I courteously told him that I could not do so.

He seemed somewhat disappointed at my refusal, but did not appear to bear me any ill-feeling in consequence.

The blacks, by the way, seldom cut down trees except for spears, and the reason for this is very curious.

They imagine the tree to be a thing of life, and when they are forced to cut one down, quite a religious ceremony is held, and profuse apologies made to the tree for taking its life.
They never even take a strip of bark right round, knowing that this will kill the tree; they always leave a little bit of connecting bark.
As some reason for the refusal of my tomahawk was expected, I told the chief that it was part of my life--indeed, part of my very being, which was perfectly true.

I also worked on the chief's superstitions, assuring him earnestly that if I parted with the weapon it would so anger the spirits as to bring about a terrible curse in the country.