be settled calm to-morrow, the wind will be a light sea-breeze making gentle ripples on the water; I shall put to sea.’ In the morning he embarked in one of the canoes and reached the fishing ground. A number of canoes made up the fleet. While he was occupied with baiting his hooks, the men in the bow exchanged knowing glances with those in the stern, and those in the stern with those in the bow. All the men of the canoes exchanged similar glances, indicating that he was to be slain. They slew him and he died. They tore out his entrails and vitals, and threw them into the sea, and they were cast ashore. The place where they were cast ashore came to be called Tawekatanga o te ngakau o Poroumata (the place where the vitals of Poroumata hung entangled). The fishing ground was called Kamokamo (knowing glances). Those names still remain. So Poroumata died, and who was there to avenge his death? For the tribe was rejoicing, and ate its own food with no one to interfere. His daughters, Te Ataakura, Materoa, and Tawhipare, mourned for their father. Long was the mourning and grieving of these women for their father. Enough of that. Tumoana-kotore was also a descendent of Porourangi, he as well as Poroumata. Tumoana-kotare married two sisters; Rutanga was the elder, Rongomai-tauarau the younger. They were both of them his wives. The elder had a child, Hinemahuru. The younger had a child, a son, Ngatihau. When Tumoana-kotare died, the days of his mourning were such as befitted the mourning for a chief. They wrapped him up and took him and suspended him in a puriri near to Waiomatatini. The resting place for the bones, Parororangi, was a little above on the mountain. When a year had passed and the flesh decomposed, they would carry away the bones to that resting place. The men who had suspended him in the tree returned home. They had crossed a small stream when a voice reached them. They stood and listened. The cry was repeated. They said, ‘It is just as if it were the voice of our old man.’ They shouted, and the voice protested from above, ‘I am still alive; let me down.’ His relatives returned, let him down, and undid the wrappings. He looked up to the puriri and went on to say, ‘My eyes were still open, and yet you suspended me alive.’ Many years passed, then he really died. Enough of that. His son, Ngatihau, took Te Ataakura, the daughter of Poroumata, as his wife. She was still mourning for her father. She conceived and bore a child, a daughter; she mourned