A Retrospect.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue II, 11 July 1903, Page 135

A Retrospect.

Te Polio, the chief, whirled his mere. “Aue!” he said. His eye wandered over an enchanting prospect. Banked up against the western sky towered the blue heights of Pirongia, the mount of trembling night. Over its gold-tipped crest an ever-widening crown of clouds shimmered with roseate glory, and like a halo’s radiance, the warm, bloodtinged nebular streaked through the blue-grey sky. Small wonder that Te Poho exclaimed in half admiration, and half regret, as he stood on the jagged and broken fern-covered earthwork which marked the site of the ancient Matakitaki Pah. Te Poho was old, and on his face the tatooed circling curves mingled inextricably with the furrowed wrinkles of age. He represented an ancient and noble tribe, the fear of whose arms, in the days of their power, extended far into the hazy distance. But Te Poho had fallen on evil days. His bedraggled and nondescript apparel contrasted grimly with the upright dignity of his figure; his look was sad and yearning. As far as the eye could reach, this land had once been his—his and his tribes, and now the trail of the pakeha was over it all. Far below him the Waipa flowed silent and silvery towards the northern Maze. Along its banks the dwellings of the settlers stood forth in their green-encircled whiteness, and broke the brown monotony of the wilderness of fern. And yet It was not so long since those banks were alive with the shouts of his people, since their canoes raced gaily home, weighed down with the spoils of victory. Still in his ears lingered the echo of the great Matakitaki fight, when from that

very eminence they had made the final charge that had won them the day. The enemy, as the stars in number, had come upon them from the north; and, after days of savage conflict, had forced them to their last stronghold. Then, by one last desperate rush, the tide had been turned, the power of the invaders had been broken forever. And Te Poho himself had been foremost in the fight, and his heart beat faster as he thought of the many stalwart warriors whom he had hurried on their long last journey to the Reinga. But all was over now, and a miserable, dwindling remnant of his tribe alone remain-

ed. He turned away sadly and walked slowly towards the neighbouring village; he passed the church, whose spire shot up through a sea of golden wattle, but he stayed not. The laughter of a few straggling children, as they left the school, was inaudible to him as, in a dream, he wandered past the row of houses and shops which foimed the main street of the village. Before a large and imposing edifice, with a gaudilypainted window he stopped. He entered, for his soul was sad within him, and in the pakeha’s gift of the waipiro was the joy of forgetfulness. —Reine Aubin, A.C.