the biting performance till only two knots remained, and would then know it was time for him to start to keep his appointment.

This is the old-fashioned way, always used when there were no names to the days of the week, and no numbers to the days of the month, and no writing materials, nor any who would have known how to use them even if they had possessed a whole stationer’s shop full. Now school is changing all this, and much of the missionary’s time is spent in school.

At Delena school meets in the church, and at once you would notice the absence of seats and desks. So far we have followed the native custom, and all the children sit on the floor, but now we are busy making desks for the seniors from material given by Birmingham friends. As they come in the boys sit in rows on the one side and the girls on the other. To form into rows may seem a simple matter to those of you who have been through a course of drill, but it was long before the children could be got out of their native habit of squatting down in two compact bunches one on either side of the church.

Our numbers may be anything between 60 and 100, for except when they are away with their parents on trading or hunting expeditions, we have now little difficulty in getting the children to school. We begin sometimes with a hymn, and always with prayer, and then divide into classes. We aim mainly at teaching the children to read and write, but add arithmetic, some geography, and the Catechism and Bible knowledge.

While reading the children are indifferent as to which way they hold their books. Right way up. Wrong way up. Looking at them from either right or left side. Neither comes amiss. I could not understand this till I noticed that the South Sea teachers more often than not hold the card from which they teach the young children the alphabet, so that it is the right way up for themselves. Some of the children, therefore, see the letters the wrong way up, and some get only a side view. As the child does not always occupy the same position in the class, it comes to recognize the letter from any angle.

In one respect only is the Papuan scholar ahead of those who have to deal with the English language. He finds no difficulty in spelling any word in his language, unless it be one with a lot of H’s in it. It is a different matter, however, when it comes to writing. You will never find him wrong with a vowel, but he plays ducks and drakes with the consonants. T’s and D’s, P’s and B’s, L’s and R’s are interchanged as the fit takes him. Vada may be all right at the one end of the line, but at the other it will be vata. Pa does duty for ba. This does not matter so much in the language the native knows, but it is a serious difficulty in the way of teaching him to write English. The pig may loom big in importance in the eyes of the native, and the bigger he is the better they like him; but one does not want his name to be written big every time, and it is decidedly awkward when hat becomes had, and bat turns into bad. This careless use of the consonants seems to extend throughout most of the Islands of the Pacific, so the Papuan is not exceptionally dull or careless.

I remember reading that a chief in the South Seas once saw John Williams make some marks on a piece of wood, and was then asked to take the piece of wood to Mrs. Williams. She looked at the wood and then gave the chief an axe to take to her husband, afterwards throwing away the bit of wood. The man saw that the piece of wood had procured an axe so he picked it up, made a hole through it, and hung it round his neck for future use, no doubt looking forward to an unlimited supply of axes. Similar experience has produced a peculiar effect upon the Papuan. As soon as he can write he makes all his requests, even the most trivial, upon a bit of paper, and seems to think that no letter can be complete without a request for something. There is a difficulty about the practical application of some things we teach, but none whatever about writing.

If “multiplication is vexation” to young folks at home, what must it be in a village where written figures are quite modern? We are fortunate that the natives in our district have a good system of counting, but I have never been able to understand why they have words for ten thousand and a hundred thousand. They never use them in their daily life, and I cannot see that they ever could have had occasion to use them. Their counting is done upon their fingers. In school you can see a child adding away with the help of his fingers, and then if he wants to go beyond ten he has the advantage over an English child in that he wears no boots and can make use of his toes, and so can go to twenty without beginning again.

After a time a straightforward sum presents no difficulty, but there is no practical application as in the case of writing. The boys have never been taught to think a matter out, but they are beginning to do so, as the following story shows. Ume had got as far as addition of money, and could get his sums right nine times out of ten, except the farthings. Again and again I explained, and one day found out what his difficulty was. Here is his explanation: “I cannot understand the ways of you white men. You write one over four, and count it one; one over two and count it two; three over four and count it three. Why do you not count all tops or all bottoms, and then I could get my sums right.” He had thought the matter out and discovered why he had failed.

Another illustration of their thinking matters out for themselves. I had just given the English word for fingers, and then giving the native for toes asked what it was in English. A pause, and then one boy shot out, “Foot fingers.”

When the lessons are all finished the calling of the register would interest you if you allowed me to translate some of the names as we read them out. Kasiri does not seem to be troubled by the fact that his name means “unripe”; and Ogogame (the orphan) is decidedly out of place for a boy who has both father and mother living in the village. The cassowary and the rooster are represented by boys bearing the name of VIO and KOKO-ROGU. Death (Mate) and life (Mauri) are both lively youngsters, in fact it would not be easy to decide which is the more alive. Boio, the equivalent of “lost,” is rather appropriately the name of a girl who is not at all a regular attendant at school. Place names are rather poorly represented at present. One girl who was rescued from death by a Samoan teacher’s wife is called Papauta, after the Samoan girls’ school, and another girl has to answer to the name of Purari, because she was born while her father was away with Chalmers, on his first journey to the river of that name.

As English becomes more known we shall have boys and girls called after all sorts of things, for in one part and another of the country I know Smoke, Fishline, Teapot, Tar-brush, London, and Fish-hook.