The Taniwha of the
Wanganui River

One day when Tu-ariki was fishing in his canoe, he caught a young shark. Tu-ariki decided to keep this shark as a pet, and he took him back to his village and placed him in a pool in a river near his home. He called him Tutae-poroporo, and every day he would visit him and bring him food.

Tutae-poroporo grew very quickly, and soon he was as large as a whale. At the same time he began to change his appearance. He had been grey and silver, but now he became black. His skin became hard and spiky, wings like those of a bat sprouted from his back, and his tail changed to resemble that of a lizard. His fins grew longer and stiffened into legs, with feet that were webbed and had claws like those of a hawk. He still had the teeth of a shark, but his head was now like a bird's head, except that it was featherless and bare. Tu-ariki saw that his pet was no longer a shark, but a taniwha, a dragon.

Tutae-poroporo remained friendly towards his master, and he and Tuariki lived together for some time. Then one day some warriors from Whanganui attacked the village and killed Tu-ariki, carrying his body home with them for food. For several days Tutae-poroporo waited, but Tu-ariki no longer came in his accustomed way to visit him. So the taniwha left his pool and travelled through the forest, seeking everywhere for his master. But when he did not find him, he knew that Tu-ariki was dead. Then Tutae-poroporo wept for Tu-ariki, and after this he set out to avenge him.

He swam down the river until he came to the sea, and there he smelled the wind. He smelled the wind from the east and the wind from the west and the wind from the south and found no sign of his master. But when he turned to the north, Tutae-poroporo smelled the smell of human flesh being cooked in an oven, and he knew that the north wind came from the home of the men who had killed Tu-ariki.

Then Tutae-poroporo uttered a great roar, and swam north to take his revenge. When he came to the mouth of the Whanganui River the scent of his master became stronger, and he entered the river. Under a high cliff there is a cave in which he made his home, and there he lay in wait for his enemies.

He had not been there long when he saw some canoes being paddled down the river. As they passed him he charged out of his cave, raising great waves like the sea and spouting like a whale. The people fled in terror, but they could not escape; Tutae-poroporo swallowed them all, and their canoes as well.

Now that he had tasted human flesh, Tutae-poroporo found it much to his liking, and he seized and devoured all the people who came in canoes down the river.

At first the tribes who lived higher up the river did not know what was happening; they thought that their friends must long ago have reached their destinations. But after a time, when their friends did not return and they could hear no news of them, the people became alarmed. They joined together, loaded their canoes, and started off down the river, but they so arranged things that some canoes went ahead of the others. They did this so that if the first canoes got into trouble, the rest could either escape or go to their assistance. Soon they drew near to the place where the taniwha lived. He saw them and made for them, bellowing hideously. The men in the first canoes could not escape; they were caught and eaten. But those behind them paddled to the bank, abandoned their canoes, and fled to their homes. Thus it became known that a taniwha held possession of the river, and all the people who lived in the lower reaches of the river left their villages and fled inland into the hills.

Then the tribes began to consider how they could rid themselves of the monster. They held many meetings, and did much talking. But for a long time they could think of no solution, because all feared to do battle with such a mighty monster. At last Tama, an old chief, rose up and said to the assembled people.

‘I have heard of a man named Ao-Kehu, who lives at Wai-totara. He is a great warrior, and he has been victorious over many monsters. Perhaps he will be willing to help us.’

Then all the people said, ‘Go and ask him if he will do this, for our need is great’. So Tama departed, and went to Wai-totara, and was welcomed by the people there. Then Tama said to Ao-kehu, the slayer of taniwhas.

‘I have come to you because all our people have been consumed by the taniwha Tutae-poroporo. Our land is desolate and our homes are abandoned, for our people are scattered abroad through fear of this monster’.

‘We have heard of this taniwha’, Ao-kehu said then, ‘and of how he preys upon your people. Rise up, and go, for tomorrow we will come to do battle with the monster’.

So Tama returned to his home. Early next morning Ao-kehu set off for Whanganui, accompanied by seventy of his warriors. He took with him two famous weapons, which were shaped something like a saw, with sharks' teeth along both edges. When he arrived at Whanganui he was met by Tama and his people, and the customary greetings were exchanged.

Then Ao-kehu ordered his people to find a log and cut out of it a box long enough to hold a man, and also to make a close-fitting lid for it. Soon the box was completed, and the warrior lay inside it, taking with him his two weapons. The lid was bound down securely, the holes were filled with clay to make it watertight, and Ao-Kehu was set afloat. Then all the people climbed to the top of the high cliffs over the river, so that they could see what would happen.

Soon the box drifted down near the taniwha's lair, and Tutae-poroporo, smelling the sweet smell of human food, rushed from his hiding-place and swallowed both the box and Ao-kehu. Then Ao-kehu, inside the monster, recited magic incantations and cut away the lashings which held down the lid of the box. Then that brave fighter began to battle with Tutae-poroporo, and with his saw-toothed weapons he slashed at the interior of the monster, fighting so fiercely that Tutae-poroporo bellowed with pain and reared up in agony in the water. But the taniwha had no means of attacking his enemy, and soon he was dead.

As soon as the great body of the taniwha drifted to the shore, the people came down from the cliffs above. They cut a hole in the side of the body, and released Ao-kehu from his prison. Inside, they found the bones of all the people whom the taniwha had devoured—men, women and children. There were canoes as well, and all the weapons, the tools, and the greenstone jewellery which these victims had possessed. Then the people took the bones of their kinsfolk and laid them to rest in the tribal burial ground, but the body of the taniwha they left as food for the birds of the air and the fish of the sea. After this they went rejoicing back to their homes, from which Tutae-poroporo in his anger had driven them.

The Maori
Education Foundation

The appeal for funds for the Maori Education Foundation is still in full swing; it is much too early yet to be able to say what the appeal will finally achieve.

But a progress report can be given. When this issue of Te Ao Hou went to press in the middle of May, almost £400,000 was already available for the Foundation. The Government gave an initial £125,000, and by the time the official appeal for funds was launched on March 26, early donations to the appeal had turned this sum to £250,000. Since then £70,000 has been given; so when this amount receives the £1 for £1 subsidy which the Government has promised to give in the case of all private donations, the total will come to almost £400,000.

This is a great deal of money, but there is a long way to go yet, for Mr Hunn has said that a fund of £2,000,000 would be necessary to perform the Foundation's task adequately, and that a sum very much larger than this would really be desirable for the purpose. The exact total which has so far been collected is not yet known, however, because throughout the country people are vigorously continuing [ unclear: ] -raising activities and a considerable amount of the money which they have collected has not yet been paid into the Foundation, and thus added to the total.

This is the first instance where, on a national scale, Europeans and Maoris have worked together for a concern which is designed purely to help the Maori. The goodwill and better understanding on both sides which have come of this is one of the most important things of all.

Inia Te Wiata
Here on a Visit

Inia Te Wiata, the famous Maori singer from Otaki who lives in London, has just finished a tour of New Zealand, his first trip home since 1958.

Since his last tour he has played the leading role on Broadway and in London in the musical ‘The Most Happy Fella’, has been on a concert tour of Russia and, more recently has been engaged at Pinewood Studios in filming Walt Disney's ‘The Castaways’. Some of the scenes in this film are supposedly set in New Zealand, and Inia plays the part of a Maori chief. The film, which has very lavish and expensive sets, will probably reach New Zealand early next year.

While he was here, Inia was looking into the possibility of buying land for the time when he and his wife eventually retire to New Zealand. The land, ‘no lower than Tauranga and no higher than Auckland’, will be for the fishing lodge they plan to build one day.

The Boss

by Rowley Habib

We were a fortnight overdue already. And the boss was mad. What with the other job waiting for us in Tauranga and one thing or another.

Somehow everything went wrong with this one. It was one of those hoodoo jobs. First there was a hold-up at the mill itself. At the last minute one of the neighbouring farmers decided he did not want the power lines to run down through his paddock. So we had to take them to the right then approach the mill from the off side. This meant arranging the wiring in the building to enable connection with the new approach of the lines. Then we discovered we were a dozen or more poles short and had to go back to the depot in Taupo for more. About three days were lost in all.

Then the bad weather set in, and we could only work in snatches when the rain and wind ceased. Yes, it was one thing or another.

He was a small man, the boss. Squat and solid with face and hands like aged tanned leather. And he was a character because he always wore a cap like golfers do, or rich horse owners at race meetings, which looked out of place on our job. And he had a voice on him. It was as coarse to listen to as some of this new rock ‘n’ roll music we hear on the radio nowadays. A real sandpaper voice. And did he use it. Even when he was talking naturally it always sounded as though he were annoyed and growling at something.

All his men disliked him. Sometimes even hated him. Like the time I am talking of.

‘The old b—’, Joe Mason said. ‘He's going to kill us just because we should have been finished the job a few days ago’. This and many other remarks (unprintable) were passed behind his back. I can tell you. He had no faith in us it seemed. We were a pack of dunder-heads and could not do a thing without his guidance. But he knew his job all right. No one of us disputed that. He was a man well into his fifties, who had been a life-time with power lines. But all the same–—

That morning, a Friday, the sun broke through. A weak sun: but it looked as though we might finish the job at last.

A peculiar wind was blowing that day. It would blow in gusts: suddenly while everything was still. Then as suddenly it would drop.

We were standing on the roadside where the truck had been parked. The boss was looking up at the sky. Watching with half-closed eyes.

‘We ought to finish the job today’, he said. ‘I think the weather will hold all right. We're all connected up at the main line now. There's just the old line to come down, then we'll see how she goes'. He looked up at the sky again. His eyes still half-closed.

‘Yes we'll see how she goes', he said again.

‘We'll see how she goes all right’, I thought. ‘The old b–—, he'll have us out anyway. Rain or no rain’.

Well it rained. And he had us out anyway. It was not too bad though, for it only rained in spasms. But those peculiar gusts of wind kept up. Blowing then dropping: blowing then dropping.

Jack Kahui and I worked together in the afternoon, dismantling one end of the old line. The rest of the gang were at the top end, except the boss, who was checking the wiring at the main line connection.

The sun had come out again, still weak, but we were enjoying it, knowing that it wouldn't last long. It was blowing quite strong now and we had to hang on to the arms of the pole ‘with our teeth’. Jack was sitting on one side of the pole and I was on the arm on the opposite side to him. Jack Kahui was a South Island Maori. From Invercargill. He had been with the Power Board for about ten years and was one of our top men. The little while I'd worked with him, I had learned quite a bit, just watching him.

They say on the Power Board that the longer you are in the game the more careful you become. But in Jack's case I think it was not so. At times he was inclined to be careless. A showman. I suppose it was the Maori in his veins. Often he would lie across the wires. Just lie there, smoking. The wires burning beneath him. Two hundred and fifty volts. He used to pad himself up thick with clothing, and as long as you were not earthed you were all right. But it took a lot of nerve to do a thing like that. But as I say, Jack was pretty good.

Sitting there a'top the pole that afternoon, Jack and I talked a lot about ourselves. He was married, he said, with a little daughter. I had not known this before. But Jack was such a hard case that I was not sure whether he was telling the

truth or not. We talked about the different places we had been. About the different jobs we'd had. He was a lot older than I. About thirty-seven. This was the first time we had really had a good talk together, although we were the only two Maoris in that particular gang. But mostly that day Jack would be singing.

‘IF’—the tune was just fresh out then. And everyone was singing it. It was a catchy little tune—singing in his high falsetto voice—‘If the world to me bowed, I'd still be a slave to you—’

‘The boss wants you to give him a hand at the main line Jack’. The words broke across Jack's singing. We both turned at the sound of the voice. One of the men, Joe Mason, from the other end of the line, had come up without us noticing him.

‘He's taking off the earthings. Wants you to give him a hand’.

‘B–—’, Jack said, and threw the handful of old binding wire he had over the arm between us.

‘Yes, you carry on here Rangi,’ he said to me. ‘I won't be long’,—I won't be long.

He climbed down and crossed the paddock to the wooden gate in the gorse hedge and I saw him climb through it and walk out on to the roadway before I looked away—

If I had everything
I'd still be a slave to you
If I ruled the night
Moon and stars so bright—

The melody Jack had been singing kept running through my head. I was lonely now that Jack had gone. The clouds had blocked out the sun and a light drizzle was beginning to fall. I felt cold now and impatient for knock-off. Thinking about the hot soup and the warmth in the dining room. And all the men and the talk there.

If I ruled the Earth
What would life be worth
If I hadn't the right to you?

The two men came hurrying across the paddock with safety belts and wiring slung over their shoulders: leaning against the wind. I recognised Arthur Maker and Paul Churchill. There was something about them: the way they came, that would have told. Then I saw Joe Mason climbing over the old gate and running to catch up with them.

‘Your mate's dead’, Paul Churchill said. The words came to me very faint and broken by the wind.

If the world to me bowed
Still humbly I'd plead with you

Joe Mason shouted something but the wind carried his voice away. I could see his mouth moving but there was no sound. Both of them kept yelling and trying to tell me something. And then I heard it again.

‘Your mate's dead Rangi’. The words were still muffled by the wind. At first I thought they were joking. Making fun of the boss. Calling him ‘your mate’ as we sometimes did. I looked down, their faces were drawn and serious.

‘What a thing to say’, I thought. ‘Even about old Tom’. Tom was the boss's name. Thomas James Wilkly, to be correct.

They were right beneath the pole now. ‘Honest Rangi’, Arthur Maker said, ‘Jack's dead. He fell off the ladder. Broke his neck I think. He's over there’,—pointing in the direction of the main line connection—‘Do you want to see him?’ I knew they were not joking then.

Suddenly, for the first time, I was aware of the height I was at. And in my hands the wires felt alive and jagged.

‘Jack!’ I said.

‘Yes. The boss's gone into town to get the cops. He said not to touch anything till he got back. He shouldn't be long now. Do you want to go over and see?’

I did not answer. Then after a while I said ‘No’. I did not want to see Jack now lying there in a heap over the ground cold and wet and still. And not really Jack Kahui any more.

If the world to me bowed
I'd still be a slave to you.

We waited under the canopy on the back of the truck till the boss came back from town. We were cold and shivering. When he did, he said, ‘You boys go on back to the camp now. There's nothing you can do by hanging around here. Just stay right out of it. If the police or anyone asks you anything, just say you weren't there when it happened. He looked off to the side, still facing us, but with his eyes looking out to the right. A way he had with him.

‘I don't want any of you boys to get mixed up in this. It's got nothing to do with you’.

That night in the dining room having tea we were quite normal. We ate and talked and now and then we joked. But we did not mention Jack's name. Except now and then one of the men would shake his head and mutter to himself, ‘What a b––—. A real nice fella too.’ The reaction had not really set in yet though.

The next day none of us would go to work. Saturday was our overtime and we got time-and-a-half in the morning and then double time in the afternoon. But none of us would go.

The boss did not talk about his interview with the police and the insurance company men. He looked steady and calm enough. But beneath it we could see he was shaken.

‘A jolly good job too’, Joe Mason said. ‘I hope he gets in a proper stew over it’.

Word soon got around about the trouble the boss had with the Insurance men. We were a private company. The only one in the country at the time and for a long time now the Government were trying to do away with us. Now they had their chance. And they were down on old Tom like wolves on the fold.

‘Did he have gloves? Was he wearing a safety belt? Was someone there with him when he went up the ladder?’ I can imagine the questions being popped at the boss. His tormentors waiting for the opening to pounce. Then they would not have to pay out the insurance, and the Company of L. G. Walker would be in existence no longer. But I had no sympathy then for the boss. A good job I thought, I hope they give him hell.

He was away all Saturday and it wasn't until well after dinner that he arrived back. He went straight to his hut. The rest of us were in Arthur Maker's hut playing cards (five hundred), by the open fire, and listening to the late listeners' request on the radio. We heard the boss pass outside, then the door to his hut bang close.

‘I wonder how old Tom got on today’, Joe Mason said.

‘Six hearts’.

‘Seven spades’.

‘Seven hearts is higher than spades isn't it Rangi?’

‘Yeah hearts then diamonds then clubs and spades in last’.

‘Old Tom can't be too good. He didn't look happy when I saw him’.

Then the door opened and the devil himself came in. He had a writing pad in one hand and a pen between his teeth and he was wearing his cap. He did not wait for us but took the pen from his mouth.

‘I'm not very good at this sort of thing’, he said. Too quickly, I thought. ‘Does this sound all right to you boys?’

He shook the pad out and came across to the fire, holding the sheet down so that he could read it by the fire light.

‘It's a letter to Jack's wife’, he said. ‘Tell me if it's all right do you think?’

He began reading. ‘Dear Mrs Kahui—I am sorry to inform you that your husband Jack was killed yesterday afternoon in an accident. Death came instantly so I do not think there was any pain. All arrangements for his transportation home has been made. I will be accompanying the body down myself tomorrow. So there need be no worry on your part about that.

‘The men and I wish to send our deepest regrets and we are going to miss Jack very much as he was a very fine fellow. I remain, Yours sincerely, Thomas J. Wilky, Lines Foreman’.

He looked up and around at us. ‘Do you think it's all right?’ he said.

‘Sure’, Joe Mason said. We were very awkward. ‘That's great Tom’.

‘Yeah, that's good Tom, honest’.

The rest of us added our approval. Then we were quiet. Sitting still and awkward, waiting for the boss to speak.

‘I should have sent the letter early’, he said. ‘It might not get there in time.’ Then he added, ‘I sent a telegram away last night. Found her address in Jack's wallet. I only hope it's the right one. I bought a wreath this afternoon. I'm sending it down with the body. I said it was from the gang. Is that all right with you?’

‘Gee, I wouldn't mind putting a few bob towards it’, Arthur Maker said. ‘How much did it cost?’

‘Aw it was just a couple-a-quid’, the boss said. ‘It doesn't matter.’

‘No I wouldn't mind putting a few bob towards it’, I said. ‘Hell that's not fair.’ I fumbled in my pocket for some money.

‘Here, here's a dollar. Is that enough?’

‘Aw you boys shouldn't bother. It had nothing to do with you.’ But at our insistence he accepted a few bob from us each.

‘Just a couple-a-bob'll do’, he said.

‘How'd you get on today at the inquest?’ Peter Robertson asked. It was a question that had been burning on our minds all day. But it was asked in a different light now, without malice.

‘I believe every one was there trying to say that it was our fault.’

‘Yeah’, Tom said. ‘The dashed insurance company didn't want to pay out. Tried to cook up all sorts of yarns about this and that and the other thing. Tried to say that it was a faulty ladder.

You know, I told Jack that I'd go up and take off the earthings myself. But he was half way up the ladder before I could do anything. He had his belt and gloves and everything with him.’

‘The gloves wouldn't have made much difference up there would it?’ I said. ‘Not against eleven thousand volts.’

‘No they'd be useless against that.’

The boss took out his tobacco and began rolling himself a cigarette, settling himself down on the floor against the wall by the fire.

‘I still don't know really how it happened. Except that being so short Jack would have had to step up another rung higher than we would have to. The wind must have blown him off balance and he must have reached out to grab the arm. You know how the wind was blowing that afternoon. The ladder was pretty slippery too. But I don't think he could have slipped. He had his rubber boots on. It must have been just as he was strapping on his belt.”

I could picture that last fatal second. The sudden wild grab. The realization. The—

‘Hell’, I said.

Spaced out at various intervals along the high tension line, or main line as it is better known, there are several connections that can sever the flow of power by throwing a lever and opening the arms of the connection out, like jaws. This deadens one side of the whole line and enables men to work that end safely. But to ensure against any danger at all, we attach what is known as earthing wires to the dead side of the line, so that if the switch happens to be accidentally on while we are still working the line, they run the power to earth. This ensures double safety. It was these wires that Jack Kahui had gone up to disconnect. It is always the last thing done on any job. Such as we were working then.

‘I was looking the other way’, the boss went on. ‘The next thing I heard this bump on the ground behind me. He landed head first. I thought he had broken his neck. But the doctor said that he was dead before he hit the ground.

‘Eleven thousand volts. Hell yes.’

‘Do you think he felt anything Tom?’

‘Nooa, he wouldn't have known what hit him. It'd be just like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

‘Is everything fixed now. In town I mean?’ Paul Churchill asked.

‘Yeah’, old Tom said. ‘But God they put up a fight. The b–—s. Talk about a suspicious lot. They'd always been after Les though you know.’

Les Walker was the owner of the Company. Tom was just the foreman.

‘They examined the belt, the gloves, the ladder, everything.’

‘Why didn't you get us along to help. We could've backed you up.’

‘Nooa, I didn't want you boys mixed up in it. It had nothing to do with you.’

Tom left not long after that and when he went we were very silent and still for a long time. Then Paul Churchill screwed up his mouth had raised his brows in a way that meant ‘We don't know nothing.’ And someone else said ‘Hell’.

It was the first time the boss had ever talked with us like that.

The next day one of the men from the other half of the gang which was working in Taupo at the time, arrived in the camp.

We were staying in a paper mill camp at the time and we used to eat over in the dining room with the mill workers.

That evening we had just finished tea and the new arrival met us in the porch of the dining room as we came out.

‘How's the old b–—taking it?’ he said. He had heard of the accident and the trouble that old Tom had been in over it. ‘I wish to hell he gets in the proper s–—over it’, he said.

We did not look at him. And for a long time no one answered. Then Paul Churchill said,

‘Tom's O.K. boy. Yeah he's not a bad fella.’

‘Like fun.’

Paul Churchill turned away and did not say anything and began walking towards the huts. And I heard him say as he went, not to us, but to himself. With his head down and shaking from side to side:

‘Yeah he's O.K., old Tom. He's not a bad fella.’

The writer of this article is talking about his experiences as a teacher; because of this, he must remain anonymous. He is a young primary school teacher, with many close friends among Maori people, who has taught for some years in a city school which has many Maoris among its pupils. We don't know whether or not he is right in what he says here; we print it as being one man's opinion, for which only he is responsible. We'd very much like to know what you think about his article, and whether or not you agree with it. We hope you'll write and let us know what you think about it; we'd like to publish some letters on the subject in our next issue.

Is This Man Right?

▪	Pakehas don't understand us Maoris.
▪	Nosy, just like a pakeha.
▪	We're funny Maoris—we don't talk Maori—like pakehas eh?
▪	What's the good of school, they're always down on the Maori kids.
▪	Give it to me! Lousy purari pakeha!
▪	I hate ‘em all—cops, teachers, welfare officers, nurses—pakehas!
▪	We're all no-goods here—no-good houses, no-good clothes, no-good cars — pakehas have got everything — but we don't care.

In voices of anger, thoughtfulness, hate, envy, excuse, and despair I have heard all these words spoken, not by adults, adults know better than to tell the truth about how they feel, but by children. Children who were failing at nearly everything, and knew who to blame! I was teaching in a city primary school; I heard these words spoken in classrooms, on the playground, in the streets; some of them were said to me.

When I went to this school I didn't have any do-good ideas, I didn't want to make anyone over, I liked Maori children, I had taken the trouble to learn to speak Maori because I thought it was the polite thing to do and—let's be honest, I was a failure. I was a failure because there was a big notice tied round my neck with BEWARE, PAKEHA on it, and that stopped my chances of helping the children.

Who taught the children to think this way? Let's be honest again, some of it was done by stupid pakehas, big men, frightened men, and people who knew no better, not all of them bad, just stupid. And the rest? You did that. Maybe you didn't notice you were doing it, but you did your share just the same. These kids weren't born hating, someone taught them to, and you, their parents, had the biggest hand in educating them in the years when it mattered most.

People often hate what they are most afraid of, or what they want and can't get. When I was a boy I hated boys who were good at football, I was bad at football, I wanted to be good at it for a while, and then, because I couldn't make it, I took to hating footballers. It was a good excuse. Hating pakehas is a good excuse too, look at what the children say,—they're always down on us—they're nosy—they're the people who make us do what we don't want to.

These children were telling the truth, you parents had taught them what to feel, suspicion, distrust, dislike. You didn't always mean to teach them these things, you didn't say—NEVER TRUST A PAKEHA—but by the things they overheard, by the way you looked, even by the way you walked, you let them know what you think. Children see, hear, and guess more than you think, they have to, they love you when they are small no matter what sort of person you are, and they want to be like you; when they get older they want to be proud of you. Did you give them a good thing or a bad thing to be proud of?

▪	Let me tell you about some of the children I taught, you may know some like them.

First, Harry. Harry was a big boy, fourteen when I knew him, strong as a horse, bright enough and clever enough with his hands to make a good carpenter or something of the kind. He was shy and uncertain of himself but he was well liked by the children.

Harry came from a family of twelve, he was the third boy. His family had lived in Auckland all of Harry's life. His father was a steady worker who used to drink too much. The trouble was he liked people to think he was a good pal and the people who were Harry's father's friends liked him because they could go to his place and get a skinful after the pubs closed. Mind you he treated the kids well—he gave them half a crown each and sent them to the pictures while his cobbers had a party.

Harry's mother worked hard—washing the clothes, scrubbing the old house, cooking and trying to grow a few vegetables. She was a nice kindly person who had to do the whole job of bringing up the children.

Well, what happened to Harry? When he turned fifteen he said to me—My old man wants me to leave school—

—Do you want to? I asked him.

—I don't care, he said. What's the use of staying?

He went to work in a timber yard where they paid him a man's wage. Six months later he was on probation, drunk in charge of a car, a little later, Borstal. Harry's eighteen now, he's in jail and he won't come out till he's twenty-one. Since his fifteenth birthday Harry has spent only six months of his life outside an institution. Will he get better? I doubt it.

Oh, I nearly forgot, it was Harry who said, —We're all no-goods here.

Now let's have a look at another pupil, we'll call her Emma. She was a pretty girl, the kind boys like, good fun, a good dancer, and smart looking—she might have been a success in any number of jobs, have married and have had a family of girls as pretty as herself. She went to the pictures a lot and to the dances at the Trades and the Orange while her parents went to parties; she often came home to an empty house or had to get the meals for the younger children. Goodness knows what they ate.

Emma didn't like pakehas. Her Dad said this, her Dad said that, and that was good enough for her. Everything was the fault of some pakeha, if there was a row at home it was the pakeha, if she got her sums wrong it was the pakeha teacher, if her hair was inspected by the school nurse (all the children's heads were inspected) she would come back stinking of Lorexane and muttering under her breath. She had been insulted. Perhaps she was right, perhaps we hadn't tried hard enough to explain things to her, had written her off as just a cheeky girl. I don't think so, though.

We tried hard for Emma, and when the time came for her to leave we found her a good job, but at the last moment she turned it down. Neither of her parents came near the school. When I asked her what her Dad had said she gave me his words — What do you want with that Pakeha stuff—you think you're better than me!

I saw Emma the other day, she's pregnant now and her prettiness is going little by little. There's nobody to take care of her.

I heard you say — This pakeha has got it all wrong, these were bad Maoris—taurekareka. Our kids aren't like that. Indeed they aren't. I taught some Maori children who were happy, friendly, and without troubles, but I also taught a lot who were not.

Let me tell you about one of the happy ones. His name is Charlie.

Charlie was a big hefty boy with a big hefty voice and a laugh like a beer barrel rolling down stairs. He had enough brains to get by on and less of other things than Harry or Emma. He had no mother, and no father, he lived with his aunt and who she lived with was anyone's guess. However, Charlie used to turn up at school every day and when things got too bad at home he would go and stay with someone else for a while. Then back he'd go to Auntie and put up with things a bit longer. I don't know what's happened to Charlie but I don't think it would be anything too bad, he had learned to take things as they came. Who had taught him that valuable lesson I don't know. One thing I'm sure of and that is that if Charlie does get into trouble he'll probably say to the Magistrate as he used to say to me—I dunno, I suppose it's my own fault.

▪	Harry, Emma and Charlie—nice children each of them. Two misses and one doubtful. As you said,—Not all Maori kids are like this, but there are too many like Harry and Emma.

Do you remember what I said at first? Your children love you and want to be like you. To be worth anything they have to be certain of you and you have to be certain of yourself. Beating, nagging, blaming it on the Pakeha, enjoying a party while the kids are at the pictures; are these the ways of showing your kids that you are certain of yourself? Maybe the Pakeha is wrong but did you try to find out whether the cop or the schoolteacher wasn't trying to do his best for your children. Have you looked at yourself and said—Perhaps my boy or girl wouldn't have turned out this way if I'd really tried to help him.

It's not always seeing that they do their homework that counts, it's remembering that they're people, people who have to live after you're dead, who need your love, confidence and advice and sometimes, just to know that you're around. They need to be sure of you.

▪	When they grow up children want to be proud of you

I remember another girl. She was probably the most difficult I ever taught. When a P.T.A. was formed her father was elected to the Committee. On Monday she had been sour, sulky, bad-tempered. On Tuesday she was two inches taller—she had someone to be proud of. I wish I could say that that was the end of her, and our troubles, but that is another story. You don't have to have a big house, a good car, or a new suit but you've got to be a person; I would sooner have a child say to me—I'll get my Dad on to you—than I'd have him say, like Emma,—I hate ‘em all.

Are you thinking of coming to live in town? If you are, just think for a minute about what your children might have to face. A new school where they don't know anyone, strange children who talk a language they don't know too well, perhaps

being not so good at their school work as the others, children from better houses, better dressed, with parents who take them out, books to read, toys to play with. These things are important, but they aren't the only things. Wtihout proper food and clothes a child will die, but without the interest of his parents shown often, and as though they mean it, a child dies inside, like Harry and Emma.

How can you help your children? Well, first of all, you'll have to ask yourself some pretty hard questions. What do you want for your children? This is 1962, you have to think about 1982, not 1932. Perhaps you had better go and see the teacher and the headmaster and have a talk to them, they're usually nice people and interested in your children, they wouldn't be doing the hardest and worst paid job in the country if they weren't. Perhaps you had better look at yourself and say—Am I doing all I could? Am I interested in what young Sonny or Annie is doing? Do I know what he does after school? Have I taken him to the pictures or the Museum or the Zoo or for a trip across the harbour?

I'll tell you the truth, there are plenty of pakehas that don't do these things. But does that matter? You don't weed your kumara because the pakeha does, you weed them so that they'll grow up and there'll be a good crop. Watch your boy or girl and see how he or she is growing; you'd do that for a kumara, why not for your own flesh and blood? Try to understand why they are like they are, go to the P.T.A.; these things are often talked about.

And when you're in doubt about what the Pakeha is up to, keep quiet until you're sure. Perhaps he is trying to help, and he can't do much unless you help too.

Hurry Up, Henry!

by Tahi

Henry hated milking time. Twice a day, week in, week out someone shouted at him: ‘Get the cows in, Henry!’ or, ‘What you doing lying round readin’ all day? Hurry up, it's cow-time!’

School mornings were the worst. As soon as the cows were out he had to sweep the yard, then rush back to the house and get changed for school. Maybe he could snatch something to eat before the bus came down the back road. Sometimes his sister would have cut his lunch; other days he just went without.

In the evenings it was not so bad, as both his parents shared the work then. He would listen to their talk, so quiet himself, that they often forgot he was around at all. Right now, they were speaking of Hare's eldest boy, Pona, who had been sent to Borstal. Pona had always been in trouble, lazy and cheeky at school a nuisance at home and no good to anyone, even himself.

‘Too late to do him any good now,’ Henry's father was saying. ‘Bad blood in all that lot, and he was born bad, I reckon.’

Henry wondered if his father thought he'd been born bad too—he seemed to complain often enough. It would be no use trying to get anywhere if you were born bad. But surely, there was no bad blood in his family, even though Pona was some sort of cousin.

‘What you dreaming about there, Henry?’ His mother's deep contralto interrupted his thoughts. ‘We all going to Kaikohe to-night, you know. Hurry up, and get those cows out way back.’

Hurry up, hurry up! Everyone told Henry to hurry up. All day at school, at home, even at games, or down the river, they all shouted, ‘Hurry up Henry’.

Still, he didn't mind hurrying if they were going to town. They would buy a stack of fish and chips, and go to the pictures after the shopping, and may be get some more records for the new radiogram, which was his Mother's pride.

As soon as the meal was over, they all dressed in their best clothes ready for the town. Henry admired himslf; yes, the tight black jeans worn with the bright turtle-neck sweater looked good. His new shoes only pinched a little now and his sister had polished them fine. He'd better take the uke too, they always had a sing-song.

Next year, if he got the Scholarship, he'd be at St Stephen's. No more Friday night trips on the truck then, but no more cows either, and that would be all right with him. Anyway, his brother said they had lots of fun at College too. Besides, a chap's got to have education these days, everybody told him that often enough.

Look at Pona now—he hadn't even finished Primary before he was in trouble; real trouble, with Child Welfare officers around and up before the Court and all that. And now, he's got to sweat out three years' Borstal! The old people might be right, Pona was no good.

But Henry was going into the Navy. No cows live in ships that's for sure. He rather fancied himself in bell-bottoms and jaunty cap. That would bring the girls round, eh? He grinned at his reflection in the mirror, still visualising his rosy future. Oh boy, here I come, Henry, the holy terror of Te Hapu. Hey, Girls!

Picking up his uke, he swaggered out the door, just as his father was shouting out from the road: ‘Come on, Henry. We're all waiting for you, we'll be late for the show. Hurry Up, Henry!’

The Story of
Tuwhakairiora

Poroumata and his wife Whaene were well born, being descendants of Porourangi, their tribe was Ngati-Ruanuku. They lived on the East Coast at Whareponga, near where the town of Ruatoria now stands.

It was the custom in those days for the people, whenever they gathered food, to give a portion as a tribute to their chief. So when the tribe made a catch of fish, the attendants of Poroumata's pa went to the landing places to fetch the fish. For some time all went well with the fetching, then trouble arose. Poroumata's attendants had become greedy; they carried away too large a portion of the catch, and they chose all the best portions. When hapuka were caught, these attendants cut off all the tails, the belly-fat and the heads, and left only the poorer portions for the people. Nor was it only the attendants of Poroumata who abused the people in this way; Poroumata's own sons did likewise.

Because of this, the people began to murmur amongst themselves. They were resentful of the unjust tribute which was being exacted from them, and they plotted to kill Poroumata. Poroumata knew nothing of the wrong deeds of his sons and attendants; he cherished only kindly feelings for the tribe. But the people believed that these things were done on the instructions of Poroumata.

One night Poroumata looked at the clouds beyond the crayfish beds, resting close and compact, at the Milky Way and the Magellan Clouds, at the flakes of mist running together and settling in masses upon the mountains. He said, ‘It will be calm tomorrow; the wind will be a light sea-breeze making gentle ripples on the water; I shall put to sea.’ In the morning he and his men embarked in the canoes and reached the fishing ground. While he was occupied with baiting his hooks the men in the bow of his canoe exchanged knowing glances with those in the stern, and those in the stern with those in the bow. All the men exchanged similar glances, indicating that he was to be slain. They slew him then, and he died. They tore out his entrails and vitals, and threw them into the sea, and they were cast ashore. The place where they were cast ashore came to be called Tawekatanga-o-te-ngakau-o-Poroumata (the place where the entrails of Poroumata hung entangled). The fishing ground was called Kamokamo (knowing glances). These names still remain.

So Poroumata died, and who there to avenge his death? For the tribe was rejoicing, and ate its own food with no one to interfere. His daughters, Te Ataakura, Materoa, and Tawhipare, mourned for their father. Long was the mourning and grieving of these women for their father. Enough of that.

Tumoana-kotore was also a descendent of Porourangi; he as well as Poroumata. Tumoana-kotore married two sisters; Rutanga was the elder, Rongomai-tauarau the younger. They were both of them his wives. The elder had a child, Hinemahuru. The younger had a child, a son, Ngatihau.

When Tumoana-kotore died, the days of his mourning were such as befitted the mourning for a chief. They wrapped him up, and took him, and suspended him in a puriri tree near to Waiomatatini. The resting place for the bones was a little above on the mountain. When a year had passed and the flesh decomposed, they would carry away the bones to that resting place. The men who had suspended him in the tree went to return home. They had crossed a small stream when a voice reached them. They stood and

listened. The cry was repeated. They said ‘It is just as if it were the voice of our old man’. They shouted, and the voice cried from above ‘I am still alive; let me down’. His relatives returned let him down, and undid the wrappings. He looked up to the puriri and went on to say, ‘My eyes were still open, and yet you suspended me alive.’ Many years passed, then he really died. Enough of that.

His son, Ngatihau, took Te Ataakura, the daughter of Poroumata, as his wife. She was still mourning for her father. She conceived and bore child, a daughter; she mourned deeply for her pains, and her hopes that it might have been a son to avenge the death of her father. She gave her the name Te Aomihia (the cloud that was welcomed); that is, the clouds which her father welcomed when he put to sea to his death.

She conceived again while she and her husband were living away at Opotiki. She was still mourning her father. As she was mourning, the child moved violently in her womb. Then she uttered this saying:

‘Ah, move thou violently within me, a son,

It is for thee to avenge the death of my father.’

The child was born, a son. She gave him as a name the name of his grandfather, Tumoana-kotore-i-whakairia-oratia. (Tumoana-kotore who was suspended alive). This was shortened, when they addressed him, to Tu-whakairi-ora.

She cherished her child, having constantly in mind that the death of her father would be avenged by her child. The afterbirth was buried, and the place where it was deposited was called Te ewe-o-Tuwhakaairiora (the afterbirth of Tuwhakaairiora). The tohungas tended the child with their incantations—Whakanihoniho, Whangawhangai, Ihotaua, and other incantations. He grew up and came to man's estate, constantly hearing the tohungas who were tending him speaking ever of the saying of his mother.

He had taken part in mock battles and sports, and had smitten his man. He had taken part also in serious engagements; he had gone into the very heat of the battle; he had gathered in a bundle and turned aside the weapons which beset him on all sides like faggots in a fire. He had won the great battle at Paengatoitoi. His fame as a warrior had gone abroad; he had acquired the emblems of bravery in battle whereby the enemy is overcome. At last he took farewell of the tribe. ‘Farewell! I go in accordance with the saying of my mother, which is still repeated, and which I still hear; it was perhaps because I was moving violently within her that she said:

‘Ah, move thou violently within me, a son,

It is for thee to avenge the death of my father’.

The tribe knew that the death of his grandfather, Poroumata, was the reason Tu-whakairiora was going. The tribe wished that there should be a large force to conduct him to avenge the death of his grandfather, Poroumata. He said, ‘Enough, I alone will go. There will be the tribes connected with him to conduct me! Alone he set out.

The tidings of the beauty of the daughters of Te Aotaki, Ruataupare, and Auahi-kaota, had spread even to Tuwhakairiora's home at Opotiki. When he arrived at the mouth of the Wharekahika River which is at Hicks Bay, these women were gathering cockles, while the girls who accompanied them were sitting beside the fire, with the clothes lying in a heap. He questioned the children, and they told him it was Ruataupare and Auahi-koata. He called to mind the tidings which had reached him of these women. He had taken his seat upon the clothes, and the children expressed their disapproval, the women looking on from a distance. The children went and told them and they said, ‘Well, tell him that you must bring us our clothes’. When the children came he got up at once and gave them up, and sat down again. While the women were putting on their clothes, they gazed intently at him and the emblems of high birth and bravery which he bore with him. He was asking himself why he had not questioned the children as to which was Rautaupare.

The women clothed themselves and the children took up the cockles. They made their way to the south end of the bay, to Nukutaharua. When they were some distance off, Tuwhakairiora rose up. He followed behind them, treading in their footsteps of the women, and saying to himself: ‘Are those Ruataupare's, or are those?’ When they turned round, they saw him doing this. When they reached the turning he turned as well, and continued following them until they were near the village. Then Ruataupare and her companions walked faster to take the news quickly to their father, and Tuwhakairiora walked on slowly.

They described to their father the emblems of high birth and bravery which this stranger bore, and how he had persisted in following them. Then Te Aotaki said, ‘Ah, well, it is perhaps your cousin Tuwhakairiora; it seems so from the emblems you describe. Where is he?’

‘Here he comes.’

Then Te Aotaki said to his daughter, ‘Adorn yourselves, and go and call a welcome to your cousin’.

Then his daughters and their mother stood on the marae, to the right of the house Te Aotaki reclined in the space by the window, gazing with an intent look. The tribe with his daughters were waving a welcome. Tuwhakairiora stood on the marae and remained standing a long time. The tribe was gazing at the emblems of high birth and

bravery: the pulmes of white crane, the crest of sparrow hawk feathers; the richly worked cloak, the dogskin cape, the decorated taiaha.

The tribe and the daughters were still standing, being in awe of Te Aotaki. He was still reclining and gazing at Tuwhakairiora. Some time passed, then he rose, grasped him by the left shoulder, and took him behind the left side of the house, where they descénded together to the running stream. There Te Aotaki performed over Tuwhakairiora the tohi ritual, by which courage is gained; and when he had finished the incantations he invoked Rangipopo. It was not long before she spoke with the voice of the thunderclap to the tribes on the west side of Pukeamaru, including the tribes inland from Wharekahika, and the tribes on the sea-coast at Taungaihe and Owhiunga, the multitudes of Ngutuau. Those tribes said, ‘Eh, whoever is this man, that Te Aotaki keeps agitating the thunder-clap?’ Te Aotaki and Tuwhakairiora stood there still, and again he called to Rangipopo: ‘Old lady, old lady, arise, arise, arise; announce thy son; give voice.’ The sound of the thunders turned to the south side of Pukeamaru, over the pas at Puketapu, Kotare, Te Rangihuanoa, Tarapahure, Totaratawhiti, Okauwharetoa, and the other pas. They both remained standing. There spake the voice of the first thunder, Haruru-ki-te-rangi, and the pas were listening. When that ceased, there spake the voice of the second of the thunders, Whetuki-ki-te-rangi over the same pas again. When that ceased, there spake the voice also of the third, Ueue-ki-te-rangi. Thereupon the chiefs and the tribes in those pas said, ‘What a disturbance Te Aotaki is making, rending asunder his mountain Pukeamaru; to-morrow we shall hear the tidings.’

When all the incantations of Te Aotaki were ended, they returned; when they came, the food had been arranged on the stands. They ate the food out of doors, and a tohunga was appointed to feed Tuwhakairiora. When that was over they entered the house. Ruatapare's sleeping place was immediately beneath the window, but she went to the inner end of the house to sleep, and left her sleeping place for Tuwhakairiora. As for the old man, he was beside the fire on the narrow side of the house. After some time Te Aotaki called Ruatapere, and his daughter arose and sat beside him. After some time, when he had finished the ngunguru incantation, which is performed for marriage, he said aloud. ‘Go down to your cousin that he may stretch his feet’. Ruataupare arose and married Tuwhakairiora, while Te Aotaki went outside.

When the bell birds of the early morning were singing, Te Aotaki called to his daughter to light the fire. When it was burning, he and his wife entered the house; then for the first time he saluted Tuwhakairiora. When the dawn of morning light appeared the food was ready cooked. He had already, in the evening, given orders that the preparation of food should be hastened, that the attendants might have their meal, and be ready for the guests on the morrow; that was how it came to be cooked in good time. Ruataupare also was ceremonially fed by hand by a tohunga, and the people in charge of the pa expressed their satisfaction at the marriage of Ruataupare and Tuwhakairiora.

When the meal was over, he gave orders that haste should be made with the food, so that it should be ready cooked as soon as the people appeared. The sun was already high when the tribes who were summoned appeared; what a sight it was! Like the thatched roof of a house were the bearers of the dried fish which had been prepared, hapuku, shark, mackerel, maomao, and all kinds of provisions from the sea, which had been got ready be that great tribe, the Ngutuau, and the tribes of the forest and the mountains, who brought birds and other kinds of food.

As they laid their burdens down, Tuwhakairiora was gazing at the magnificence of Te Aotaki and his tribe, and he said within himself, ‘The vengeance for the death of my grandfather is within my reach’.

Then Te Aotaki stood up to great the tribe. That ended, he next made an address of welcome to Tuwhakairiora, and asked him the reason of his coming thus unattended. Then Tuwhakairiora stood up—he had already arrayed himself with the emblems of his birth and bravery. When he stood—what a sight! It seemed as if his taiaha would break in his hands, the blade and the butt in two pieces. He greeted the tribe, then he answered the question. ‘The occasion of my coming is the saying of my mother; it was perhaps because I was moving violently within her that she said:—

‘Ah, move thou violently within me, a son,

It is for thee to avenge the death of my father’.

At once the tribes understood his meaning; avenging the death of Poroumata was the occasion of Tuwhakairiora's coming. They remembered the fame of his bravery, and saw that his appearance was in accord with this fame. Then Te Aotaki sent messengers to the pas to announce that Tuwhakairiora was come to avenge the death of his grandfather. When the messengers had gone he said, ‘Up, take your food, let us get things in order in good time at Okauwharetoa to wait upon the army tomorrow.’

When the messengers arrived, the tribes of those pas said, ‘So that was the reason why Te Aotaki rent his mountain, Pukeamaru’. And they looked down from their pas at those who were going along the beach at Punaruku and the shore of Karakatuwhero, like the seadrift cast up by the storm. The pas were occupied with packing up the food, fish, birds and other kinds of food. In the morning the multitudes from those pas appeared, the meal was spread, and the battalions took up their positions, battalion by battalion, with the battalions also of Te Aotaki. Then they were chal-

lenged—a battalion would rise to its feet and take its position; all the battalions were challenged, and took their positions in their thousands. In front of them was Tuwhakairiora, watching the manoeuvres of each battalion. He pointed with the butt of his taiaha: ‘I will have that battalion, and this, and that yonder: let all the rest of the battalion stay. But all braves and the warriors of those battalions must gather round me as a battalion for me’.

Then the chiefs stood up and called out, ‘Let the divisions of the army be very great to form a suitable bodyguard; for the tribe yonder is Ngati-Ruanuku, with its powerful clans—Hore, Mana, Te Pananehu, Te Koreke, Te Moko-whakahoihoi, and Te Pohoumauma.’ Such also was the opinion of Te Aotaki: ‘Let the divisions of the army be great to form a suitable bodyguard: their multitudes yonder are like the hair plucked from a rat, or like ants’. Then Tuwhakairiora gave his opinion: ‘Stay, stay, till I have given my opinion. With a multitude counsels are confused; we wish the discussion to be heard. Let the braves of the battalions yonder gather round me as a battalion for me; though the enemy may come in his many thousands, he is but food for the weapon. Well do I know the omens’.

He turned the blade of his taiaha upwards, and shook its tuft of dog's hair so that it opened out; he explained the omen—fallen raupo leaves were his omen, and the long sea wave. They would scatter and become food for the weapon; he himself would bear them down, trample on them, smite them. Then he turned the butt of his taiaha upwards, the tuft of hair dropped over the neck of the taiaha, where the left hand should grasp it; he shouted to the battalions, ‘It is a good omen: the enemy cannot break it. When Te Aotaki performed incantations over me he neither displaced a word nor faltered; and the war songs of the thunders of Haruru-ki-terangi, Whetuku-ki-te-rangi, and Ueue-ki-te-rangi are omens of valour, omens of success; to-morrow, at break of day, you will hear of it. There is no question but that they will be destroyed; there will be the pa overthrown, the army slaughtered in the one day’. He was gesticulating before the battalions as if the taiaha would break in pieces in his hands. The battalions kept saying, ‘How could the fame of his bravery be great and the signs of that bravery be small?’

That ended, he greeted the tribe, and the tribe him, and the tribe expresed its satisfaction that Ruataupare had married him. Then came the news that all the enemy pas on this side of Whareponga were assembling in their chief pa at Tokoanu. The tribes on the south side of Whareponga River gathered at Kokai and Tokatea.

When the army of Tuwhakairiora was ready, and the provisions for the expedition, they started. To look at them a single glance took them all in, but they went in high spirits under the good omens of Tuwhakairiora. The plan of the pa had already been carefully explained to him. When they reached the beach at Tirau they were sighted by the scouts of the enemy, and the report was being spread among their many thousands, ‘We shall not each get a share to taste, some will have to be content with earth to-morrow’.

When the army reached Paepaenui it was evening, they were still saying, ‘A single glance covers them all; there will not even be a taste for the mouth’. In the morning, while it was still dark, the battalions of Tuwhakairiora took up their positions in three divisions; there was the main battalion, the Whare; the Puarere, the battalion which was to effect an entrance into the pa to burn it; and the Patari, or battalion of warriors and braves. The battalions of the enemy were already descending, taking up their positions, battalion by battalion, an immense multitude. There were visible the garments of the chiefs and braves, various patterns of dogs'-skin capes, black and white, cloaks of kiwi and pigeon-feathers, and handsome flax cloaks, and the adornments of the battalions in their positions—the plumes on their heads resembled terns upon a sand-bank.

Then Tuwhakairiora gave his orders to his orders to his army, to the three battalions. ‘This is good fortune: if they had remained in the pa we would have had a long business; but now they have come forth they will soon succumb, your hand will ache with the slaughter.’

Then he said to one of the battalions, the Puarere, ‘The object of your attack is the pa; as for the battalions in position facing, you trample them under; when you have gained the position, give a shout and advance in column. When you get in the pa, set it on fire. When I call you, jump to your feet.’ He then gave orders to the main battalion, the Whare-o-te-riri, and some of the braves whom he had chosen to accompany him. He turned the butt of his taiaha upwards, and shouted out, ‘Gather round me; when I call for you to stand up, let your uprising be like the sun rising from the depth. When I rush to the front with my corps, raise a shout, and let the column charge the centre of the battalion; it is the Whare of their battalion which we must reach. When I raise the red crest of my taiaha aloft, then the battalion will break: give vent to your fury, when the battalions of the enemy break’. He called to the battalion of braves, that is Patari, ‘Up! attack this battalion and that to hasten the rout’.

When his instructions were ended, he sat down, and called to his feeder, ‘Bring the remains of

Continued on page 43

Hui Topu was a Great Success

This May for the first time there was an all-Aotearoa Hui Topu, held at Ngaruawahia; in future this religious, cultural and social gathering will be on a New Zealand-wide basis once every three years. This year's gathering was magnificently organized by the Anglican Church and the people of Ngaruawahia. 8,000 people were catered for during the five days on which it was held, and it was in every way a great success. On the next few pages there are photographs by Ans Westra of some of the people who attended the Hui.

The Haka Performers
who welcomed to the Hui
The Hon. J. R. Hanan
Minister of Maori Affairs

Then it is there still strong flowing. The blood of my forefathers
Lifting and carrying me back to the shores of Hawaiki.
To the great migration, to the battle with the seas,
to a Stone Age culture, to principles strong and rigid
That demanded an eye for an eye, a limb for a limb.
Whenever I hear the blood-pulsing beat of the Haka.
The drumming of feet upon hardened earth,
The intermittent and timely slap, slap of the open hand
On the taut naked flesh, the chanting rhythmic and significant,
Oh I feel the pull then and my pulses soar
And the blood of my forefathers rushes to my head
And waves of excitement break over me.

rowley habib

Passion Play at Hastings

A Passion Play was performed last April at Hastings by an all-Maori cast of actors. A moving and memorable performance, it took place in the evening, in the open air, and portrayed the events of Christ's death and resurrection. More than two hundred Maori actors, all of them anonymous, took part in it. All the Christian denominations joined in sponsoring the performance, and many Pakehas assisted behind the scenes. It was produced by Mrs Mary Clark of Timaru.

The play was performed every day for a week, and was seen by nearly ten thousand people. Much of the proceeds went to the Maori Education Foundation Fund. The photographs are by Ans Westra.

Meeting-house Paintings

These paintings are in the meeting-house Hinetapora, which was opened in 1896 and which stands at Mangahanea, near Ruatoria. Paintings such as these (there used to be many in Maori houses, though most have disappeared now) are valuable as historical documents, as showing how people thought and felt about things in those days. And they are valuable because their liveliness and freshness of approach make them attractive to look at. They are less important, of course, than early Maori art; but they cannot simply be dismissed as ‘decadent’. In Europe until recently, there was a similar art which belonged to villagers—‘folk art’, it is called. Maori art like this is also folk art, and is equally worth preserving.

M.M.W.L. Garden Party

The Maori Women's Welfare League is making a campaign of support for the Maori Education Foundation its main project for this year; and a garden party was held in Wellington at the residence of the Hon. J. R. Hanan, Minister of Maori Affairs, to mark the launching of this campaign.

These were some of the people who attended the garden party. The photographs are by Ans Westra.

The Old Maori Water Bottles

In the old days, when people had no pottery, they grew gourds to use as containers—to keep water in, and wild honey, and also meat, preserved in its own fat—such as rats, pigeons, tuis, and human flesh.

Often they used carved wooden bowls too, and baskets of totara bark or flax. But they valued gourds very much, and went to a great deal of trouble to grow them well.

Legends say that the gourd plant was one of the earliest to be introduced to New Zealand, since its seeds were so easy to carry, easier than the tubers of the taro and kumara, for instance. It is said that Ngati Toi were the first people to cultivate it; according to one story, they were given the gourd by a god called Pu-te-hue. Pu-te-hue was one of the offspring of Tane, the Fertiliser of all of the productions of the earth. Pu-te-hue is, at the same time, the personification of the gourd, and one of the names by which it is called; he said, as he gave himself to the people, that ‘the seeds within me shall provide water vessels for my descendants’.

Gourd seeds were always planted on the 16th or Turu, and 17th or Rakau-nui, days of the moon's age, that is to say just after the full moon. There was a ritual which had to be performed at the planting, so that the gourds would grow well.

The planter faced towards the east, with a seed in either hand. Then he raised his arms in a big circle in the air, moving them in the shape into which he wished the gourds to grow; after this he placed the seeds in their hole.

It was said that you could always find plenty of gourd seeds in the entrails of the sperm whale, and that this was because in Hawaiki gourds grow and hang upon the cliffs in great quantities, so that when they are ripe they fall into the sea, and are swallowed by the whales which swim there.

As well as being food containers, gourds (or hue, the most common Maori word for them) had many other uses. Often they were picked when they were green and cooked as a vegetable. They were used sometimes as trumpets and flutes, as containers for shark oil and red ochre, as lamps, and as floats for fishing nets. Children used them as water wings when they were learning to swim. Sometimes a stick was thrust through a small hue, a couple of holes were bored in its sides, and it became a humming top.

There is a story about a man at Taranaki who was so proud of his beauty, and of his beautiful tattoo or moko, that when he was travelling, or exposed to sun, he used to wear a mask which was made from half a gourd, with holes cut for his eyes and mouth, tattooed in imitation of his moko and decorated with feathers.

Only the gourds which were the personal property of chiefs were decorated; some part of the moko of the chief would be carved on the gourd, and in this way the tapu of the chief was transferred to it.

In 1919 Elsdon Best wrote that the Maori gourd was almost extinct. But it has survived; on this page and the next there are photographs of some of the beautiful gourds which the Auckland artist Theo Schoon grows and decorates. Pine Taiapa, the East Coast carver, is another artist who grows and carves beautiful gourds. It is because of their beauty that the old Maoris valued them so much; and it is because of this, because they are so decorative whether or not you carve them, that there is an increasing interest today in growing them. In America, for example, they are very popular, and you can choose between more than 40 different varieties advertised in the seed catalogues.

Mr Schoon has found that there were at least four distinct varieties of hue, each of them producing a different range of shapes, growing here before Europeans came. He grows three of these varieties; the fourth, the giant taha huahua, is probably extinct now, but he has replaced it with a similar variety which comes from Africa, and with which he is growing gourds which are almost six feet in circumference.

On page 59, our gardening page, we publish an article in which Mr Schoon describes how to grow gourds. Although you must be very careful with them if you want the best results, modern gardening aids, such as plastic cloches, make them much easier to grow than they used to be.

The Story of
Hinemoa and Tutanekai

Hinemoa was the daughter of a great chief who lived at Owhata, on the shore of Lake Rotorua. She was very beautiful, and because of her beauty and her high rank, many young men desired her as a wife. One of these was Tutanekai, but he knew that though he was of good birth, his rank was not high enough for Hinemoa's father to accept him as his daughter's suitor.

So for a long time Tutanekai hid his love. He saw Hinemoa only when there were great meetings of the tribe, for his home was far across the water, at Mokoia Island in the middle of the lake. When the people gathered together he would content himself with gazing at Hinemoa from a distance, and yet it seemed to him that sometimes she would return his looks. But he thought to himself, ‘There are many other young men more worthy than I of winning Hinemoa's heart. If I approach her to declare my love, perhaps she will be displeased.’

Now Hinemoa did love Tutanekai, but she too hid her love, thinking, ‘If I send a message to Tutanekai, perhaps he will not care for me’.

At last, after many meetings at which their eyes only had spoken, Tutanekai sent a messenger to Hinemoa, and when she had heard him, Hinemoa cried joyfully, ‘Have we each then loved alike?’ Then Tutanekai asked Hinemoa to leave her home and come to him, and to this she agreed.

‘At night’, he said, ‘when you hear the sound of a flute across the water, it is I; come in your canoe’.

Every night Tutanekai sat on a high hill and played his flute, and the wind bore his music far across the lake to Hinemoa's home. But Hinemoa did not come. Her people had suspected her intention, and they had pulled all the canoes high up on the shore. Every night Hinemoa heard the sound of her lover's flute, and wept because she could not go to him. Then she thought at last, ‘Would it be possible to swim?’ She looked at the wide water and her heart failed her; but then she heard the flute again and knew that she must go.

Then Hinemoa took six hollow gourds and fastened them to her body to buoy her up, three to either side. The night was dark, and the great lake was cold. Her heart was beating with terror, but the flute played on. She stood on a rock by the shore and there she left her garments. Then she entered the water and swam toward the music. After a time she was exhausted, and drifted with the current of the lake, supported by her gourds. Then she recovered her strength and swam on. In the darkness she could see no land, and had only Tutanekai's flute to guide her; and led by that sweet sound she came at last to the island.

At the place where she landed there is a hot pool, and Hinemoa went into this to warm herself, for she was trembling with cold; she trembled as well with modesty, at the thought of meeting Tutanekai.

Just then Tutanekai happened to feel thirsty, and said to his servant, ‘Go, fetch me some water’. So the servant went and filled a gourd with water close to where Hinemoa was sitting. In the darkness she disguised her voice and pretended to be a man, calling out gruffly, ‘For whom is this water?’

The servant answered, ‘It is for Tutanekai’. Then Hinemoa said, ‘Give it to me’. So he gave her the gourd, and when she had drunk from it she broke it in pieces. Then the servant said, ‘What business had you to break the gourd of Tutanekai?’ But Hinemoa did not answer.

The servant went back, and Tutanekai asked him, ‘Where is the water I told you to bring?’

He answered, ‘Your gourd has been broken’.

‘Who broke it?’

‘The man who is in the pool’.

‘Go back again then, and fetch me some water’.

The servant took a second gourd and returned to the pool. Again Hinemoa called to him, ‘For whom is this water?’ Again the servant replied, For Tutanekai’.

‘Give it to me’. And she took the gourd and broke it in pieces as she had the other.

When the servant went back to Tutanekai, and Tutanekai heard that the man had broken a gourd a second time, he was wild with rage.

‘Who is this fellow?’ he said.

‘How can I tell?’ said the servant. ‘He's a stranger’.

‘Didn't he know the water was for me? How

did the rascal dare to break my gourds? I am furious at his insolence’.

Then Tutanekai caught up his spear and went to the side of the pool, and called out, ‘Where is the fellow who has broken my gourds?’ Hinemoa knew by his voice that this was Tutanekai, and she hid under the overhanging rocks at the edge of the pool. She did this from shyness, so that Tutanekai might not find her at once, but only after trouble and careful searching. Then Tutanekai went feeling along the edges of the lake, seeking everywhere, while she lay hidden, looking out and wondering when he would find her.

At last he caught hold of a hand, and said, ‘Ho ho, what's this?’ And Hinemoa answered, ‘It is I, Tutanekai’. And he said, ‘But who are you? Who's I?’ Then she said more loudly, ‘It is I, it is Hinemoa’. Then he said, ‘Ah, can this really be? Come then to my house’. And she answered, ‘Yes’, and rose up from the water as beautiful as the wild white hawk, and stepped upon the side of the pool as graceful as the shy white crane; and he threw his cloak about her, and took her to his house, and thenceforth, according to the customs of those days, they were man and wife.

In the morning, when all the people in the village came out of their houses to get their breakfast. Tutanekai remained inside. His father said, ‘This is the first morning Tutanekai has slept in like this; perhaps he isn't well’. He sent a servant to see, and the servant slid back the wooden window and peered inside. Then to his astonishment he saw in the room not two, but four feet. He ran back to his master and told him this. Then Tutanekai's father said, ‘Who is his companion? Go quickly and see’. So the servant went back, and saw that it was Hinemoa.

Then he shouted out in amazement, ‘Oh, here's Hinemoa, here's Hinemoa in the house of Tutanekai!’, and all the village heard him, and there arose cries on every side, ‘Oh, here's Hinemoa, here's Hinemoa in the house of Tutanekai!’ Then some of the people said, ‘It can't be true, Tutanekai can't have won Hinemoa’.

But then Tutanekai came out of his house, and behind him came Hinemoa, and everyone saw that it was true.

All this was a long time ago. The descendants of Hinemoa and Tutanekai are living at Rotorua to this day, and still they tell the story of how the beautiful Hinemoa swam across the great lake to her lover.

Thousands Lived on Wanganui River

In the beginning, all the mountains in the North Island lived peacefully together in the centre of the island, until a time came when they began to quarrel. In one of these quarrels Taranaki, which is known now as Mt Egmont, attempted to carry off the mountain Pihanga, the wife of the mountain Tongariro. He was defeated in battle by Tongariro, and fled in the night, his weight dragging in the earth a deep furrow which became the Wanganui (or Whanganui) River.

Later, the great navigator Kupe is said to have stayed at the river for a time, and then came the canoe Aotea, with its captain Turi. The people of this canoe intermarried with tribes already there, and it is mostly from them that the tribes of Wanganui trace their descent.

It was soon after the coming of the Aotea that the taniwha Tutae-poroporo lived; his story is told on page three of this issue of Te Ao Hou. There used to be many other taniwha as well; every pa had one, and many of them were tame. But it is said that most of them were frightened away when the pakeha steam-boats came to the river at the end of last century.

There used to be thousands of people living along the river, in places where only hundreds, or none at all, live now. There were pas on every important hill, with the river as the road between them. The river was full of eels and fish, and the up-river people would often paddle down to the coast in summer to fish and garden. There were great slopes of kumara plantations high up the river, too, for it is very sunny there, and protected from frost. As in so many other places in New Zealand, when you go there you are shown hill-sides covered with scrub and bush, and told, ‘the old people used to have kumaras all the way up those hills once. But nothing grows there now’.

There were a great many battles on the Wanganui, but until the pakehas came the people were fairly well protected, because they could always

escape into the rugged country inland from the river. Their first encounter with pakeha weapons was in 1819, when Nga Puhi came with muskets. As Nga Puhi, under the chief Tuwhare, advanced up the river, many of the Wanganui warriors closed in at their rear, attempting to cut them off. ‘But,’ an old man said many years later, ‘what was that to Tuwhare? He cleared a path for his party by the terror of his guns. When we heard the sound of those guns we thought they were pu-tatara [trumpets], and our old men said, “does this man think to conquer Ngati Hau with his war-trumpets? Are the descendants of Ao-kehu, Haupipi and Pae-rangi flying from a sound?” So said our warriors: but when we saw our men falling dead around us, struck from far off by an invisible missile, then the knowledge came to us that this was the new weapon of which we had heard, and we saw that our weapons were of little avail against the pu-mata, the muskets. Still we resisted the advance of Nga Puhi, and attacked them whenever the opportunity offered’.

In 1840 Colonel Wakefield visited Wanganui, and bought large areas of land in return for goods such as firearms, blankets, red nightcaps, lead slates, beads, razors, pocket handkerchiefs, shirts, umbrellas, and fish hooks. A further payment of money was made some years later as compensation for this. An Anglican mission was established at Putiki, and a Roman Catholic one up the river; flourishing orchards were planted, and the pas there had new names: Jerusalem (Hiruharama), London (Ranana), Corinth (Koriniti), Athens (At [ unclear: ] ne), and so on.

Then, in 1864, the Hau-haus came down the river, paddling through the great gorge below Taumarunui, where the high cliffs go straight up from the water, and the river flows very slow and deep—travelling to attack the pakehas in the new town at the mouth of the river. They were defeated by the Wanganui Maoris at Motua Island, at Ranana; this was the last battle to take place on the river. They were led by Major Kemp (Keepa Rangi-hiwi-nui). This occurred at the same place as the old soldiers' meeting described on pages 36 and 37 of this issue of Te Ao Hou. Down by the river, a few hundred yards away from the modern hall at Ranana, Major Kemp's old carved meeting-house is still standing.

The two chiefs who are shown above were photographed in the 1880s.

A History of Ngati Wai

by Morore Piripi

This is the last instalment of the history of the Ngati Wai. So far we have discussed the two first ancestors of the tribe. Manaia and Puhikaiariki (or Puhimoanariki, as he is also called).

We now come to Rahiri, the famous Ngapuhi ancestor from whom most of the Maoris of the far North are descended. Morore Piripi's account of Rahiri is not a full one, but it gives in detail Rahiri's contact with the Ngati Wai which is of vital importance in the history of that tribe. He also quotes a widely-known Ngapuhi chant describing Ngapuhi territory.—E. G. Schwimmer.

Maoritanga

na Kingi Matutaera Ihaka

I ia putanga o Te Ao Hou, e mau ana te tono a te Etita penei na, mehemea ka maha ake nga korero Maori e tae atu ana ki a ia, ka maha ake nga wahanga o Te Ao Hou e tukuna ki te reo Maori. Mai i te putanga tuatahi o Te Ao Hou i riro mai ai ia i ahau, a ki oku nei whakaaro, ko tetahi mate nui, take nui hoki, i ruarua ai nga whakaaro o te tangata ki te tuhi Maori atu, he kino, he he no te ta i te reo Maori. Otira, me penei taku korero; i etahi wa, e tika ano te whakatakoto i nga kupu Maori, engari no te taenga atu ki te kai-ta, he kore nona e mohio ki te reo Maori, ka kotiti ke nga kupu, ka kore noa iho he take te tuhi Maori atu. Ko nga kupu Pakeha, i te mea he Pakeha te Kai-ta, pai ana te takoto, kahore he he; engari ano nga kupu Maori, ma te tino tohunga o te tangata ki te reo Maori, katahi ano a ia ka mohio e pehea ana etahi o nga kupu, me nga korero Maori e kitea ake ana i roto i Te Ao Hou. Koia nei hoki tetahi o nga kaupapa nui o Te Ao Hou, ara, he pupuri i te Maoritanga; me pehea e tika ai, e pai ai tenei taonga, mehemea ka kore e tika mai i nga pukapuka i tonhungia ai e te Tari Maori, hei hapai i nga taonga Maori? Kua takoto te korero mo te reo Maori; koia nei te tuahu o te iwi Maori; ki te ngaro tenei, ka ngaro te Maoritanga (e ai ra ki nga korero) Na reira, me whakatikatika tenei taha i te tuatahi i mua atu i te tukunga atu o nga korero Maori kia tangia ki tenei pukapuka a tatou. Kati noa nei mo te take tuatahi.

Kua pau ke nga marama maha mai i te timatatanga o aku korero i te reo takiwa (ki etahi, he reo irirangi) i raro i te kaupapa o te Maoritanga. I timatangia ai, he tono mai na nga Pakeha me kore noa tetahi tangata e kaha ki te whakahoki i nga patai maha kei roto i te hinengaro o tena, o tena, e pa ana ki nga take ki nga ahuatanga ranei mo te iwi Maori. Na tetahi kotiro, (tamaitiwahine) e iwa noa ona tau, taua take i kokiri. I pangia a Professor Arnold Wall e te mate. Na reira, ka awangawanga nga rangaitira o te reo takiwa, mo tetahi tangata hei whakaki i taua taima. No te hokianga atu o taua rangatira ki tona kainga, ka puta noa ake i a ia taua take. I reira tana tamahine, e iw noa nei ona tau. Ano ra ko

Farming
Time to Take Stock

by A. E. Gibson

Before the seasonal rush of work again starts on the farm it is an excellent time to take stock of the objects you know should be done but somehow you just do not get time to do. It is only a few weeks before the cows start calving or the ewes lambing and then it is a continuous rush of stock and seasonal work until after Christmas.

Have the milking machines been overhauled? What about the shed rubber ware? Those troughs that get like an island in a sea of mud—can you shift them or get a load of boulders? You probably need a few loads of metal on the farm tracks and some water troughs might need cleaning or the culverts opened up. It is a good time to overhaul the tractor if you can do without it for feeding out. What about the mower—did you put it away with a broken pitman or a couple of broken fingers? The water supply pump might need an overhaul and it is a good time to put a trough in that paddock that has got no water. What about getting the shearing plant overhauled instead of trying to get a man the day before the crutchers arrive. Check up on the first aid kit in the cow shed and stock up your requirements for lambing and docking.

Like all successful businesses, farming has got to be planned. You will have estimated your approximate income and expenditure for the coming season. With ever rising costs and the possibility of a reduction in the return from your butterfat or meat, the necessity to get that extra few hundred pounds of butterfat or meat will be obvious to you. Remember that the surest way to get more production is to apply the correct amount of the right fertiliser. Whether it be straight superphosphate, molyledic super, potassic super, or even potash that is required will depend on the soil type you are farming and its level of fertility. Your Department of Agriculture Fields Instructor is probably the best man to seek for advice and his services are free. Under no circumstances should you reduce your manure to make the budget balance. This is the last item you should cut or reduce.

Gardening
Growing
Maori Gourds

by Theo Schoon

The seeds should be planted as soon as there is no risk of frost, though if you use plastic cloches to cover the seeds, you can plant them even before the frosts are over—as early as the beginning of August, in warm localities. It is very important to give gourds a growing season which is as long as possible, so it is good to get them into the ground as soon as you safely can. The seeds take between a few days and a month to germinate, depending on the temperature.

The soil in which you plant them should be as rich as possible, and you should put in lots of organic manure well before planting time. If you have a clay soil, coarse sand or fine scoria will help loosen it, though if you use salt sand you should put it in three or four months before planting, so as to get rid of the salt in time. A combination of superphosphate and blood and bone, with a little lime, is also good.

Seeds are planted an inch below the surface, with the pointed tip pointing upwards. Germination can be speeded up by watering them with warm, not hot, water. Be sure to keep slugs and snails away, and water the seedlings with lukewarm water when they appear; avoid watering the foliage and stem. At this stage it is very valuable to use plastic cloches; that is, little plastic tents over the plants which you can make or buy. Once the plants have appeared, these cloches must have holes in them for ventilation.

Don't weed the plants by scratching the surface of the soil; pull weeds straight out, if you have to weed. Gourd plants need to be protected carefully from the wind, and they need a lot of water. A plant a month old can have roots as far out as three feet, so see that it gets water out there.

By the end of October the plants will have outgrown their cloches, and you should make them a framework from stakes and string to grow on. Or you can train them along a fence, or let them grow up into the branches of a dead tree. The vines take up a lot of room, like pumpkins, and you should bargain for this when you plant them. Plant them where they will get as much sun as possible, too.

ON page 38 of this issue we print an article on Pu-te-hue, the gourds which were used as bottles and containers in the old days. Only a few people grow Maori gourds today, but it is a very interesting hobby, because of the beauty of the gourds and the variety of shapes into which you can train them. We have therefore asked Mr Theo Schoon, the artist whose decorated gourds we feature in our article, to describe for us the proper way of growing them.

Mr Schoon has offered to supply seeds to any person who may wish to obtain them, though since he is a professional grower he must make a small charge for this. His address is 12 Home Street. Grey Lynn, Auckland.

As soon as the main stem has reached 15in., the tip is pinched off. After this the plant will produce more laterals and sub-laterals; it is on the sub-laterals that you grow your gourds. If it is left to itself, a plant will produce anything up to 50 gourds or more, though most of these will just rot. If you want the best results you should let only a few gourds grow, about four or five; these should be fertilized gently by hand, with intervals of a couple of weeks between each of them. You should nip off all the other female flowers, which will keep on and on coming.

You can do all sorts of things to the growing gourd to alter its shape; for instance if it is allowed to hang by its neck, the neck will grow very long. If you want a regular-shaped one with a shorter neck, you should support it from beneath with bricks as it grows.

While the gourds are growing the plants need a lot of watering, especially the roots which are some distance out from the main stem. Liquid manure is very good for them too. When a gourd has ceased to grow, its connection with the vine turns brown. You can pick it then, for it doesn't get any more nourishment. Otherwise, any gourds should be left until all of the vines have withered and died in autumn.

The best way of curing gourds is the old Maori way. You bury them in warm dry sand and all the moisture drains out into the sand. This takes 4 or 5 months. Covering them completely will prevent decay, but renew the sand at intervals. But if you want a gourd with an opening in it, you can cut a hole and clean the gourd as soon as you have picked it, being careful to scrape out all the pulp. When the gourd is bone dry, the skin may be soaked for a few minutes in hot water, and then gently scrubbed off.

It helps to preserve them if after this, you pour in, and out straight away, a mixture of boiled and raw linseed oil and spar varnish. This should be done two or three times, at intervals of a few months, till the shell won't absorb any more oil. Finally, you can wax and tint the outside with any suitable shade of brown shoe polish.

HAERE KI O KOUTOU
TIPUNA