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Show STEVENSON'S MEMORY. It la Still Dear to His Samoaa Frlenela Says a "Writer. Mrs. Isobel Strong tells several anecdotes anec-dotes which show the warm affection in which the memory of Robert Louis Stevenson is held by his Samoan friends. In Scribner's Magazine she describes one scene that is infinitely touching: After Mr. Stevenson's death so many of his Samoan friends begged for his photograph that we sent to Sydney for a supply, which was soon ' exhausted. One ofternoon Pola came in and remarked, in a very hurt and aggrieved manner, that he had been neglected in the way of photographs. "But your father, the Chief, has a large, fine one." "True," said Pola. "But that is not mine. I have the box presented to me by your high-chief goodness. It has a little cover, and there I wish to put the sun shadow of Tusitala, the beloved chief Whdm we all revere, but I more than the others because he was the head of my clan." "To be sure," I said, and looked about for a "photograph. I found a picture cut from a weekly paper, one I remembered that Mr. Stevenson himself him-self had particularly disliked. He would have been pleased had he seen the scornful way Pola threw the picture' pic-ture' on the floor. "I will not have that," he cried. "It is pig-faced. It is not the shadow of our chief." He leaned against the door and wept. ; "I have nothing else, Pola," I protested. pro-tested. '"Truly; if I had another picture pic-ture of Tusitala I would give it to you." - - j ' He brightened up at once. "There is the one' in the smoking room," he said, "where he walks back and forth. That pleases me, for it looks like him." He referred to an oil painting of Mr. Stevenson by Sargent. I explained that I could not give him that. "Then I will take the round one," he said "of tin." This last was the bronze bas-relief by St. Gaudens. I must have laughed involuntarily, for he went out deeply hurt. Hearing a strange noise in the hall, an hour or so later, I opened the door and discovered dis-covered Pola lying on his face, weeping weep-ing bitterly. "What are you crying about?" I asked. "The shadow, the shadow," he sobbed. sob-bed. "I want the sun-shadow of Tusitala." Tusi-tala." I knocked at my mother's door across the hall, and at the sight of that tear-stained face her heart melted, melt-ed, and he was given the last photograph photo-graph we had.which frs wrapped in a banana loaf, tying jiufully with a ribbon of grass. |