The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1893-12-12

foreign waters, Mrs. Stevenson suddenly
exclaimed:
Say. Louis, have you got a string2''
Unfortunately, Louis had no strings on
him, but he hastily replied
mo, dear. but I'll hunt for one"
With that he posted off up stairs in
search of Irvine, while his wife adroitly
turned the conversation into American
newspaper reporter channels.
She dwelt at length on their outrage
Gus mendacity, and cited one instance
wherein viper of the press published
story to the effect that Mr.. Stevenson
once invited a gentleman in Samoa up to
lunch, but advised him to bring a can Of
corned beef if he expected anything TO
eat. During this interesting recital the
novelist returned with a string, and cor
roborated the tale of the wicked press
representative.
1T was this way he explained: Eat
that time the butcher in Apla had not
fully established his business. There
was no regular killing day, and unless
person happened to be on hand at the
slaughter no meat could be had. Sir
Baden-P Powell, an English touristtravel-
ing in the islands, was invited to the
house, and | told him to bring some meat
along if he hoped to eatmeat with us.
The yarn made the rounds minus the ex-
PLANTATION, and gave rise to the rumor that
we were starving to death. But we can
stand it, he added with a laugh.
Mrs. Stevenson finished her packing
and went off to look after her garden and
fowls, leaving Robert Louis to wrestle
alone with the reporter. He described
how he went to work to build book.
He arises at O'Clock in the morning
eats breakfast shortly after, and works
till noon At O'Clock in the afternoon
he takes up his pen again and labOrs dill
gently till o'clock. Sometimes he works
too hard, and nervous prOstratiOn follows
1t is then he seeks rest and reCreat ton IN
sea voyage, generally to Sydney and
back, and the journey does him good. He
was in the middle of a graphic descrip-
tion of the agonies endured while paus-
ing in passage of fiction, and turning
his burning eyes to the ceiling in search
of reluctant word, when a scream from
Mrs. Stevenson on the back porch again
interrupted the interviewer. We rushed
out and found a robust Samoan seated on
the verandah and holding a bleeding
foot in the air, with the lady futtering
about in a most distressing state of agi-
tatiOn.
1t seems that she had sent the man,
who was her favorite gard ener, into the
brush TO cut down a couple of young Gin
namon trees. He somehow missed the
tree, but managed to locate a rusty nail
with his great toe, and had returned to
the house for repairs The novelist and
his wife Immediately set to work on the
victim of chance with tender sollcitude,
and in the midst of this scene OF gore and
lint and bandages brought my visit to a
close.
The Stevenson household consists of
the novelist, his wife and two step-chil-
dren, Lloyd Osborne and Mrs. Strong
Osborne assists Stevenson in his literary
labors. "Vialima.n which in the Samoan
tongue means fine water is what the
novelist calls mis- combination residence
and fiction foundry. 1t is an ideal spot
for the dreamer and home for the poet
and student of nature. In the middle Of
the green plateau, sloping gently toward
the sea, stands the house, a low, rambling.
two story structure of dull drao color
and with an iron roof painted a glaring
red. Deep verandas encompass the build
ing round about, from the upper one Of
which the Pacific ocean can be seen
stretching away to the north. At the
back the Green mountains tower to a
hight of 5000 feet above the sea. Six
hundred feet above the level was high
enough for Stevenson, so he cleared spot
in the wilderness Of palms and tangled
wood, where he pitched his tent and lives
in peace.
The house is nearly four miles from the
beach. and is accessible only to birds, foot
| passengers, and sure-footed native horses.