sheep farmers. Nearly all of the farms were developed under the Maori Affairs Development Scheme in the late thirties. Many of the mortgages have been paid off, some still struggle under the burden—and for these the additional income from kumara growing is a definite advantage. As elsewhere, our people believe in large families; and in many a house, mother cooks a meal for twelve hungry people. Somewhere, somehow an additional income has to be found to supplement the cream—or wool cheques which are neither consistent in amount nor regular in payment. Because of its isolation, people in the village cannot contemplate seasonal factory work. So, once more the Maori turns to the soil, and over the last six years this has been the case. For quite a while now the markets for crops have been very attractive. Each farmer, if he can, does cropping as a side-line. Kumara growing has taken prominence. Isolation however is a curse, for transport is often so difficult. Rangitukia, for instance, is at least a hundred miles from the nearest market. Frequently people fail to catch good prices. So, with all the difficulties associated with kumara growing, everyone watches his crops meticulously. From December until almost the end of January everyone is out weeding. To me the task is one of pleasure. I come home from the city, with my shoes worn out from treading on pavements, with my hand quite weary from holding a pen— I am a school teacher home on holiday. It is good to take off my shoes and to walk barefooted between the rows. The turned earth has a softness that is sweeter than that of a thick-piled carpet. I love to take a hoe, watch it go in and see the weeds come out. Near the plants I use my hands and the warm soil feels wonderful. How neat a row looks when I reach the end of it. How soft the sunlight looks on the green-yellow leaves. But as I meditate, I realise that to the village weeding means something different—to them it is not mere respite from other chores; it brings an extra income. It is this knowledge which lightens their labours. Because kumaras have become an attractive cash-crop, it is not so easy to ask one's neighbour for a kit without some feeling of embarrassment. I no longer say with a clear conscience, “I'll go over to Hori's place to get some to take back to the city; he won't mind. After all, he can always come to us when ours are ready.” Because I know that a kit of kumaras less means a few pennies less for Hori, I hesitate. And Hori needs that extra money, for the Pakeha has taught him that it is not an easy thing to live in his world if financial obligations cannot be met regularly and in time. Whenever there is a hui, such as a church gathering or the opening of a meeting house, it becomes evident that it is now more difficult for