SHOOT THE CENTIPEDE A SCHOOL MAGAZINE FROM ORUAITI Here is a collection of stories and poems from Oruaiti Maori School. Oruaiti lies by the sea a few miles from Kaitaia. The children are putting out a regular newspaper in which their literary work appears. The illustrations in this newspaper, printed from lino-cuts in many colours, are beyond Te Ao Hou to reproduce although the reader sees we have tried. But the stories and poems can be printed and they are beautiful. They should not be read as the fumbling work of children; the observations are true and sharply expressed, they are good entertainment and also fascinating as literature. Of the eight authors five are Maori and three European, but it would be hard to say, without having the names, which are the Maori contributions. Throughout, the standard of the English, vocabularly, rhythm, the building of the sentences, is extremely high. One wonders why there should be any difficulty about Maori children learning English if this can be achieved in an isolated village among a representative group of children. The teacher is Mr J. Richardson and the teaching methods used are those advocated by the experimental ‘Northern Project’ of Mr Gordon Tovey, supervisor of the Arts and Crafts branch of the Department of Education. The title of this collection, Shoot the Centipede, may seem a little unexpected. It comes from Oruaiti.

ALL KINDS OF FISH by Mary Matiu (11) Under the deep deep blue sea, shaped like a demon's heart, there lives a school of fishes that are of all kinds. Some with spotted backs and blossom colours that are just like silver. In the deep deep blue sea there are funny sounds like the roaring thunder …. The painted coloured fishes twist around their tails like the fantail and the gold on their backs sparkles like stars and gleams like the light in our night porch.

WINDS by Mary Heremia (14) The pine trees stand Long and thin A thousand pin points Glittering in the sun.

THOUGHTS by Owen Foster (13) What's that humming away over the hill? I think it must be John Hodges discing; it has gone away in a gulley but comes closer again; then it goes right away for about half an hour and in that half hour I can hear in the distance a shining cuckoo singing in the yellow wattles. Sea Egg, by Michael Heremia