pleased. No one said, “Go to this lecture” or “Watch that demonstration”. No master stood over me and demanded last night's homework; nor did any master give up all his spare time to help me pass exams. The “ball was at my own feet” and I have never professed to be an expert soccer player. What a change from college! I succeeded in telling myself that my main exam was not until the end of our year and that next term would not be leaving it too late to really work hard. Next term? … no; next term was not the answer to my problem. The city had an even stronger hold on me and I felt part of its social life. When I wrote home I no longer boasted about missing few lectures. Instead my letters were descriptions of the training for our next match in football or about the new type of screen in the cinema; seldom about the training for our next exam in chemistry or the new physics professor. Unchecked, I wasted my ability and the government's money; my canoe was rotting rapidly and I was doing nothing about restoring the timber. Then came the gentle reminder from a fellow student, “Medical Intermediate exam next month,” he calmly told me one night. Examinations! Surely not! Why I had done no study at all. How could I possibly sit this exam? … the first major test of my chosen career. For a month I studied hard, I tried to force myself to think that I would be able to pass with a high enough average to be admitted to Otago, but it was no use. I knew in my own heart that I didn't have any show at all and this knowledge was confirmed when I saw the unfamiliar examination papers. The results? … I was last in a class of sixty. I was too ashamed to go home for the whole summer vacation and I stayed at the freezing works for most of the holiday. I earned good money at the “works” but when I left all I had to show for it was a collection of gaudy clothes and a sound knowledge of the various prices for the different types of sherry, brandy and beer. I also “prided” myself on having a hand stained with nicotine and a wallet bulging with stale air. At the commencement of the new varsity term, I returned to my old study with a new determination. The last week of my vacation had been spent at home and my father and uncle (who was a primary school headmaster) urged me to try harder this year, pointing out that if my marks were low again. I could not expect the government to continue my scholarship. It was with this request fresh in my mind that I faced the new year. For a month I was able to concentrate on my work, but the city had even more attractions for me now as, during my term at the freezing works, I had made many new friends in Auckland and they were constantly inviting me to parties, dances and other outings. I couldn't refuse my best friend … could I. Perhaps if I had lived in a city before, I may have been able to settle down more quickly; but I hadn't lived in a city before and I just couldn't settle down at all. Football season came round and out went schoolwork. It had always been my ambition to play for the senior grade and when my opportunity came I took it and despite my late nights and irregular training I made the team. My parents seemed thrilled but a letter from my father made me reconsider my steps over the past 18 months. “I knew you'd work hard at everything” he wrote when he heard of my Rugby position, “you are a credit to us both.” Had I worked hard? At football yes; at everything— … I was afraid to ask myself that question—afraid because I knew that I hadn't tried to work hard at varsity. Was I a credit to my parents? … again I was afraid to face that question but in my own heart I knew that I was not. I was wasting everything I had: ability, opportunity and time. The letter came two months before the Medical Intermediate exam and somehow it made me find sufficient will power to study seriously. My nights out were rapidly decreased and after a month or so I found that it was not very difficult to give them up after all. I attended the lectures in a better condition—not the old tired condition but a condition of enthusiasm and determination. I worked through a pile of notes furiously even though I couldn't study them all in the detail they deserved. Perhaps I should have realised, however, that it was impossible to do a whole year's work in two months; impossible for even the brightest scholars, let alone me. The exams arrived before I had a working knowledge on half the topics but I sat with hope, determination and sorrow. Sorrow for myself; sorrow for my parents; sorrow for my race. By the time the exams were over I was tired; tired and sick of the life I had led for so long. I returned home immediately and waited until the results were published. I was very disappointed but not exceptionally surprised when I learnt that I was still in the bottom quarter of the class. My mark was still far too low to gain admittance to Otago and the government cancelled my scholarship on the grounds that I was not suited for the occupation that I had intended for myself. I had been determined enough at first but I had been a coward when the real battle came. My canoe wasn't strong—it capsized on the Wild Seas of Life—the Seas of Self Control and Independence. After I had told my father that I would not return to varsity for another year, a smile came over his face; a smile accompanied by tears that trickled down his wrinkled cheek. “I told you once that you couldn't stay away from your old home for long. Now you see for yourself that the Maori does not belong to the towns; he belongs to his land,” he said. Thus I began working back on the land—not farming on my own farm or my father's farm (which my elder brother already managed), but just doing odd jobs here and there for anyone. I was married about ten months after I left varsity