HAERE KI O
KOUTOU TIPUNA

Matua Henare The Lady On a Bike

by Valerie Smith

Mrs Matua Henare, the only Maori woman to represent the Hawke's Bay Presbytery at a General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church of New Zealand, died recently in Hastings.

Her passing closes a unique chapter in the history of the Presbyterian Church, but at the same time opens another chapter with a practical demonstration that could ultimately affect all New Zealanders.

Although Mrs Henare's work in the Church and community were inestimable, another equally vital legacy resulted from a request made just before she died. This was her wish to be buried from St John's Presbyterian Church, Hastings, rather than

her ancestral marae at Nuhaka. Her simple request, with its immediate warm response by Maori and Pakeha, church-goers and otherwise, brought one aspect of Maoritanga into a city for the first time, and created a perfect blend of Maori and European tradition.

‘The Lady on a Bike’, as she was affectionately known to the countless families she visited, lived until seven years ago at Nuhaka, where she and her family were active in the Maori Synod. When Mr and Mrs Henare came to Hastings they were soon involved in church work, and Mrs Henare became an elder of St John's Presbyterian Church, for which she was later representative on Presbytery. Finally, in 1969, she represented Presbytery at the General Assembly in Dunedin. Race had nothing to do with her election; she was chosen because of her strong Christian character and convictions for this vital role.

Any spare time Mrs Henare might have had after leaving Nuhaka was quickly seized by others outside the church as well. An expert on Maoritanga, she was soon actively involved in establishing a Maori Community Centre here. She became a member of the Mahora School Committee, and the Hastings Boys' High School Home and School Association. In spite of increasing ill-health, she continued this service to the church and public until her death at the age of 58.

Modest though Mrs Henare was, the social implications of her life and death are tremendous. They prove beyond doubt that the best of our two cultures can be combined to everyone's advantage. Our attitude to death illustrates how far apart the two are at present.

In European society, we tend to wrap the bereaved family in cotton wool, to avoid speaking of the deceased, and generally advise a ‘stiff upper lip’ policy. We hide our grief with tranquilizers, and take pride that no-one see us ‘break down’. Small wonder we take so long to recover from the loss of a close relative.

The Maori custom of encouraging the relatives to ‘get it off your chest’ is practical and honest. Family ties are strong, and distant connections all down tools, and come to the marae to honour the dead. The traditional hakari which follows is a practical way of providing nourishment for mourners, many of whom have travelled long distances.

The mood then changes, and all join in the signing and relating of incidents from the past, to cheer and comfort the immediate family. “Sure you're heart-broken and full of regret, but your loved one has gone to the spirit world. So rejoice at the same time that he is with his Maker”.

The body of Matua Henare, in accordance with her wishes, rested for two days in a tent beside her home, which became a marac. There, a few yards from a busy street and European neighbours, hundreds of people from all over the North Island gathered round. There too, folk from all sections of the community—regardless of race, creed or position—called to pay their last respects. Her Parish Minister, Rev. W. Lindsay, and Rev. R. Poinga, Maori Minister of Hawke's Bay were constantly in attendance to welcome visitors, Maoris and Pakehas packed St John's for the funeral service conducted by Rev. Lindsay, Rev. Warren Foster, formerly of Nuhaka and now Rotorua, and Rev. Poinga. After internment at Mangaroa Cemetery, the hakari was held in St John's Hall, and another milestone was laid.

All this took place in a crowded, conservative, mainly European suburb, first in a quiet residential street, and then right next to a busy shopping centre. The reaction of neighbours was significant. Not one objected to the noise and congestion. On the contrary, many rallied round to share the family's load, and one neighbour, who had no connection through religion or race, cared for children while their parents attended the service.

Two weeks later the tangi was taken to Nuhaka in keeping with Maori custom. Rev. Lindsay, who had exchanged pulpits with Rev. Foster several times over the years, again officiated.

The problem of young Maoris living away from home was one of Mrs Henare's greatest concerns. The so-called ‘drift’ to the cities has become an avanlanche, bringing its teething troubles as well as advantages. Mr and Mrs Henare sacrificed their comfortable home in familiar surroundings to live in these difficult circumstances, so that they could personally help their family ‘fit’ in the community.

They knew that it is easy to practise culture and religion when surrounded by

family and friends who believe likewise, but that it is a different story when living in a strange city, among a strange race with strange beliefs. There is a real danger that Maori culture may be absorbed into European and religion lost in the process, just as young Maoris are being absorbed into European way of living.

Mrs Henare proved by her life and death that Maoritanga can be retained in towns and cities through this merging of our two cultures. She was a hard-working, practical Christian, devoted to her husband and twelve children, a loyal exponent of Maori and European culture and a friend to all in need.

“Don't imagine her as a fierce old warrior,” a fellow worker stressed, “She was warm and gentle, yet not a bit scared to speak up for what she believed. We all liked working with her, especially when she sang.”

“We loved her,” one of her Sunday School pupils said, “because she was so kind to us—even the horrible ones.”

“Her work on various committees was valuable,” a member reflected, “but even more important was the example she set others by simply being there.”

Matua Henare, courageous, gentle and devout, has woven life-carrying threads between Maori and Pakeha tradition. Our challenge today is to strengthen these bonds.

Te Whaea Hihita

by Mona Riini

TUPURUPURU
An Old Maungaraki Maori Love Story

told by T. V. Saunders

Many, many years ago, the romance of Tupurupuru and the beautiful maiden Konini, was retold over and over by the Wairarapa Maori people, and handed down through many generations by the hapu (tribes), where the roots of the romance first came into existence.

Our story began in the Valley of Taueru, at a place known as Te Whiti, on a hillside where a cave exists even to this day. The cave was, and is still, known as Tupurupuru's cave. It is sited in the middle of a clearing in the vast forest which surrounded the Taueru Valley.

On a beautiful clear morning just at the break of dawn, the surrounding bushland was filled with the songs of thousands of birds — the tui, kaka, bell-bird, the tiny riroriro, the cooing of the kereru (wood pigeon), and other songsters who all contributed their part towards the melodious music of the forest.

The last calls of the kiwi and the weka had ceased at the approach of dawn, while the sweet melodious notes of the sacred huia, could be heard calling its mate from amongst the scarlet blossoms of the rata tree. Soon it would be spring again, and from now on could be heard the long drawn out notes of the migrating pipiwharauroa, the long-tailed cuckoo.

Within the cave a young man awoke out of his sleep. This was Tupurupuru, known to his kith and kin as ‘Tu’. Now Tu was awakened from a vivid dream, and as he rose and stretched himself, one could see that he was very tall, very lean, but very powerfully built. He seemed full of eagerness and purpose as he moved about preparing a meal, and well he might be, as in his dream his father, Mananui, had appeared to him, as he had done many times before.

Mananui in his time was a great tohunga, who had devoted all his powers to bring up his son to be mighty and powerful — for a set purpose. This purpose was to slay the taniwha Huarau.

For many years the taniwha had been raiding his pa and fishing parties. Ngarara Huarau, being a water taniwha, could not travel very far from the water. His permanent home was at Uwhiroa, the swamp of some 500 acres in the centre of the Longbush area. This swamp was very tapu to the older Maoris, even after the early European advent into the Wairarapa. The usual route the taniwha took on his foraging was down the Makahaka stream, through Gladstone, and thence to the Taueru and the Ruamahanga rivers. Now on one of its raids the taniwha came upon a large fishing camp, with people from several pa who had joined together to harvest kakahi (fresh water pipi), eels and native trout, etc.

The camp was pitched near where the Taueru river flows into the Ruamahanga river. The taniwha came upon the campers so suddenly, that very few were able to escape from the monster. Among those who escaped was Konini, the beautiful maiden who was betrothed to Tupurupuru.

Konini lived with her parents at Kehemane, near the present road from Martinborough to Pope's Head, on the bank of the Huangaroa river.

A few days before the taniwha Ngarara Huarau raided the fishing camp at Taueru, Tupurupuru had journeyed to Kehemane to visit his beloved Konini. On arrival there he was told that she had left with a party to go fishing at the Taueru river.

Tu immediately left in great fear as the taniwha had been very restive of late. On arrival at the fishing camp, and seeing the terrible havoc that the taniwha had made, he immediately hastened to Hurunuiorangi, which was the nearest pa, to make inquiries.

The people there told Tu that a number of their people had been killed by the taniwha, but that Konini had been with a party snaring pigeons, and had escaped somewhere, perhaps to Hinewaka. Tu refused to rest or take food, and hurried on to the Ruamahanga river, where he plunged in and swam swiftly for the opposite shore. He travelled up the Maungarakis to Hinewaka. By the time he reached Hinewaka, he was becoming very weary, so accepted the food that was pressed upon him, and rested. He was very disappointed that his friends had seen no trace of Konini's party.

Komene Tahana, the chief of Hinewaka, suggested to Tu that perhaps Konini and her friends had fled north to Ngaumutawa, so Tu, deeply troubled, said goodbye to his friends at Hinewaka, and set off down the hill to Taueru, and swam the river to the other side. Just as darkness was falling he came to one of his favourite caves, the stopping place at Te Whiti.

Tupurupuru was now eager to be on his way, because while he was in a deep sleep at the cave, his father Mananui appeared before him and raising his hand in salute, had said, ‘Greetings, my son. You have done well, and I have come to calm your fears. You shall hear of your beloved Konini if you go to Ngaumutawa, but you will not find her without further worry. Remember that wedlock is tapu to you until after you have destroyed the taniwha Ngarara Huarau. Also, my son, you have only one man to fear. Beware of Morunga, he is full of treachery. Farewell my son, until you have carried out my heart's desire. Then will I appear before you again.’

So Tupurupuru left his cave, and sped swiftly north with great eagerness, hoping to see his beloved Konini safe and well. Again swimming the Ruamahanga, near where the Waingawa river flows into it, he hurried to Ngaumutawa.

Here he learned that Konini and her party had left two days ahead of him for Hakakino, by way of Kaikokirikiri. There he learned that the party had stayed for only a short while and then set off for Hakakino, on the banks of the Wainuioru river. After accepting a little food to help him on his way, Tu set out on a well-beaten track to the east, then after crossing the Ruamahanga river once more, swiftly passed through the dense forest on to Te Oreore flats, climbed the Weraiti hills and came to the Taueru river. Crossing the river, he decided to pause awhile beside the Patukawa stream for food and drink before striking out up the spur on the track to Kumukumu, and then on to Hakakino pa.

While travelling along a certain spur, he thought he had heard a sound ahead. Springing behind a large matai tree, he peered through the leaves of the rangiora which were very dense thereabouts, and saw a runner coming down the track panting heavily. As the runner passed, Tu pounced upon him, seizing him in his powerful arms. He threw him to the ground, knelt upon him and cried out, ‘Ko wai koe’ (who are you). Then seeing that the runner was winded, Tu waited for him to speak.

Presently the runner spoke, ‘I am Epihana Te Tau. I was visiting friends at Hakakino, when we were raided by a Te Raki taua (a northern war party). We were overpowered and the place was ransacked.’

Hearing this, Tu sprang up and cried. ‘When did this happen. Did you see a tall beautiful maiden by the name of Konini? Come, answer, man!’

‘It happened this morning.’ the runner said, ‘and Konini was among five or six of us who dived off the cliff into the Wainuioru river. The last I saw of her. she was swimming downstream.’

On hearing this, Tupurupuru seized his hunting spear and dashed on his way.

As he neared Hakakino be became wary, and treading softly, crept near to where the raiders were resting. Tu could hear that there was an argument going on. and on creeping closer, heard the leader of the party say, ‘Enough! I decree that we depart on our way home tomorrow.’

Tu, skirting the camp silently, descended to the river, then scouting the bank for any human sign, he presently saw small footprints in the sand of the riverbed. He knew they were made by his beloved Konini.

Swiftly following the footprints up the bank of the river into the bush, he soon came upon Konini, lying seemingly lifeless beneath a large totara tree.

In great fear, Tu rushed forward, and throwing himself beside her, placed his head upon her breast to hear if her heart was beating. To his great joy, it seemed to be beating quite strongly, but her whole body began shivering. Realising that she was suffering from cold and fatigue, he lifted her in his arms and carried her deep into the forest in a westerly direction.

After tramping some distance, he decided that they were quite safe and that Konini needed warmth and food. Searching round, he came upon a large totara tree from whose branches a lot of kiekie leaves had fallen to the ground. By crumbling some dry totara bark and twirling two sticks between his hands, Tu soon had a fire going close to the tree. Taking a cooked kereru from his kit, he broke off pieces of the bird into a calabash he carried on his belt. Adding water from a nearby stream, he placed the ipu on some hot ashes to warm. Scraping the fire away from the tree, he placed some of the dry kiekie leaves where the fire had been, and lifted Konini upon the bed of leaves. Konini ceased to shiver as the warmth from the ground where the fire had been penetrated through the leaves.

Konini gave a slight moan, and Tu, who was watching her closely, seized the ipu and pressed it gently to her lips, tipping it so that the warm liquid passed down her throat. Presently Konini opened her eves. Seeing Tu. she smiled and gave a deep sigh, than sank back into sleep.

Now that Tu had found his loved one, he realised he would have to find a safe place for them to hide until the raiders had gone. Finally he decided to carry Konini high up on the Maungarakis to a limestone cave beneath the top of Pariwarariki.

This cave was large and dry, and as Tu often used it, he always kept a good stock of dry wood there. Also, there was a small spring of good fresh water nearby, which never ran dry. In a cunningly devised sling, he kept smoked tuna and kereru.

By the time he had reached the cave with his burden. Tupurupuru was completely tired and weary. He and his beloved Konini were quite safe from the raiders, and could rest and recover their strength.

Early next morning, when the birds of the forest began their morning chorus. Tu was up and about preparing a meal. Treading softly, he crept to where Konini was sleeping, and as he watched her. she opened her eyes. Seeing her beloved Tu, Konini sprang to her feet crying, ‘E Tu, ko koe tena’ (Oh Tu, is it really you). I have had a terrible dream. Where are we? Where is this place? I have prayed for Tane, and all of our other gods, to send you to me.’

‘Hush,’ said Tu, ‘you were exhausted when I found you near the Wainuioru river. Are you feeling better, my loved one? Are you hungry? Come, here is food to eat. Let us eat, and then we can bask in the sun, and admire the scenery until we recover. Then I will take you back to your parents at Kehemane. They will be fretting over you.’

There was great jubilation at Konini's home when they arrived, and Tupurupuru was feted, as was Maori custom on such an occasion.

When the time came to say goodbye. Konini and her parents begged Tupurupuru to remain. Konini's parents wanted him to stay and marry their daughter. But remembering his father's great desire that his son should slay the taniwha Ngarara Huarau, Tu told Konini and her parents that he was under a vow to his father to slay the taniwha, and that marriage was tapu to him, until he had fulfilled the vow.

It is satisfying to place on record that Tupurupuru did slay the taniwha, and was married to his beloved Konini.

So ended one of the most well known romances of the Wairarapa.

Oh Lord

by Joyce Fuller

‘Georgie! Georgie! George Henry!’ Mrs Tumanaako's full voice rolled down the hill from her own rakish verandah to other verandahs, through the shabby meeting house, and on to the freshly-painted school; but no one noticed, for this was a mother's regular lunch-time halloo to her youngest and best-beloved.

‘George Henry, you tor-toyse! Soup's boiling away. Fried bread's cold. You'll be late back for school…. What d'you say, Lily?’ This last was directed to one of the three behind the table.

‘I saw him, Mum. He went to the lake.’ ‘… with Nuku.’ added Joe.

‘They took Uncle's old boat,’ said Mary Anne.

Mrs Tumanaako's soup ladle froze midway to the pot. Her black eyes needled twelve-year-old Mary Anne. ‘And you didn't tell me? You didn't cuff your little brother home? You, his sister? Go, fetch him.’

Mary Anne slithered from her chair, muttering, ‘He's not so little. He's eight. He's with Nuku, and Nuku's his uncle, and he's thirteen.’

However, she took the verandah steps at a jump as her mother wheeled round with, ‘Nuku! That scamp.’

As, five minutes later, Mrs Tumanaako hustled the remaining two through the gate to afternoon school, her worry deepened to alarm. No sign of Mary Anne, and the torpor of morning had given way to a breeze. No! to a wind. The still lake was bestirring itself, its muscles rippling. Soon there would be angry dabs at the raupo fringes.

‘You,’ she scolded herself, ‘this is no time to be standing.’ As she turned, her troubled eyes met those of her husband. He had been dipping, and his bare torso shone with weariness and sweat.

‘Hi, Mere. What's the matter?’

‘The little fellow. George Henry. He's out on the lake, and look at it.’

Ted gazed lakewards. Mrs Tumanaako had a great affection for her husband, but in this moment of anxiety his slowness exasperated her.

‘See here! He and Nuku took Uncle's old boat. I sent Mereana to fetch him. She hasn't come and the lake's getting up. Must get some folks out to look.’ Cupping her strong hands, she sent a rousing yell over the lethargic village.

‘Come here — haere mai katoa.’

They came, but it was only a small village, and shearing gangs and the high school twelve miles away had drained it of its man-power. At the foot of the hill were gathered mainly old people and toddlers. Mrs Tumanaako's heart sank.

And George Henry and Nuku? Almost wordlessly, after clearly indicating their physical needs to their teacher, they had gravitated to the lake.

‘Where you going, Nuku?’

‘On the lake. Coming, little feller?’

Silently George Henry climbed over the bow, and the other poled the old punt through the rushes. All was quiet save for the odd whirr of a duck's wing, or the asthmatic croak of a frog. George Henry leaned over, peering into the brown murkiness.

‘Hey! What you doing, feller? Want to capsize this boat?’

Startled, George Henry shuffled back to the middle of his seat, his thin arms clasping his knees. Was it nervousness, or that cool breath from the south that made him shiver?

‘Better now, eh?’ chattered Nuku. ‘We're out. Going faster.’ He sat down because he could no longer stand up, and anyway, the pole was no use. The gentle waves had become vicious buffs.

‘Pole us back, Nuku. Pole us back.’ George Henry, wide-eyed, knees knocking, feet splayed, couldn't believe that Nuku was no longer in control. But Mrs

Tumanaako was right. Her very young brother-in-law was an irresponsible scamp.

‘C-can't,’ his teeth chattered. ‘The wind blows us.’

Given his wild lurch for the pole, George Henry's duck in the face of a monster wave, and the sodden clumsiness of the old punt, the result was obvious. Down! Up! Over! An aeon while arms thrashed and clawed and lungs burst; Nuku struck out instinctively for the shore not more than a hundred yards distant; but something made him turn. Conscience? Family responsibility? Plain humanity? Whatever you will. George Henry was clinging to the upturned boat.

‘Stay there, Georgie. Hold on! I get help,’ The little fellow's big eyes were to haunt Nuku for years to come. ‘No use staying,’ he reasoned, flailing his awkward spashy overarm. ‘Must get help. Ooh!’ He quaked at the thought of facing Uncle, George Henry's mother and Mr Montague at school. Soon, however, all effort was bent on survival. Ah! friendly raupo heads. Not there yet though. ‘Get out of the way, you ol’ water-weeds! Want to strangle me now?”

Feet touched the brown mud, hands fumbled for the sunken branches, and Nuku was ashore, choking up weed and green water and drawing great gulps of clean air.

No rest yet though, for conscience, family responsibility or plain humanity were at him again. He screwed up his red eyes. Could he see the punt? Could George Henry hold on? Fear galvanised him.

Nuku floundered two miles through the swamp to the nearest farm. In years to come he would exclaim, ‘That swamp…’ and turn incoherent. At 2 p.m. the Whaangas rushed to the aid of a desperate figure fumbling at their back gate. Nuku babbled his story and collapsed. Bill Whaanga rattled furiously at the manual telephone, his basic English vividly painting to the police the plight of a small boy. Constable Brogan was despatched to roar over thirty miles of hill and twisty road.

Bill shouted to his wife, ‘Got to go. Scarce a man left in that kainga.’ Then he ran to the Chev., turned the key, and thrust his foot at the starter with, ‘Start this time, will you!’ She did. Bill enjoyed that ride. It gave him three things he loved — speed, power and a purpose. Shrieking to a stop at the meeting house, he flung himself out and set up such a jangle on the

bell that all within earshot raced or tottered thither.

News?

No good news.

Bill spoke to the men. ‘You fellers with boats, get 'em afloat by the ol' jetty. Constable Brogan'll be here soon. We've got to look for Uncle's ol' punt — most likely to the north. Wind's blowing that way. Mrs Tumanaako, you organise the women,’

At any other time they would have muttered, ‘Whakahihi — stuck up!’ resenting his bossiness. But not now. Mrs Tumanaako, her big firm body not made for all this wading through swamp and puffing up hills, forebore to point out that they had already been searching for hours. Instead, she snatched the gauntlet flung down.

‘We women will do the shore. Maybe we'll see better than the men. Mereana, fix George Henry's bed and have hot soup.’ Her eye, sweeping over her small force, lit on her aged parents. ‘And you,’ she said gently, but emphatically, ‘you pray — on your knees. We go.’

The mother and father, who shared the cottage with the Tumanaakos, and indeed had much to do with rearing the children, climbed slowly back. In their bedroom they knelt, never doubting that a mighty and merciful Father would hear them.

‘Our Father… E to matou Matua i te rangi, kia tapu tou ingoa…’ Brown hands clasped on white counterpane, voices rising and falling.

‘My old knees!’ croaked Grandfather, and his wife thrust under them an embroidered pillow.

‘E te Matua atawhai, kaha rawa, kua he matau; kua marara he i ou ara me te hipi ngaro — O most merciful Father, we have sinned; we have strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep… O Lord, watch over the mokopuna.’

Mrs Tumanaako was praying too as she climbed rise after rise to peer over the water. ‘O Lord, he's only a little boy, sometimes naughty, but You wouldn't hold that against him. Lord!… Lily, go tell your father to fetch the car round the point. They might wash up there… and I've not always been a good woman, but I love my children, Lord. You wouldn't take this youngest one!’

She shaded her eyes, straining desperately for some sign. ‘And, Lord, we are poor miserable people. We swear and quarrel and drink, but You wouldn't hold that against George Henry, Lord!’

And George Henry out on the lake? By some miracle, he had righted the punt, and was now squatting precariously amidships. Great shivers of fear racked his body. Nuku MUST come. As time passed his hopes fastened on his mother, grandmother, Mr Montague — anyone.

‘Mum, come quick. You must know I'm here. Gran, Mr Montague, save me!’

No one came. What had the old minister said?

‘When you are in trouble, go to your mum. When there's no mum, and you're in awful trouble, then pray to the Lord.’

‘Lord, Lord,’ whispered George Henry, ‘bring me safe to land. Bring my mum.’

No one came. But the wind sank to a huff, huff, and the wild monster in the lake crept back into his cave. George Henry's weary eyes closed. Blessed oblivion!

Down by the jetty, Consable Brogan reflected that Bill Whaanga had done all the organising possible with half-a-dozen waterlogged dinghies. Perhaps the police uniform and a swiftly assumed confidence would comfort them.

‘Very good, Whaanga. I'll catch the boat round the point.’

The afternoon wore on. Boats came and went. Gallons of tea were brewed.

No news.

But the wind dropped, the waves subsided, and the lake was almost oily. At the top of the Tumanaako hill old Uncle could for the first time make effective use of his binoculars. At his elbow, Ted Tumanaako fidgetted, wishing he could put his eye to the old man's toy.

‘Ha. I see…’

‘What?’

‘The boat… (fumbling). Put your eye there, young Ted.’

Ted seized and focused, and with a shout of ‘Georgie!’ flung away the instrument and leapt down the path. From the jetty his hurtling figure and waving arms were seen. Winged messenger!

‘George Henry, out there!’

Exhaustion melted away. Bill Whaanga and Ted seized the best boat. Mrs Tumanaako ordered thermos and rugs to the water's edge and prayed again, ‘O Lord,

bring him home safe. If You do this, I'll remember all my life.’

How hard it was to wair, with the summer dusk falling, the frogs croaking and the morepork honking!

‘You could wash out the last hundred years,’ mused Constable Brogan, sensing the mood of the kainga. ‘Hope this doesn't end in a tangi.’

There was a surge in the little group, for the boat had appeared round the point. All fell back for Mrs Tumanaako who stood, square and ready for what might come, ‘Make me strong, Lord.’

But the waiting was over. A grin split Bill's face. As they pulled in, Mrs Tumanaako strode out and gathered to her full embrace a bundle of ears, eyes and rug. ‘My baby, the Lord be thanked.’

Almost gaily she turned up the hill. ‘Thank you all. Thank you. E tika hoki koutou katoa. Haere mai ki te kai.’ She laughed at her Maori talk which was not very good.

‘Georgie,’ she said later as she fed him soup, ‘the Lord's been good. We prayed… Oh, we prayed….’

‘And I did too,’ said Georgie Henry earnestly. ‘Never prayed so hard in my life.’

The morning was fresh and the lake innocent in the sun. As Mrs Tumanaako led the two boys down the hill they were greeted with small jokes —

‘Have a long korero with the taniwha. Georgie?’

‘The Devil pull your toes, Nuku?’

Now, however, at the school gate was the time for penitence. Mrs Tumanaako's exhortation was interrupted by the put-put of a motor bike and a young man in a crash helmet.

‘Mrs Tumanaako?’

‘Yes’

‘Then this is George Henry, the hero. I'm from the press.’ Up with the camera.

Down on the knee.

‘No mister. No photos. These are not heroes. They are just naughty boys. They caused a lot of trouble. But they are sorry and will do better.’ Her level brown eyes declared, ‘This is a kainga affair’, then, seeing his discomfiture, softened suddenly. ‘No photos, but tea and kai!’ He was very young, all his professional assurance gone. ‘Just wait till George Henry and Nuku go to Mr Montague….’

Mrs Tumanaako bent once again to her own peculiar mixture of admonition and persuasion.

Conversation

by Patricia Grace

‘You went to the war, Grandpa?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you got wounded?’

‘Yes boy, wounded.’

‘You got wounded how, Grandpa?’

‘Ah well, you see boy, your Grandpa, he was out with his gun looking for the enemy. Just your Grandpa and his two mates looking. And then over the hill they came — a hundred of them, rifles, hand grenades, all sorts, and started blasting. Whew! Your Grandpa and his mates ran for it. Yes, we took off, boy. Then looked back and saw the enemy bullet coming after me and said “Run, Grandpa, run” and ran like a hare on the hill. Then came a big barb wire fence and took a dive through….’

‘And the bullet got you, Grandpa?’

‘No boy, the fence. The fence scratched your Grandpa all around here. Oh all around. And your Grandpa got up all sore and ran hard back to camp.’

‘And you got a medal, Grandpa?’

‘Ah no son, not then. You don't get a medal when you run away from an enemy bullet and you scratch your backside on a barb wire.’

‘But you were brave, Grandpa?’

‘Yes, they say so. They say your Grandpa was a brave soldier.’

‘Who said, Grandpa?’

‘All his soldier mates, all the people back home, they all heard about your Grandpa. They all say he was a brave soldier…. But boy sometimes he didn't feel very brave inside him, your Grandpa.

‘In the war your Grandpa's job was to take the messages. Young and fit then, with the legs of Mainbrace (you know that race horse, son?). His job to run like Mainbrace through the lines carrying the messages. Oh with the bullets flying all about.

‘Grandpa's soldier mates lay in the trenches calling to your Grandpa, calling to him to help him run with his messages through the lines. That's why they say your Grandpa was a brave soldier. Even now the old soldiers at the reunion say to me, “I saw you running, over in France!” They remember, yes they remember.’

‘You were very brave, I think, Grandpa.’

‘Not inside boy. Inside him your Grandpa was like a little rabbit. You come close to a rabbit and the rabbit does not run. He stands watching and shivering. “Shoo rabbit”, you shout and off he goes like the wind. Inside your Grandpa was a little rabbit shivering, waiting for someone to tell him “Go”. Then away went the legs, the fastest legs in the Battalion, through the trenches, through the lines and the shells dropping, and not a wound, only a barb wire scratch and that's all.’

‘Lot's of times I have a rabbit inside me, Grandpa, but it stays there shivering and trembling and I can't make it go. It stays. But I want to be brave like you.’

‘You mean when you play football, and you see a big fellow coming in to tackle, and he's big and the ground is hard?’

‘It's not bad then Grandpa. At first I feel scared when I see a big fellow coming at me. But then the legs take over, like your legs Grandpa, and I think about running fast. And if I do hit the ground it doesn't seem too bad, especially if I've got the ball away. It's not that. No I don't mean that.’

‘What is it then, son? What is it that frightens you? The new grown-ups?’

‘Sometimes the grown-ups. Even the kids sometimes.’

‘Who then?’

‘Mostly the teachers and the headmaster and all the kids who know a lot. Grandpa, I don't want to go back there. I can't. I'm no good there — I can't talk, I can't do anything.’

‘But you know your lessons?’

‘Not bad. Some things I can do as good as anyone. But they ask me about things and I don't say anything. I don't know what to say and I'm too scared.’

‘A big rabbit inside then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because you are different?’

‘I don't know their ways. I think they'll laugh at me.’

‘But you'll go back?’

‘I don't want to. I want to stay here and fish from the beach and talk. It's much better I think.’

‘Go back, boy. Learn well and later you can do good work for your people. Learn not to be afraid. You go away to school for them, your people. Take what is good, leave what is bad’.

‘But I feel so useless and dumb there.’

‘No need. There are many things that you have knowledge of, and they are good and useful things. You know the way of the tides and when to turn your boat for shore. The fish of the sea and the rocks are yours, and yours the hare on the hill. Yours is a true eye and a quick hand.

‘Have we not a name you and I, for every tree, every fishing place, every hole in the hill and every rise on it? Many are the waiata I have taught you and much have you learned on the marae of your people.’

‘These things do not seem useful to me in my new life.’

‘These things are part of you, they make you what you are and they are good.’

‘I don't feel sure about it.’

‘But you'll go back and learn?’

‘I don't know—suppose so.’

‘That's right son. In the holidays you come back here and talk and fish with your Grandpa. But now you must be a brave soldier and learn new ways at your new school. Learn well.’

‘And will I have a happy life, Grandpa?’

‘Not always. But you would not feel good staying here when there is work to be done. It would not be good. Later when you're an old grandpa like me you can come to this place to look at the sea and rest, and ride an old horse on the sand.’

‘And will I talk to a boy?’

‘There will be a boy to talk to.’

‘About war?’

‘I hope not about war, boy. No, tell your boy about your old Grandpa, the brave soldier who had a shivering rabbit inside—and tell him about your own life too. It will help him, I think.’

The Non-Person
Some Rambling Thoughts on TV In New Zealand

by Alan Armstrong

Let us imagine that you live in Tasmania or somewhere else overseas. By some freak of atmospherics you manage every night to pick up NZBC TV. You have never been to New Zealand. You know little about the country. What would your impressions be at the end of a year?

‘It's just like Australia,’ you might say. ‘New Zealand is a multi-racial country,’ I answer. ‘Something like one-tenth or more of our population has “dark” blood to some degree. Inter-racial marriage is increasing. Auckland is the largest Polynesian city in the world. We are trying to build up a distinctive local culture, a fusion of two races, two traditions….’

You raise your eyebrows in surprise—‘I would never have believed it!’ Indeed… !

What do New Zealanders see on their television screens which tells it like it is as far as the Maori scene is concerned? There was a brief storm in a teacup over the ‘Storm Troopers’ on ‘Gallery’. (The Maori problem! There must be a Maori ‘problem’). Occasionally Marama Martin brings her special brand of quiet humour to programme continuity if you can tune in to WN TV. There is Ernie Leonard on ‘Personality Squares’. Once they even allowed him for five minutes to stand in for the quiz master. Now there is real progress. They even let him say ‘Tena koutou’ a couple of times before the quizmaster said, ‘One day I must find out what that means’. Once a year (Christmas Day 1970, wasn't it?) there is a real programme of Maori music. I must not look a gift horse in the mouth. This programme was a good attempt in an irrelevant setting. In colour on a big screen it would have been magnificent. In black and white on a 16 inch screen it was almost a disaster. The performers were all mixed up with fern fronds and tree trunks — dark people against a darker background.

How about commercials? Oh yes. There's the chap who says ‘Ka pai’ or something fatuous when asked what he thinks of the sponsor's products. (It is a wonder NZBC didn't put subtitles in English under that scene to help people as ignorant of Maori as the quizmaster mentioned above). There is another Maori who says he likes pipis with a well known brand of biscuits. That about exhausts the numbers of Maoris starring in commercials. There was the programme about the Theatre Trust in Moscow. Good programme that. Produced by the Russians of course, not the NZBC. I nearly forgot the Royal visit. That was a first class coverage of the Maori welcome to the Queen. Credit where credit is due. We always get the Maoris out of their showcase for royalty, don't we?

There was a bit more but not much. When you look back on it all you cannot blame our Tasmanian friend getting a wrong impression. Let's face it. If you are a Maori you are almost a non-person as far as NZBC TV is concerned. How often are Maoris interviewed in those street-side confrontations with the public on some burning issue of the day? As fill-ins between programmes, we get vapid crooners aplenty and there was even a run of film clips featuring Fijian music and dancing. but how often do we see an action song or a haka or a tasteful poi dance to bridge a gap in the evening's continuity? When is ‘Survey’ going to examine something in depth, not necessarily about Maori people but of special interest to Maori people? There are just so many topics which cry out for treatment. Why do we see Maoris on discussion panels on only the very rare occasions when specifically Maori matters (or All Black tours) are dealt with. Why are Maori opinions not important or of interest on non-Maori matters? Why don't we see Maoris amongst

the smartly dressed young people drooling over cups of coffee on commercials or Maori housewives extolling the virtues of various commercial products. Is Maori endorsement of a product so unimportant? Are Maoris such an insignificant part of the consumer movement?

The plain fact is that the indifference of the NZBC, at least on our country's sole TV channel, towards Maoris and the things they do, feel, think and enjoy is really frightening. Frightening because it mirrors so well the indifference of Pakeha New Zealanders as a whole to the race which lives with them and shares their life and of whom they refer in moments of maudlin sentimentality as “our Maori brethren”. If race relations founder in New Zealand the tragedy is that they wil Ifounder on inertia and indifference and insensitivity and not because of deep seated hostility of one section of our population towards the other.

But back to TV… Hark! I hear the thunder of galloping hooves. Is it ghost riders in the sky or perhaps the NZBC rushing to the defence? Hopefully, they may tell us that there is better coming. Let's hope so. It's about—time.

(Since this article was written, the NZBC has produced ‘Pukemanu’, with public and critics regarding the series a success. Perhaps that was the galloping hooves!—Ed.)

Hostess at Expo ‘70

by Tina Ngaparu

My job at Expo 70 was with the New Zealand Government, as one of 14 hostesses. We had various jobs to do and took turns — I sometimes escorted people through the Pavilion, was on duty at the film ‘This is New Zealand’ to answer any questions, and also appeared on radio, T.V., and visited schools telling the Japanese about New Zealand. There were 35 Japanese girls with us, who also escorted visitors and sometimes interpreted for us.

My working hours were from 9.30 a.m.-3.30 p.m. or 3.30 p.m. to 9.30 p.m. A chauffeur driven car would call at the apartment for the hostesses and take us to the Pavilion. These cars were provided because the Japanese trains were always extremely crowded and one had to push hard to get in and out.

The V.I.P.s I remember most were the Crown Prince of Japan and his wife, who were such charming people. I dressed in Maori costume to welcome them and the Princess showed tremendous interest in the greens lone earrings I was wearing and the bone tiki I had round my neck.

Before going to Japan we had four weeks' preparation in Wellington, learning about the job and how to speak Japanese. Prior to this I had been taking lessons in Japanese for four months and found that being a Maori helped considerably, as the pronunciations are similar.

As well as hostesses, there was a big staff of people involved in the restaurants, several technicians, and public relations staff. We all lived in a huge apartment complex which housed about 3,000 people from 75 countries. We lived harmoniously together and learned many things from each other. We sampled different foods, and on getting together during our days off, learned many different customs.

As for Expo itself, the Russian and American Pavilions were the most popular. Canada had a large Pavilion, and although New Zealand was smaller in size it was about 5th in popularity, especially the Geyser Room where people could eat New Zealand food in the peace and quiet and were able to relax in the cool. At first it was very cold, and our fine wool suits were not warm enough. But later on, the temperatures soared and I found it very tiring with the humidity. We had to have lighter uniforms made, but even these weren't light enough and outside our air-conditioned pavilion, apartments and even the cars, we became quite uncomfortable.

On New Zealand Day, the Pavilion was closed down, except for showing V.I.P.s through during the morning. At 2.30 I took

some friends to the Expo Hall where the Maori Concert Party was performing and this everyone thoroughly enjoyed. Many of them had never seen Polynesian dancing before and were enthralled with it. In fact, many people tried to join in. It was the best performance I'd ever seen, and I felt tremendously proud. After that we had a cocktail party at 5 p.m. and a meal of New Zealand steaks and other delicacies. The Japanese were tremendously impressed with our whole New Zealand Day programme, and although I've heard that people at home here were rather critical of the miming, etc., it was exactly right for Japan.

One of the Japanese gardeners was very keen to learn a haka for National Day, so I taught him. He was delighted and I was ‘No. 1 Honourable Missee’ with him.

I was chosen to go with five other hostesses — one from Ethiopia, one from Holland, two from Italy and one from America — on a most exciting week-long trip to an island. A publicity film was made of our visit. We all slept in one room on ‘tatania’ which is a matting, on he floor in a ‘ryokan’ which is a Japanese inn.

During our free time we went to Tokyo for shopping and to see the sights, also Osaka and to Hiroshima where there is a Peace Museum commemorating the people who lost their lives when the atom bomb was dropped during the Second World War. People there asked me if I was an American and when I told them that I came from New Zealand, they were very pleased, and some of the men who had been prisoners of war here, said how well they had been treated by our people.

The Japanese people are so polite and patient and I think I learned a lot from

their way of life. They smile a lot and take life leisurely. Since I have been back in New Zealand I have found that I'm more relaxed and am able to take things as they come, instead of worrying about them as I used to. In fact two assets I gained in Japan, are patience and tolerance.

Food in Japan is very expensive compared with New Zealand — I mean, Western-style food. For instance, a packet of Weetbix cost $1, a small jar of Marmite $1 and one potato about 29 cents, so you can see, the cost of living is very high. This was accentuated by the fact that so many overseas visitors were visiting the country at the time and the shop keepers made the most of it. This inflation still exists at the moment.

Even though I loved my work, it exhausted me. After Expo was over the

continued on page 47

The Governor at Putiki

‘This is not the first time I have been on this marae. I was here 65 years ago as a small boy, to hold the horse for my father—a most beloved doctor—while he visited his patients here at Putiki.’

This opening to the Governor-General's speech in reply to his welcome at Putiki marae certainly surprised many of the 600 people there. His Excellency Sir Arthur Porritt first attended morning service at St Paul's Church, Putiki, and then visited the marae for an official welcome and luncheon.

Mr Hiponga escorted Sir Arthur onto the marae, where he was challenged by Utu Tamehana. Mr Winiata Parau of Ranana and Mr Rangi Pokiha from Koroniti, in welcoming His Excellency, recalled his late father, their well-known doctor, and recounted Sir Arthur's athletic exploits in his youth. They were glad to welcome him as a ‘son of Wanganui’ and expressed their pride in his achievements. Their speeches were complemented by song and poi—the famous ‘Aotea Poi’—presented by the local people.

Sir Arthur was then presented with a beautiful feather cloak, made by Mrs Rerekura and Mrs Grey, and placed round his shoulders by Anne Wikitoria Metekingi.

In his reply, His Excellency thanked the people for their beautiful gift, and spoke of the three traditions obviously present in New Zealand—the Maori, British pioneer, and a true New Zealand tradition which had developed over the last 20 or 30 years. He said, ‘I am not a bit pessimistic about Maoritanga,’ and spoke of Pakeha and Maori culture as being like two streams flowing alongside each other. He said, ‘Both may need straightening, or a bit of cleaning out, but we need to help each other and not be forced into one stream. This of course will need more participation and more responsibility which in turn will mean more education for both Maoris and Pakehas; but this true meeting will be real kotahitanga.’

At the conclusion of the speeches, Mr Rangi Metekingi escorted Sir Arthur slowly down a long line of old people who had been especially invited and who were seated on the marae as guests of honour. They were delighted to talk to the son of the

doctor they had known in their youth, and Sir Arthur obviously enjoyed their stories of past days. There was time to talk to many in the relaxed atmosphere, and time for more informal entertainment before a delightful luncheon. Sir Arthur left to the accompaniment of more songs, and left many happy old people talking to each other about the conversations they had had with him.

The cloak presented to His Excellency was beautifully made, with blue, white, gold and red feathers making it one of brilliant colours. A border of Aonui pattern ran down each side of the feather overlay, and at the nape of the cloak, hukahuka feathers fell in graceful folds where the intricate whakaruakopito taniko pettern began. This was woven in black, red and white to a local tribal design. Mrs Rerekura and Mrs Grey spent almost 200 hours working on the cloak, and used feathers collected over three years. Lined with royal blue satin, it was truly a magnificent gift.

Dame Te Atairangikaahu Given Freedom of City

Waitangi Day at Palmerston North was unique in the city's history, as for the first time a New Zealand citizen was given the ‘Freedom of the City’. Recipient of this honour was Te Arikinui Dame Te Atairangikaahu, who visited the city accompanied by her husband, daughter Heeni and about 100 Waikato supporters.

First came a Maori welcome to the Mayor, Mr D. Black, with the local Ngawaka Maori Club complementing the speeches. Then the mayoral party joined the local Maori elders to welcome the Waikato visitors. It was an exciting day for the crowd, many of whom had never seen a ceremonial welcome, and some regarded the day as the highlight of the city's centennial celebrations. Following the challenge and

speeches, the official party went to the clock tower, where after more speeches, the scroll giving her the Freedom of Palmerston North was handed to Dame Te Ata.

During the welcome, the crowd learned that the centre of Palmerston North's square marked the site of ‘Te Marae O Hina’, a marae where lived a wise woman who provided sanctuary for all, and who was renowned for settling arguments among the local people. It was described as fitting that it should be at ‘Te Marae o Hina’ that the city should pay tribute to a woman of our day who had given a great deal of wise counsel to this generation, and by her example set a high standard.

Dame Te Ata thanked the city for the great honour they had bestowed on her and said she prayed that all citizens, Maori and Pakeha, would continue to prosper in harmony and goodwill. The official party then began the signing of a petition that Waitangi Day be recognised as a national holiday in lieu of provincial holidays.

After the three hours of ceremony, the visitors were given a luncheon in the pavilion, while the crowd feasted from the hangis which had been put down in the square, and the afternoon programme continued informally with entertainment by several Maori clubs.

A highlight of the Waitangi Ball that evening was the presentation to Dame Te Atairangikaahu of 15 grandmothers by their grandsons. Mr S. Mihaere, a City Councillor and chief organiser of the celebrations, said that the committee was very pleased with the whole day, and he was sure all had enjoyed it.

Maoris on the Move

Looking out of the car window on the way to work, walking down the street to buy lunch, crossing Lambton Quay in a hurry, one cannot go far without seeing buildings large and small under construction. Comparing the building scene in 1970 with that in 1960, a decade ago, we cannot fail to notice several obvious differences; buildings are now being built more speedily and are going higher; more sophisticated cranes and machines are in use. However, one of the most important and significant differences to be noted is the number of Maoris employed in the construction industry.

Driving bulldozers, working below ground level or up to the penthouse, carrying, cutting and welding steel, Maoris are on the move. Drilling, lifting, measuring and sawing timber, mixing and pouring concrete, working and laughing, Maoris are on the move.

If we look more closely at these Maori construction workers, we will notice two things; first their youthfulness — a reminder that the bulk of the Maori population is under twenty years old; secondly, and much more important — many of these young Maoris are doing skilled jobs.

We are now able to look back on a decade of special Maori Trade Training in Carpentry which started as a result of liaison between the Department of Maori Affairs (as it then was) and the Technical Institutes. The Department undertook the work of recruiting suitable young men, transporting, housing and supervising them. Job placement, on the site training and finance for the scheme were also their responsibility. The Technical Institutes for their part provided tutors and complete up-to-date technical training facilities.

The first carpentry trainees in 1959 were involved in what was then an experiment. This was a scheme to intensively train young and unsophisticated Maoris from the country to become tradesmen and to fit them both into the construction industry and into city life — in the space of two years. A challenge indeed! An experiment that had social, racial and economic implications.

What has been the result of such an experiment? Have sufficient numbers of

apprentices who have passed through the training scheme continued working in the building industry? Have Maori trainees fitted in with their Pakeha workmates? Has it been an economic investment, financing these somewhat expensive training schemes? What of the academic standard reached by trainees?

The following are some of the answers.

The drop-out rate for Maori trainees during their apprenticeship years has been and is lower than that of the non-Maori apprentice — in most years considerably lower. Although training has been given in an all-Maori environment, in the classrooms and workshops of the Technical Institute, it would appear that there is no great problem of job integration. However, it is apparent that the settling-in process is speeded up and made somewhat easier if the trainee is fortunate enough to live in a hostel together with other Maori trade trainees. This ideal situation is sometimes not possible, e.g., when a trainee leaves the Technical Institute to be placed with a builder in another town.

The cost of trade training is certainly high, but if a good tradesman is the result of this kind of training, then it is surely worthwhile. Provision of trade training for young Maoris helps to solve two problems present in the New Zealand economy by alleviating the acute shortage of skilled tradesmen in urban areas and by assisting with the problem of rural unemployment.

What of the academic standard reached by trainees? Small classes and good facilities for teaching have up to now produced good results. At the Central Institute of Technology, Petone, over a period of almost ten years, passes in the 1st and 2nd qualifying examinations for the Trade Certificate in Carpentry have averaged over 80%. By now almost two hundred carpentry trainees have passed through this institute alone. Individual boys who have completed the course have gone on to gain their Trade Certificate in carpentry.

Finally, an interesting footnote. The new Central Institute of Technology complex at Heretaunga, north of Wellington, expected to be a major building project, is under way. A considerable number of carpenters are employed on this project. It is very appropriate that approximately one third of the carpenters helping to build this technical institute are Maoris.

Stan Hunt

Course Supervisor
Building Department Central
Institute of Technology

People and Places

The End of the Rainbow

Freddy came to live at Te Hauke with his Uncle Jack somewhere about 1949 and he brought with him his young wife Martha. They had both been raised in the seaside district of Kawhia within the realm of the mighty monarchs of the Waikato, now the domain of Queen Te Atairangikaahu, direct descendant of Turongo and Mahinaarangi, their revered ancestors.

The young couple were not strangers to Te Hauke, or the Poukawa Lake, a beautiful gem, viewed from the heights of the Raukawa range that gave a picturesque background to this bastion of tribal history. Poukawa lake abaundantly filled with and famed for its vast supply of tuna, kakahi and variety of bird life, was the early playground of the celebrated Mahinaarangi who was wooed and won by the chief Turongo many centuries earlier. Mahinaarangi, ‘Moonglow of the Heavens’, was indeed a figure of charm and poise, skilled in the arts of her people, and admired by all.

Uncle Jack extended the hand of welcome to his nephew saying,

‘E te tau naumai, haeremai, haeremai, ki tānei taha o tātou. Me noho kōrua ki konei, kanui te mahi, kanui te ora o tātou i mahi ai i runga i tēnei whenua ātaahua, i roto i te riu o Heretaunga. Heretaunga ara rau, Heretaunga haukū nui. Heretaunga of Arcadian pathways, Heretaunga of lifegiving dew, Heretaunga the foodbowl of Aotearoa.

Our man Fred was a modest Maori, not well educated academically, possessed of a deep resonant bass voice that could be heard from a long way off, physically well endowed, and with a happy-go-lucky nature that showed in the continual smile he wore on his face, a smile that exposed the gleaming whiteness of his teeth. A charming manner hid the power of his muscles and sinews, which he used with rhythmical grace in the calling that so many of our folk have followed.

Eagerly as hundreds before him, Freddy donned the apparel of the shearing profession, the blue bush singlet and rweed trousers tied at the knees Aussie bowyang style, placed his feet in bale-top moccasins, wrapped a large sweat towel around his neck and with his hand piece that cost him his last ‘bob’, walked onto the shearing board and in due course made inroads into the flock of bleating animals that occupy the lush acres of Heretaunga, the acres that are the reason for the prosperity of Hawke's Bay. Soon with the dexterity of a ‘gun’ shearer he divested the animals of their fleeces, the ‘golden’ fleeces that are a symbol of the wealth of many in this district and a reminder of sweat, toil and pain of aching muscles to others.

Martha learned the art of being a shedhand — to pick up a wool fleece, throw it up on the wool tables like a sheet when making a bed, skirt the fleece, separate the necks and the locks, class and stow into bins, sweep the floor, pick up the dags, trim the best, and work from daylight till dark. The weight of each fleece can be twelve pounds and in a long day they make an arduous and wearisome task for the stoutest heart, and more so when the shearers move at high speed.

* * *

Life here is never dull. Your nostrils inhale the smell of animals, dags, and dirt, your ears are filled with the barking of dogs, the never-ceasing bleating of sheep, the hum of the engines, and now and again a shepherd's curse. Your eyes behold the hustle and bustle and the sweat rolling from the shearers' brows, the worried look on the boss's brow as he tries to show an air of nonchalance about the quality of the work, which reflects in the price received on the brokers' table, and the programme of operation he may be able to plan from the mentally calculated financial return.

But for Freddy, white spots are beginning to appear before his eyes. It's getting

near 3.00 p.m. and dizzy spells are affecting his vision for he sees more white spots and more visions. Like the boss he too adopts the air of nonchalance but those spots, those spots, ‘Ah thank God they're not spots at all, darn it, they're sheep, and more sheep. Am I dizzy? No, not any more’. The bell has gone for smoko.

But he muses like the boss again. ‘By the time the season is over, I could be as good as the number one man. My tally should be 10,000, perhaps 15,000 and at so much per hundred my-oh-my. What's that story about the rainbow? Man, am I allowed to dream. Ah those white spots again, they're changing colour like the rainbow. No, no, that's not the story.

‘Bang! There goes the bell — 3.15 p.m. Smoko is over. Oh hell. The last run to home base, two hours to go, fancy allowing myself to dream at this time of day. That can wait till tonight when I go to bed dreaming, with my eyes open too. Not those white spots again. Ah — wool, wool away….’

The machines are humming again, the shedhands begin to sing and some of the weariness falls away. Freddy finds himself singing too and the rhythm is good, the mind is reacting, the body is loosening and the sinews and muscles are moving smoothly in co-ordination. That last run, the best one. ‘Don't hold me back,’ he shouts, ‘Rouseabout! Wool-away, woolaway!’

From where did that reserve of energy emerge? That beat, the rhythm.

‘The bell… gee… what's happened? The boss is counting out my pen. I can't believe it… the day's over. I could have lasted another hour. The white spots are gone. That's a change, hooray,’

Freddy takes off for the shower — ‘get rid of dirt and sweat, put those stinking clothes in the wash tub, change into clean fresh ones, and then I must lie down, a half hour wait for kai — and then off to bed. Rest those weary aching bones and muscles. Two weeks time they'll be conditioned and then I'll double that tally. Oh rest and slumber, tired and weary — gosh, those sheep are climbing into bed with me, or am I dreaming?’

The gang consists of eight shearers, eight rousabouts, including the two pressers and sheepo and the children, the Gang Boss, his wife who is the cook and their son who is only a loafer anyway, but they say he is going to university. What for? With a body like that he could be a crack shearer in no time. The kids today are getting it too easy. Make ‘em work.

Those little kids are worrying Freddy though. Why aren't they at school? Well they can't be left at home, they'll set the place on fire, so out they come to the shed. ‘The teacher won't miss them anyway. Maybe he'll be happy without them,’ say the parents. This disturbs Freddy but he does not know what to say — after all they are not his kids.

The Gang Boss makes a big impression on Freddy who says to himself that in five years he could be a big boss too, and since hard work never killed any man, this short experience should be enough to give him the managerial efficiency needed to run his own gang. ‘Do I need money? It'll come. Four or five years, that will do for a start, my farmer bosses will give me advances. I don't need to join the Shearing Contractors' Association. They can set their prices for the year, and I can set mine, and that way I will get away to a good start. Borrow money? How? Where? Do I need to do that?’

But Martha demands to know how they are going to obtain equipment, vehicles, and so on, and so on, ‘Freddy, we'll want a truck, pots, pans, cooking gear and all that.’

‘Once the Farmers know I am a contractor, they will supply all those things, and our cheques will be paid through the firm. Food, groceries, anything we need. You see Martha.’

‘What about the deposit, Freddy?’ asked Martha.

‘What's that you say? We don't need a deposit, heck. You make me tired. I know all about finance.’

‘You mean money, don't you Freddy?’ ‘Yeah, the same thing.’

‘Don't we need someone to take charge of our affairs? Like a secretary? You know Tom Jones at Omahu, he's got a bloke who counts all the money and pays all the wages for the gang.’ Martha cunningly added, ‘He's got a big home, a big car, two trucks and a tractor and he runs two gangs. Maybe we should have a counting-up bloke as well, just like that too.’

‘Tom Jones, bah, he knows nothing. He's the one I was telling you about, the one

who set up the Shearing Contractors' Association to control the prices. That's no good to me. He's made his money and now he wants to keep the cream for himself.’

‘Well what is the price per hundred, Fred? I see in the paper the award rates set by the Contractors’ and the Labour and Employment Department are so much but I can't remember exactly. But they are pretty good too this year.’

‘I'm not a member of the Association so I fix my own rates, see? I'll get the sheds at my price, see, no control, no rules. You cook and I shear with the gang and that way we'll soon hit the top.’

‘What about insurance, wages tax, social security, and all those things?’

‘That's my worry Martha, you leave those things to me.’

* * *

So in 1952, after three years' shearing, another hopeful contractor entered the competitive ranks of this hurly burly industry. Certainly 1951 was the boom year for the wool industry, the like of which had never been seen before or since by mercantile firms, farmers, business houses, shearing contractors, shed hands — the lot. The Government ‘froze’ the farmers' cheques to protect the country from inflation, but for fellows like Fred it didn't mean a thing, and nobody thought of protecting him, not even from himself, although Martha did try. The anticipation of lucrative seasonal returns looked good. Equipment was easy to get, and sheds were not so hard to come by. Then the big talk hit the news.

‘Second shearing, Martha. Look at this, twice a year shearing the same sheep! We double our tally just like that. All the year round shearing, non stop. The biggest job will be to get a gang.’

Notwithstanding the competition for shearers, Freddy and Martha got a gang together and launched forth into industry, doing the rounds in a smart-looking newlypainted yellow truck of three tons capacity, equipped with two klaxon horns that were too large to fit under the bonnet, and were attached to the top of the cab where they could blare forth to announce the arrival and departure of the gang.

With the pride of achievement, Martha was looking forward now to the prospect of her own home. After each season was over, they had been living in the tumbledown shack with big-hearted hospitable Uncle Jack and his wife, equally hospitable and kindly disposed. They did not appear to have very much, but somehow they all managed to survive.

‘We can't get a home yet,’ said Freddy. ‘We'll leave that till later. John Kiwara at Korongata has just bought a brand new car. Maybe next year we will get a house in Hastings. Now we can live in the shearers' quarters with one of our bosses, so let's get the car first.’

‘But Freddy, we have the truck, we don't need the car.’

‘You leave that to me,’ was Freddy's reply.

But fame and fortune are not made that way, and destiny has a say in the future of man. On the highway after the Hawke's Bay Show at Tomoana in October just a few miles south of Hastings city, Martha and Freddy, passengers in a friend's carlate at night, met with an accident. Martha lost one eye, and Freddy was mangled badly, and had a broken leg. He became dangerously ill, but survived.

It was back to Uncle Jack again and twelve months on a sickness benefit for the two of them, with uncompleted contracts, unpaid accounts, no funds in the bank, no insurance to cover the accident, financial embarrassment, ill health and little hope of recovery from a very depressing situation.

Time, the greatest of healers, saw convalescence and patience produce full recovery for Freddy, but with his sudden cessation of activity, he reached twentytwo stone. He still had possession of the now somewhat dejected truck, still painted yellow in most places, but was still without the house needed more urgently than before, as there were no funds to acquire one. Uncle Jack was no longer able to extend hospitality, because he had passed beyond Te Reinga, and this made life a real hardship, but Freddy still wore his smile if nothing much else.

Home now became the truck plus a tent they could use as a shelter wherever they could pitch it. The basic needs of man can be easily obtained anywhere in Aotearoa but in no place better than Te Awanga, for generations the source of the food supply for the descendants of Kahungunu living in the fertile valley of Here-

taunga. There were karaka berries, kaeo, karengo, paua, kuku, and all the delectable varieties of sea foods, inanga tuarenga, ngaore, tuna, heke and fish of all sorts.

So Freddy pitched camp on this beach, happy in the knowledge that the cost of living would be at a minimum, and rent, free.

‘After all, the old folk lived this way, and I'm not afraid to turn the clock backwards to make another start,’ he said.

Freddy seemed doomed to a life of misfortune, as calamity struck again. One warm balmy night at 11.00 p.m. the god of the sea, Tangaroa, expressed his wrath, maybe because Freddy was attempting to turn back the hands of time. No, it might have been the god of earthquakes, Ruaumoko, or did they both combine to show their displeasure at the impertinence of this human? Across the ocean of Kiwa many miles away in Hawaii, tidal waves lashed the shores of the Polynesian Islands, arousing a terrific oceanic upheaval that lashed with an unwinding spume of angry water twenty feet in height to completely engulf the truck, Freddy and Martha and all their worldy possessions and whisk them away in the receding wash.

The story could have ended here with a coroner's note of ‘loss by misadventure’. but the ancestral home of Te Hauke where Freddy first received a welcome was too the birth place of Te Hapuku, the paramount chief of Heretaunga, signatory to the Treaty of Waitangi for the Heretaunga tribes, philanthropist to the early European settlers of Hawke's Bay, and he, like the great fish that gave him his name, once more, in spirit fashion, came to the rescue of his hapless relative, and steered him safely back to the sands of Papatuanuku, devoid of all belongings except the yellow truck, and after such a battering it too was a liability and might just as well have gone the same way and been declared lost at sea like the other possessions.

Penniless, homeless, sadder and wiser, Freddy and Martha began again in the spirit so aptly described by Kipling in his poem ‘IF’.

Not dreaming any longer, they realised that the rainbow was aeons awav. Experience had prepared them for realities, and made them aware of the need to look carefully at the future. No longer interested in the elusive speculative return from unclothing animals, nor in the doubtful realm of the successful contractor. Freddy sought for himself a job in a factory, and Martha found happiness in a home provided by the state. With their new but more stable outlook in life, again with the use of their hands they began to rebuild their place in the community. Freddy's natural ability with things mechanical soon won for himself a position as driver of a lovely new yellow truck; not his, but it gave him joy and pride wherever he was required to go.

Back to twenty stone, he began to reduce weight by taking a course of gymnastics, and one of those ‘diet fads’ for he was keen to get those beautiful muscles back in trim again, if not by shearing then in his spare time at the YMCA. He was successful in his endeavour, because in twelve months he managed to reduce to twelve stone, his normal working weight.

Fit and active once more he was persuaded to accept an invitation to invest in an insurance scheme. Although he had no knowledge of its purpose or its value, like thousands of other Maoris, he accepted because, as he said, ‘If those Pakeha blokes take out insurance, it must be all right.’ Duly examined medically fit, he assigned ten shillings per week from his wages to look after the premium payments.

Meanwhile, Martha found herself sufficiently strong despite the one eye handicap to work to supplement the family income, and so life moved along quietly, but more securely.

They learned too how much better life could be with less bustle and worry, and without the hard grind of the shearing shed. Freddy no longer had white spots before his eyes, or suffered the mad rush from shed to shed, the worry of the rain that caused delays in work programmes and raised the costs of feeding the gang — ‘No work, no pay, but we still have to eat’. He no more worked by the sweat of his brow for money that seemed to pour through the fingers like sand, with an aching back and sore muscles, chasing that elusive season's tally — 10,000, 12,000, 15,000 — and no better off at the close.

Philosophically, Freddy still agreed that hard work never killed any man, and maybe he'd have another go later on. He didn't tell Martha about the insurance policy either, because she would have laughed at him, especially since he had

boasted of his financial prowess and ability to manage his own affairs in the ‘leave it to me’ style. She would have said, ‘Those silly Pakeha blokes he works with got him insured, but he couldn't see what for.’

Now he'll never know, because Freddy died not long ago. It wasn't hard work that caused it, nor, directly, the misfortunes that dogged his life, but dieting too heavily in too short a time. That's what they said at the inquest. Martha said something about a crashing diet, and that was all she could remember.

After all the bills were paid, including the funeral expenses, Martha had a tidy sum left over from the insurance, with which she has furnished her state rental house, and this continuously reminds her of her man Freddy. The state house was theirs and there she is happy to remain.

Funnily enough, I know the man who sold Freddy the insurance policy, and he said that he likes paying out on a claim because this does seem to make people happy as they realise its value, and he told me too that his boss feels the same way. But somehow I reckon Freddy is. the happiest of all, because Martha will benefit from his search for the rainbow.

That elusive fortune will never be his, but what does it matter.

Makes you wonder doesn't it?

by Matauoterangi Rongoiti

The Welcome

I was done, Without a doubt I had come to the end of my physical, mental, and spiritual resources. For a long, long time the angel of death had hovered round my hospital bed; I had even grown accustomed to the uncanny feeling of his nearness. All through the lonely days and nights of suffering which had seemed to be endless, I had sent countless pleas, nay, demands, to the Almighty, ‘Either let me die, or heal me, but please, no more of this suffering’. But God had not been willing to release me from the small amount of life which was my lot; even the doctor had admitted that it seemed as though I was meant to live on as I was, and for a purpose. It was time for me to convalesce in the outside world. Now I was making one last effort to overcome, to believe that there was for me a purpose and place in life.

‘HOW does one live with no purpose, no object?’ I had asked the doctor. This was a conundrum which whirled, unresolved, round and round in my mind.

‘There is always a purpose in life,’ he had answered briskly.

‘Even if it's only feeding the cat each day?’ I had asked with a feeble attempt at humour.

‘Even if it's only feeding the cat each day,’ he had repeated firmly, avoiding my eye while he scribbled on his prescription pad. Busily writing, he had continued giving advice.

‘Forget the past. Go to this sister of yours and rest completely. There can scarcely be any more emotional shocks left for you to face. You've been through the lot, and come through this far. Don't over-tax your physical body in any way; give it time, be patient.’

He seemed to have forgotten that I had barely enough strength to make a long journey alone, that I had to pack my few possessions, make all the arrangements…. Doctors were efficient, but standoffish, somehow. They didn't seem to want to get involved in their patients' problems; perhaps if they were too kind or concerned about people it would kill them, having to share all those burdens. And I haven't even a cat to care for, anyway. All, all was gone… my children, a roof to shelter me, love, health. In utter desolation I closed my mind against the anguish that seemed too great to be borne, trying to focus my thoughts on the problems of the moment.

The other travellers who had been on the same flight as I moved purposefully round, greeting loved ones, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen, laughing, asking breathless questions; without effort their suitcases were scooped up by hands eager to help, they walked out with certainty to waiting cars and taxis and were borne smoothly away. In a remarkably short time I was alone again, on the pavement outside the terminal building, with all my worldly possessions at my feet.

Ann — I must cling to the thought of her; I would get there somehow. She would welcome me, share my grief, commune with me, help me back to a measure of peace, allow me to rest in tranquility in the small whare behind her house. We had always been close, as close as twins. A glance between us in a crowded room was enough to flash a message between us, or we would sometimes, when alone, start speaking at the same moment about the same subject. Yes, our minds were attuned all right. She would understand why I had arrived unheralded; we had always been able to plunge into each other's lives on the instant of meeting. She would accept me immediately; I could cry at last; there would be the consolation of a soul in tune with mine, sharing the greatest crisis of my life, understanding both the spoken and the unspoken ordeals through which I had passed and was still passing…. It had always been this way between us.

Shaking with exhaustion. I realised that I hadn't even the strength left to get to the railway station to catch the suburban train. It would mean a long wait; I should be in bed right now…. The world was receding from me and surging back again in dizzy cycles. There was no one to ap-

peal to so I sent up another plea to God; I had become used to talking to Him now; after all, when there is no one else to talk to one has to speak with someone.

‘Please send me help somehow, in some way, God. Please give me strength just to last out the journey.’ Pulling my scattered wits together I made a hasty calculation. Thirty shillings — that was the taxi fare out to my sister's place. There was just enough of my pension money left; I would spend it on reaching my haven. The future — if there was a future — could take care of itself. And here was help; as if in answer to my prayer a taxi rolled up and stopped beside me, the driver cocking an eye at me and my luggage. I nodded and clambered shakily into the front seat. A Maori driver… good. At least he wouldn't indulge in polite, meaningless small talk. I couldn't cope with trivialities, not any more.

There was a thud as the boot was clamped down on my gear, then the driver opened the door and settled himself in his seat. Turning to me he studied me for a moment, saying calmly, as though it was the most natural way in the world with which to start a conversation with a stranger, ‘You are tired and ill and in trouble, my dear.’

The relief of this instant recognition, this calm acceptance, the word of endearment, the warmth of heart flowing from him was shattering. Tears sprang to my eyes.

‘How did you KNOW?’ I quavered.

‘In my job I have learnt to understand people,’ he said, ‘and as soon as I saw you I knew you for a person who was suffering.’

‘So do some Pakehas,’ I thought, ‘but they do nothing, nothing at all, for they are afraid of another's grief, for recognition demands a sharing They avoid the subject, or they speak of it in platitudes, skirting round it with embarrassment, relieved to get the duty over, and go on to other matters.’

The simplicity, the fearlessness of his recognition of my suffering, the directness achieved without careless curiosity or wearisome explanations, the communication of a sort of unselfconscious love emanating from him; all this, and more, was balm to my being.

I suppose we spoke about each other, or to each other during the remainder of the trip; I do not recall any of it. The first small miracle of words was the thing I was always to remember.

As we drew nearer to my widowed sister's house a movement of forwardlooking life stirred in me. Here was the street, and here was the well-remembered home. And there she was, as though she had sensed my coming, waiting at the gate!

I conjured up a wan smile. She stared at me, at the suitcases being unloaded from the boot of the taxi; I don't think she even noticed that there was a third person with us. She spoke quickly, flapping her hands up and down.

‘YOU here!’ she said distractedly. ‘Look, you'll have to hurry to the back. Dan's coming any minute!’ I knew from her recent letters that she was indulging in a secret love-affair with a married man, but surely she understood about… about…

I came back from a long distance; she was saying urgently,

‘— so no one must SEE him!’

‘I wouldn't t—’

‘It's not just THAT. Can't you see? We have to make the most of each SECOND together!’

Too late, too late to remember the trifling faults of childhood days — the times she had left me to face the music when we had been found out in one of our mischievous scrapes, the times in our teen-age years when she had used my quietness as a foil for her scintillating personality, the charm she had used to get her own way. Must I always blunder through life, naively believing that because I loved a person, they also loved me in return? I had thought there was nothing left to be shattered. Another mistake. The only person who had the power to draw me back to the warmth of life was showing unmistakably that I was an embarrassment to her. But there was no going back, there was nowhere to go; this was my journey's end. I stammered out, ‘May I board in your bach, then, for… for a little while? I'll —’

‘Anything. ANYTHING! (‘Just so long as you get out of sight, quickly,’ was the unspoken message.) She was edging me to the corner of the house. making a quick appeal with great expertise.

‘You do understand, don't you? You know me! You're different; sort of stronger, or something. You know I can't live without love!’

‘Yes.’ I said. It would have made as much sense if I had said ‘No’, but the answer seemed to satisfy her conscience. Another car drew up at the gate.

‘Quick. GO! He's HERE!’ and she turned and ran to the gate, flustered, but aglow with health and beauty.

Somehow I walked to the back of the house, my taxi driver following with the suitcases. There was no feeling in me at all as I stood in the small whare, but I was trembling uncontrollably. There was bed… a shelf… a kerosene heater… I was chilled to the core in spite of the heat of the summer's day. I was more alone now than I had been when I had started out to come to my sister with unquestioning trust in my heart. There was no one, now, anywhere at all to help me struggle back to hope and health; I knew myself to be a hindrance in my sister's life, needed by no one. I would die now….

‘Dear God, let it come quickly,’ I said in my heart. Wearily I turned round, groping in my purse for the driver's fare. He was standing quietly watching me, just inside the doorway. Our eyes met.

And then there were protective arms round me, a holding of my trembling body until a measure of composure returned, soothing murmurs as to a hurt child, and, at last, speech.

‘My sister,’ he said, ‘I welcome you to your new home. I do not live so far away. When you need help, ring me. I will come and help in any way I can. See! You are not alone after all, for now you have ME as a brother!’

He let me weep my heart out. He let me be myself. He did not say, ‘cheer up’, or ‘come on, now, this isn't doing you any good’, or ‘pull yourself together, you've got to help yourself, now, you know’. He did not use any of the words which Pakehas are apt to say to those in dire distress, increasing their sense of despair, driving them further into themselves with a sense of the loneliness of their suffering. Resting my head on my brother's shoulder I wept unrestrainedly, mingling tears of sorrow at the rejection by a sister and joy at the finding of a brother; sadness at man's cruelty, and gladness at his compassion. A little of the feeling of being a person worthy of being cherished in my own right started to dawn in my heart. He had lighted a lamp in my soul, which was to shine on my path through the dark days still before me.

My Maori brother, although you dwell in the city, and must live outwardly as the Pakeha does, you will never lose one iota of your Maoritanga while you use it thus, carrying it in your soul, sharing it with a race which is sick for the lack of love. You do more for my spirit than wordy sermons about goodwill and brotherly love could ever do. You LIVE these things, and because you once offered unstintingly. to me, a Pakeha, the spiritual gift your race has been given, I now live and have been taught what the sharing of love means, and the power it has to restore, to bless, and to heal.

Helen Woodley

Dedication and Anniversary

by Eric Fisher

In March 1970 a service was held to mark the 50th anniversary of the Pepara Church at Koroniti Pa, Whanganui River, and to dedicate a memorial to Sister Elsie Smith, a missionary nurse of the Anglican church, who had lived at Koroniti for 33 years.

Sister Elsie, as she was always known, was a very frail-looking Englishwoman, who came to New Zealand in the late 1920s and was stationed at Abbotsford, Waipapa. Later she was for a short time at Marton, before being appointed in 1930 to the

Wainui-a-rua Maori Pastorate with headquarters at Koroniti in a picturesque cottage adjacent to the Repara Church. In those days transport was by river steamer, but Sister Elsie was known to walk 15 miles by track to Parikino visiting Maori and settlers' homes and administering to their needs. Also she would walk to the various Pa north of Koroniti and on to Pipiriki. She gave her service in spiritual, nursing and financial aid particularly during the depression years.

Sister Elsie always took service in the church regularly when no priest was in attendance and also played the organ. If only children were present she would afterwards take them all to the lawn in front of her cottage and give them lunch. Her hospitality was well known to many visitors and tourists after the road was put through as everybody was made welcome to her home. One of the proud moments of her life was when she would take her band of Maori women of the Mothers' Union to visit other Unions and districts. Their banner made of woven flax linen was much admired and still remains in the Pepara Church. Many of her pupils are now grown up.

Living amongst all the Ngati Pamoana all those years, she was eventually admitted as a member of the tribe, and for her work amongst the Maori people she received the M.B.E. in the June Birthday Honours of 1955.

She returned to England to live with her sister in 1963, and died there in May 1968, aged 87. After the celebration of Memorial Services held at St Paul's Church. Putiki and the Pepara Church at Koroniti, members of Ngati Pamoana Tribe and various other friends decided that a Memorial should be erected to Sister Elsie at Koroniti. The organising was left to a Committee of Maori and Pakeha. Preparations were made by having the Pepara Church repainted and repaired, and the Waiherehere Wharepuni and other buildings painted. The carvings from the old Poutama Meeting House which was dismantled at Raratia, were placed in the Pepara Church for safe keeping. A memorial cairn built of stones from the Whanganui River, with a stainless steel plaque inserted, was built by Messrs Panatahi Metekingi and Eric Fisher.

The Ngati Pamoana people had assembled in the Pa on the day before the celebrations, as rain developed in the River Valley, the first after the prolonged drought. However, as the sun rose the mist lifted and a buzz of excitement prevailed as cars arrived with visitors for the occasion. At 10 a.m. the Rev. Allan Broughton, then Victar of the Wainui-a-rua Maori Pastorate arrived, accompanied by the Bishop of Wellington, Rt. Rev. H. Baines, and the Rt. Rev. Manu Bennett, Bishop of Aotearoa. On entering the marae the Rt. Rev. Manu Bennett was challenged with a wero by Kingi Kingi of Maxwell and then by a haka by members of the Ngati Pamoana. A speech of welcome was then given by Rangi Pokiha, elder of the Pa.

At 11 a.m. the bell tolled for the service. The church was full, and many sat outside the church in the brilliant sunshine. The service was conducted by the Rev. Allan Broughton assisted by other visiting clergy. The Bishop of Aotearoa preached the sermon, and the two bishops then took the Communion. After Communion all gathered in front of the Memorial Cairn which was draped with the Pamoana Tribal Flag. Here a short service of dedication was held, and the flag was removed bv Mrs Pepe Metekingi, assisted by Messrs Rangi Pokiha and Panatahi Metekingi. The Rt. Rev. Manu Bennett then pronounced the dedication of the memorial.

Tributes were then paid to the work of Sister Elsie Smith. Over 300 visitors attended, including local dignitaries and members of parliament. After a hangi dinner they were entertained with pois and action songs. Among the visitors was the Roman Catholic Maori Missioner, the Rev. Father Caulfield, and two Sisters from the Hiruharama Mission. Others came from all parts of the North and South Islands, and overseas from New York and California, and all recognised the great contribution made by that frail-looking but stouthearted mother to the children of Ngati Pamoana and Wainui-a-rua.

So Sister Elsie Smith joins a band of women renowned for their spiritual and healing work on the Whanganui River.

YOUNGER READERS' SECTION

We are delighted to be able to publish these short pieces in Maori by pupils of translations.

A Strange Contest

by Christene Evans

Long, long ago there lived in the Maunga-tahi valley two Maori chiefs and all their people. The pas stood almost opposite each other, about three quarters of a mile apart, on the banks of the Maungatahi creek, Fern and tutu, flax and toetoe grew thickly all around.

One pa was named Nga Tore Atu, the other Patangata, and each was fortified on its own sugar-loaf hill.

The two chiefs lived in harmony for many years. Then one day came exciting news; there was to be a great gathering of many tribes from many distant places and the meeting point chosen was… their own valley.

At once the two chiefs began to argue, Each wanted the honour of playing host and providing food for the visitors, each claimed his was the right — the first chief because he was the higher-born, he said. but the other would not agree. Soon voices were raised with everyone taking sides and

it seemed as if the expected visitors were going to be the cause of trouble in the quiet valley.

But at this point the elders spoke. These wise men, seeing the danger ahead in all this disagreement, caled a halt, and after talking the matter over they told of their decision. There was to be a contest — a rather strange contest — and it was this: each chief must set his people to work collecting a supply of food. Whichever gathered the most should be declared winner and to him would go the honour of being host.

Would they agree to compete against each other? Yes. said the two chiefs, this seemed a fair and reasonable way to avoid further quarrelling. It was a good way to solve the problem, even though such generous hospitality as they planned to offer was quite likely to make the winning chief a poor man for the rest of his life.

Eager to begin the contest, each immediately set his men digging a number of

large holes in the flat part of the valley. These holes, it was agreed, were to be all the same size — two feet across and one and a half feet deep.

Meanwhile, those most skilful as hunters foraged in the bush and along the river. Theirs was the task of filling the holes with as much game and stock as they could find.

Every man was anxious to do the best for his own chief and worked with a will so that very soon all the holes began to overflow with supplies. Hastily, the diggers scraped out more storage space as the hunters' kits unloaded tuna and pukeko, kukupa and kaka. And yet there was still nothing to choose between the two sides, neither was ahead. Finally, although bush and stream near and far had been cleared of livestock, hole for overflowing hole the contest was a dead heat. Now the hunters were returning empty-handed, there was only one thing left to do. The elders declared a tie.

Again they sought a way of keeping the peace, and at last after many hours of talk they announced a second contest.

Pointing at two huge blocks of limestone hanging just below the Nga Tore Atua pa, they declared that these must be pulled out of the ground and then rolled down the hill. The block rolling the farthest would win the prize for one side or the other.

Again the chiefs agreed to take part in the contest and soon each had picked out his strongest warrior. Then they stood back, watching eagerly.

Both blocks were eight feet square and firmly embedded in the ground. Nothing daunted, the first competitor got his arms round one, gave a mighty heave, and sent it thundering down the hill. Even on reaching the flat floor of the valley it still tumbled on over and over before stopping at last by the river's edge.

A great cheer rose, for such an effort, everyone was sure, could hardly be beaten.

But in this they were mistaken. The contest was by no means over yet. Now came the second strong man's turn. Slowly he climbed up to the single remaining boulder as everyone waited, hardly breathing. He paused, then with a hearty push he helped it on its way. Would it pass the other boulder or not? At last it came to rest — exactly level with the other boulder.

Two contests, two dead heats. What was to be done now? No wonder the wise men of both sides scratched their heads.

The two chiefs looked at each other and thought how foolish they had been to quarrel over such a matter.

‘Why not join forces?’ said one.

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Why not play joint hosts to the visitors who are coming? Now we have so much food — thanks to the first contest — we can put it all together for a great feast of welcome.’

This they agreed upon. And so peace returned to the Maungatahi valley.

All this happened many, many years ago. Fire destroyed the two old pas, and nothing is left of them but a deep trench round the ruins of one and a few heart of totara poles in the other.

And the limestone boulders? They are there still at the bottom of the valley, embedded by the edge of the creek. The paths by which they rolled down the hill can still be traced. As for the big holes that were especially dug for the contest, you can find them there too — if you look.

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