Tide Marks by H.M. Tomlinson — Read

_July 12._-We are at Amurang, a village on the northwest coast of Celebes. It is only a line of palms and huts under the hills, but it serves to remind us that the world is inhabited. Our siren blared, and we waited for Amurang to bring to us its wealth. There is a huddle of dugout canoes with double outriggers by our side, most of them peddlers with fish and fruit for our native passengers. We idle and watch this invasion of spacious emptiness by a little happy life.

There were added some interesting figures to our saloon company at Macassar, and my position at table has again changed. Now I am sentenced to the bottom; but I have been at the top, and the last change assures me that the Dutch officers have accepted me as one of the ship's company. Opposite to me now is a fragile young lady in white muslin with a pink sash. She is, I am told, a native of Minahasa, with no European admixture. Her crown of black hair dwindles her pale face, which is flattened, like the Malay, though it has no more color than would be cast by a soft, transparent shadow. Her lips are full and purplish, her nose broad, and her large eyes, widely separated, are as apprehensive and limpid as a deer's. The chief officer tells me that a century ago her people were cannibals. She compares in graciousness and refinement most favorably with the best Europeans, and her occasional embarrassment during dinner when yet another hearty Dutch mess of pottage appears at her elbow is very funny, and a pleasant comment on our civilized habits.