“_I bring you a betel leaf to chew,_ _Dab the lime on to it, Prince Ferocious,_ _For Somebody, Prince Distraction’s daughter, to chew._ _Somebody at sunrise be distraught for love of me,_ _Somebody at sunset be distraught for love of me._ _As you remember your parents, remember me;_ _As you remember your house and house-ladder, remember me._ _When thunder rumbles, remember me;_ _When wind whistles, remember me;_ _When the heavens rain, remember me;_ _When cocks crow, remember me;_ _When the dial-bird tells its tales, remember me;_ _When you look up at the sun, remember me;_ _When you look up at the moon, remember me,_ _For in that self-same moon I am there._ _Cluck! cluck! soul of Somebody come hither to me._ _I do not mean to let you have my soul,_ _Let your soul come hither to mine._” Now wave the end of your turban towards the moon seven times each night. Go home and put it under your pillow, and if you want to wear it in the daytime, burn incense and say, “It is not a turban that I carry in my girdle, but the soul of Somebody.”(239) (M53) Perhaps the magical ceremonies just described may help to explain a curious rite, of immemorial antiquity, which was performed on a very solemn occasion at Athens. On the eve of the sailing of the fleet for Syracuse, when all hearts beat high with hope, and visions of empire dazzled all eyes, consternation suddenly fell on the people one May morning when they rose and found that most of the images of Hermes in the city had been mysteriously mutilated in the night. The impious perpetrators of the sacrilege were unknown, but whoever they were, the priests and priestesses solemnly cursed them according to the ancient ritual, standing with their faces to the west and shaking red cloths up and down.(240) Perhaps in these cloths they were catching the souls of those at whom their curses were levelled, just as we have seen that Fijian chiefs used to catch the souls of criminals in scarves and nail them to canoes.(241)