On a rainy day, Sir Peter Buck's ashes leave Parliament Buildings on their way to his people. Sir Peter Buck has been buried. The urn looked rather lonely on top of the carved bier, on that rainy morning when two men carried it down the steps of Parliament Buildings, slowly and silently, into the back of the ear that was to take him home to his people. On the glistening pavement, a half dozen tense-looking photographers were all the public that watched the brief ceremony. The Prime Minister stood by to pay his farewell tribute until the car was out of sight. The little casket had, started on its, journey to Sir Peter people and finally to its resting place at, Okoki. The first mourners were waiting nearby, in the Ngati Poneke, Hall and from this point onwards' Te Rangihiroa was surrounded by the love of his people. Most of them had never eyen met Te Rangihiroa, but the warmth of their hearts kindled by their knowledge of his life and work was evident at succesive gatherings en route which seemed to dispel the air of loneliness about his bier. There was no need to have known him. It was enough to have that vague feeling of an unrepayable debt that people have towards Sir Peter Buck and the other great leaders of the Young Maori Party. If it had not been for Sir James Carroll. Sir, Apirana Ngata, Sir Peter Buck and the others who helped them the Maori race might be extinct by now,” said one of the onlooker. “It was through their work that there are three time as many of us now as sixty years jago.” Everyone knew their story, the young men from Te Aute College who went round she pass in the holidays leaturing about health and education singing. “The old net is cast aside the new one taken to sea,” speaking bluntly and directly with the forthrighiness and vigour of youth. Those men also enjoined the holding fast te Maoritanga. How much did most of those people know Sir Peter Buck They knew he had