Latitude Zero
p. 56 · Read in the full issue
Green of the jungle, creeping closer, Rank vegetation slowly rotting, Smell of the long-dead putrefying, Sound of the old leaves always dropping; Sight of the bush life ever dying.
Dark of the evening, starlight glowing, Noise of the bush rat ever gnawing, Death in the darkness always ready, Buzz of the insect always boring; Moon on the water, soft and steady.
Light in the east sky, dawn commencing, Sounds of the night things shrinking from sun, Sound of the bell, the white man ringing, Work of the day already begun; Voice of a native mournfully singing.
Scream of a parrot, flashing of red wing, Thud of an axe, while tall timber falls, Young women laughing, brown baby playing, Man stops work on hearing their calls; Sees at the hut brown bodies swaying.
Here is the tropics, land of the native, Claimed by the white man ever advancing, Tramped by prospectors looking for reef-gold, Dream-land of new-chums, fortune chancing; Where dawns of the ages have always been old.
Talasea, NG.
Paul Phillips-Veirke.
Dr. Kenneth Emory, lecturer in Anthro pology at the University of Hawaii, has been doing field work on Kapingamarangi Island. Transportation difficulties delayed him there until December.