people to give freely. Potatoes, kumaras and meat are supplied by few families. Sheep farmers are sometimes taxed varying amounts to meet the cost of the hui. Those who do give, are well aware that it gives them additional prestige. People say, “He pai era whanau, he mohio ki te whakaro.” Families in the village have a reputation either for meanness or for lavish giving. This reputation becomes almost a by-word in other villages. But even the lavish givers are becoming fewer. The markets offer prices, the hui offers only prestige—and in this clash of culture values the former is now taking precedence. In spite of the money-conscious world in which the Maori lives, the village still tries to perpetuate its customs in a modified form. If an important person dies, almost everyone goes to the funeral. Parents can very often leave household chores and farm work to their children and spend a day at the hui. If the deceased is not particularly noteworthy, few attend apart from the close relatives. It is interesting to note that waiatas once chanted by many at gatherings are now confined to few. Only some of the elders between the ages of 55 and 80 can chant. Of the women of the same age group only three or four can chant more than two. The younger age groups take little interest in learning waiatas, but usually enjoy listening to them. There is little incentive to learn since big huis have become rare. The adolescent age-group would rather listen to the hit parade than learn a chant, but then scarcely anybody offers to teach these people. There is still the superstition that it is bad luck to learn a waiata when there is no immediate occasion for it. The reason for the waning of this wonderful tradition lies mainly in the fact that social obligations are no longer as binding as they were when the Maori was not yet immersed in the pattern of a Pakeha economy. Now many a Maori has quite readily bartered kinship obligations and privileges for economic independence. Several families in the village, however, still remain as a co-operative unit for work and the planning of social functions. At the celebration of weddings and birthdays relatives voluntarily come forward to assist. It is the one time when people relax completely from their rigid work-a-day routine. Everyone gives freely and everyone helps willingly with the preparations—there is no need to requisition help. Cooks appear from nowhere, waitresses bound in with alacrity, and invitations are understood things. The Maori in the village is at his best, feels his best and gives with generosity. But in spite of all this the people will become more careful, more individualistic, though not nearly so much as the Pakeha. For he still recognises that he has many relatives and that he is part of a wide kinship group. As long as he is conscious of his kinship ties, the Maori will never become as truly individualistic as the Pakeha. To me, this, more than the retention of the language, is what constitutes Maoritanga, and it will, in my opinion, be the only permanent trait which distinguishes him from the Pakeha. It is summer, and the sun beats down with stagnating insistence—on the backs of people, men and women, young and old. The Maoris are weeding their kumaras.

This is the text of a talk given over the YC stations last May, dealing with Maori-pakeha relationships. MEN IN A STRANGE CULTURE by E. G. SCHWIMMER One may divide New Zealanders into three groups: A European group, a Maori group and a small group (partly European, partly Maori in descent) with access to both worlds. Naturally the European group meets Maoris in shops, factories, offices, schools and hotels, but most of the important features of Maori life remain closed to them. The same thing can be said of Maoris: to the great majority the real core of the European culture remains quite unfamiliar. My first contact with the real Maori world was when I attended a ceremonial gathering. It was one of those affairs where Ministers of the Crown talk, where a whole row of prominent visitors sit at the top table and where the hosts dash about in outward calm but inward trepidation as any mistake in the proceedings would blot the tribe's mana for a generation. It was with some alarm that I met the stern uncompromising marae police at the ceremonial gate; when I saw the huge semicircle of visitors face the defiant figures on the carved meeting house. I felt in a strange country.