Rora Paki is a housewife of Oparure several of whose stories have already appeared in this magazine.

Back on the Farm

As I was to hear later, there was great excitement, back on the farm. The children were arguing the pros and cons of a name for the new addition. “I said all along that it would be a boy,” said a proud sister. “Anyway, I'm a boy so I'm going to be the boss of him,” said nine-year-old brother.

“Wonder what his name will be?” said another sister.

“Why don't we think of a name for him?” said another.

“Because that's Mum and Dad's privilege,” said the oldest.

And so they argued on, deciding anyway, to have a say in naming the baby, which names were duly put before me at the nursing home.

Father was at the cowshed attending the cows that had slipped their calves and were not looking too good. “Well, well, everything happens at once,” he mutters to himself. “I've got to mend that fence, too, before I can go and see Mum, but anyhow, I'm glad its a boy; he'll be able to help with the cows in a few years time.”

At the Nursing Home

The nights had been bitterly cold, though we were kept cosy inside by the heaters, and I would often be awake for long periods, and many were the thoughts that I turned over in my mind. I had been given the option of having the baby sleep in the ward with me, and I was told that this was being done now in many hospitals to-day, and I was glad to have him near me.

How peacefully he slept; I would often bend close over him to make sure that he was breathing, and it struck me how little there was between him and oblivion; what a tiny thread that separated him from that great beyond. How full my heart would be at such times, as I would gaze down upon my tiny son; mine to fondle and care for, mine to lead and guide, mine to plan and direct his early life, that he might grow strong and straight, and later take his place in the community—a rood and well balanced citizen. Many times, in the stillness of those first few nights, I murmured an ardent prayer that his life would be watched over by the all-seeing One, and that His will would be done concerning his little life, and that I might be guided to rear him with patience and foresight, and so do my part towards setting his feet on the straight and narrow path.

Back on the Farm

“You had better make a better job of stacking that wood,” Dad said one day to nine-year-old son; “You've got a younger brother now, to set example to from now on, and you won't want him stacking wood in a sloppy heap like that.”

Young nine-year-old looked amazed! Did having a younger brother really mean that he'd have to watch his p's and q's? Boy! That was an angle that he had not taken into consideration.

At the Nursing Home

Just across the ward from me slept my newfound friend. She had been in before me, but was still waiting for the arrival of her little infant—for two weeks now—and her heavy breathing came to me across the ward, and I whispered a prayer for her, for I knew only too well how she must feel, to be so long away from her family; but because of the remoteness of her home, and the terrible road that she would have to traverse, her Doctor had sent her in early, for she had not made it with the last baby and neither had Doctor, but after a long dusty drive, had arrived there—too late. So this time—the eleventh time—they were taking no chances. I marvelled at her courage and fortitude, and her solicitude for me, when she herself was in such an unenviable position. She was so bright and cheerful, in spite of it all, and each morning when she awoke upon my asking “How are you?” would say, “Oh I'm well thanks, too well in fact; I only wish I weren't so well,” and I knew the anxiety beneath her cheerfulness, for her little ones at home, being cared for by an older daughter who had had to be recalled from boarding school.

Back on the Farm

Everything was agog. Jobs were being done with gusto. Voices were loud and happy in proud anticipation of having a new baby in the family. Dad was the only quiet one, going around as though conscious of his added responsibility. He had taken shares in a Building Society and would be increasing the herd.

Everything was in readiness for the arrival of the new baby at the farm—the name had been chosen, and the two cows were now recovering; everything was fine.

At the Nursing Home

I had lots of time now to just think, and I often was oblivious to things around as I looked back over the years. How the time had passed by, and I had not even noticed it; the family was fast growing up, and following their own interests. I let my mind run back over the years—when the older ones were but youngsters, one day we were sitting on a seat on the lawn of our town, when my son drew my attention to a fine tall Hindu striding up the street complete with cream silk turban. “Mum, look at that silly Maori with that dirty rag round his head!” “Why,” I said, “that is not a Maori, but Mr. —–, a Hindu, and that is not a dirty rag, but a turban, which is their head wear denoting his rank,” and I went on to say, “that is what they wear in his country—India.”

“India, where's that?”

“That is a country thousands of miles across the sea from us, and when you get to Std. IV or Std. V, you will learn all about India.” Silence—then to my consternation he said: “Thousands of miles from here? Goodness, he must have left early this morning.” I laughed till the tears ran down my face and, asked what I was laughing for, I assured him, “Oh, nothing!” But I still laugh to-day and he is a man now. And there was the time when I had taken the same lad to fit a pair of new boots, and several pairs had been tried and it only remained for me to make a choice. “How much is this pair?” asked son. “Those are £1 5s,” said the young man attendant; a few seconds silence, then: “Whew! Twenty-five shillings—twelve and six each.” “Well you aren't thinking of buying one are you?” said the attendant, at which young son shrivelled to half his size.

I loved to go back over these little experiences, and this child especially, had given me many happy moments, with his serious nature, and his quick intellect. His very first outside job of painting a neighbouring farmer's yards with creosote, had earned him twelve shillings, and I remembered how I had asked him to let me look after ten shillings, while he spent two shillings, but he had refused and had gone off down the street. Hours later. I went into a baker's shop to find him with

two bags of sultana buns on the counter in front of him, while a woman filled yet another bag. “Having a party tonight?” I said, and he visibly started at finding it was I who had entered. I made my purchase, however, and went out. Later he came along to me with no less than four packets containing four dozen sultana buns. “Look Mum,” he said, “That lady's mad; I asked her for four buns, and she gave me four dozen!” Rather a rude awakening for a young fellow out to spend his first pay.

One day long ago I became conscious of a very heated argument going on in the bedroom between two of our youngsters. “It is not T.A.B.” shouted one, “its O.B.E.!”

“It is not O.B.E. you fool! That's when they give you a medal for giving money to the poor!” said the other.

“Well, it's something like that anyway, and you ask Mum.” “Cause I know, its O.B. standing for over dirty, so there!” I loved to think back on those little things that are the bright spots in a sometimes wearying business of raising a family, and I know that they will be recalled many times after the children have al grown and gone from the nest.

Early every morning, about 4 a.m. I would hear the sound of bright whistling coming from a huge Concrete Works next to the Nursing Home. I wondered how anyone could be so bright in such bitter cold conditions, and I found myself building a picture around this unknown man—somebody's husband and father—whose job called him forth, when others were still deep in sleep. Yet he could be so cheery. I could not help but think how little we know of what effect our everyday actions have on those with whom we come in contact. My new friend, for instance,—I was amazed at how cheerful she could be; and I thought of how vital and loving she was, always telling me about her family and husband till I felt I knew them already. How little things gave her happiness and it was a tonic just to listen to her, and I always showed interest because I knew that it gave her pleasure to be talking about her family when she was so far away from them all.

Just after breakfast one morning, Nurse came into our ward with a visitor for me, or rather a lady florist, who had come to deliver some flowers for me, and Nurse had asked her to bring them in to me. How my heart warmed as I received that lovely bowl of sweet blossom—a single orchid in the centre—and many kinds of blossom and leaves set around it to make a most pleasing little bowl, needing very little attention. I enquired her name and in our little talk we discovered that some of our children had attended secondary school together—and I had another acquaintance.

Several baby cards came, all sweet with ribbons, and flowers and tiny booties, and my heart was filled with happy feelings of love and contentment and warm gratitude to those kind and thoughtful ones who helped to make my stay in Nursing Home so pleasant and so altogether happy.