commend An Old Woman's Dream of Long Ago by Pahetepa Munro of Hawke's Bay for the thought and tenderness which have gone into it, but I have the feeling that the artist has worked too much from photographs as models, instead of drawing her inspiration from her own mind and thought. Of the other entries, I would say nothing individually but address these remarks to the artists as a whole. You are relying on photographs, on copies, on what I would call secondhand inspiration. Put nothing down on paper that you do not strongly feel draw it from inside yourself, if I may put it that way, not from reproductions in magazines. How do you learn to ride a bike? By getting on it, setting off, and facing the spills. It is the same with art—try it, jump on, never mind if at first you fall down. If your desire to communicate is strong enough, you will find all the technique you want. You will learn your craft, not from models, but by constant practice in finding the easiest, the truest, the best way to put down what you see in your mind's eye.

THE FLEDGLING by PETER SHARPLES Winner Te Ao Hou Literary Competition, 1960 ILLUSTRATED BY DENNIS KNIGHT TURNER Mahu Herewini said little as she sat waiting in the car beside her younger brothers Kina and Peni. Soon Nana came, then Mrs Herewini and finally her husband, and they all climbed into the Old Ford. Mr Herewini started the motor, and soon the car was roaring down the road. Mahu looked back at the old homestead which she knew she wouldn't see again for a long time. It would be her first trip away from home and her family, and she was sad to leave and frightened at the prospects of the future. Soon she would be in the city, in a new world, the Pakeha world. Mahu was eighteen years old, well built, attractive, and carried the tan of her racial inheritance in her Maori features. She had attained University Entrance at the village High School, and was now off to Auckland to study Anthropology. She had not really wanted to go, but the persuasion of Mr Crane, the headmaster, and her father's wishes had overcome her reluctance. The car pulled up outside the bus depot, and the family climbed out. “I'll take your bags to the bus-driver, Baby,” said her father, for that was the name he had always called her. “You say good-bye to Nana, Mum and the kids”. “Be sure to work hard, dear, and do be a good girl,” said Mrs Herewini. “Don't forget to write often and—Peni! get your muddy hands away from Mahu's dress.” “I'll write every week, Mum, and I'll be a good girl, you needn't worry about that,” said Mahu, tears forming in her eyes. “Good-bye, dear. Be sure and come back to see us soon, my girl,” said Nana, slipping a crumpled five pound note into Mahu's hand. “And I've put the woolly socks which Auntie Tuku knitted for you in your bag, because I know how cold Auckland can be,” continued her mother. “And dear, don't forget to change your underwear often, and oh yes! I forgot your toothpaste, so you'll have to buy another tube as soon as you arrive in Auckland. But do look after yourself, Mahu, you're so young, and be careful of some of those Pakeha men in the city, and don't walk around at night. You're a lady now.” “Come on, quickly now,” called her father from across the street, “the busman is waiting. Kitere Pepe.” She hurried over into the bus, took a seat by the window, and gazed out at her family. This time she could not hold back her tears, and as the bus drove away amid the sad farewells of the Herewini family, Mahu could only raise her hand and nod her head in reply. There were others on the bus bound for the