all the beauty about her. Old Man Sun was her only rival for time this morning and she was well able to judge the lateness or earliness of the hour from the shortening shadows that the trees and hills flung before her pathway, as the sun climbed higher into the sky. “I love you, Mr Sun,” she cried, “But I'm glad Maui tied you up that once or I never would have fun racing with you.” Now her way would go up a grassy slope toward Pihoe, which was an old Maori fortification. During the weekends when Hinerangi and her brothers and sisters went exploring, they would often visit Pihoe Pa and would play hide and seek in its old trenches. It was here that Hinerangi sometimes dreamed she was a beautiful Maori princess being captured by a great, big, handsome Maori chief who would carry her off to his own pa. She would recognize him immediately by the taiaha wound he bore on his left shoulder, the result of close combat with a warring enemy who naturally fell victim to the Maori chief's skill and prowess. But there was no time for day dreaming this morning, as the road ahead of her was no paved highway. There was no highway to her home—only a stretch of beach and a horse track which snaked its way uphill and down dale, through fern and scrub and bracken and native bush, to the little Maori school tucked in a clearing about four miles away. As Hinerangi climbed up the narrow pathway she lifted her gym frock high above her head. She was now blazing her way through a a forest of paspalum grass which grew almost taller than herself. Their tops, sticky with honey, seemed to deliberately lean over and wipe themselves against her bare legs. It was then she remembered she had forgotten to put on her “overalls”, an outsize dress her oldest sister had outworn and outgrown and which her Mother insisted she wear to protect her school clothes from dirt, dust and the honey-laden paspalum grass. Her other sister wore similar protections which they always removed before they rounded the last bend in the track which over-looked the school. Here they hid their “overalls” in the bracken, but put them on once more when they wended their way homewards. Now Hinerangi was on top of Pihoe. She felt hot all through her body, but she did not stop. Cresting the brow of the hill was easy, as the track continued almost straight for a short distance. Around her was the world—all fresh and washed the night before and now hanging out to dry. She could even make out the marks of Mother Nature's clothes pegs in the blue and white flecked canopy that was stretched out to dry above her. Far below her was the sea. It looked brown and sudsy as if it still contained Mother Nature's washing water. “She's probably forgotten to empty it out after soaking the landscape in it all night,” she surmised. “Oh, well, God will pull the plug out and make the sea clear and sparkly again.” The track now dipped into the bush where it was still dark and cool but alive with nature's orchestra. Every tatarakihi in the bush seemed to be bent on out tatarakihi-ing the others, while above their happy din could be heard the melliflous notes of the tui. “That's the way dripping nectar would sound if it could sing,” Hinerangi thought, “But because it isn't able to, God gave its notes to the Tui. Ah! Now I know why the tui always sings after she has dipped her beak into the wild flowers.” Her feet were dancing now over the “accordeon”, a series of some ninety-nine pot holes gauged out by the passage of many years and many horses. On up over the “train” she ran. This was a narrow bank that divided the double tracks worn down by the horses. Next came the “horses” rub”, a deep ditch as high as a horse's back, worn out on either side by the procession of horses through the years scraping their bellies against the smooth sides of the ditch to the track above. The bush smelled of fresh morning and sweet tawhara. This afternoon on her way home from school she would persuade her brothers and sisters to stop and sample with her their delicious flavour, but now she could not, for she noticed the shadows of the trees were shortening and she had not yet reached the “staircase”. This was where the track ran straight down a high hill at an almost perpendicular angle. In winter the children braced their legs and ski-ied down it as it was well greased with wet sticky mud. She was at the fence now with but a short way to go—down another hill, across the creek, up the other side of the hill, through the second lence, around the bend and there was the school. She was still early, for the playground was empty of children. There was no need to hurry now. Mr Sun was way, way behind and probably was still vainly primping and preening himself in the large mirror of the sea. Hinerangi smiled happily. She had won the race again. School was fun for Hinerangi, She loved almost everything about it—except arithmetic. When she arrived at school as early as this there was time to select a library book and be lost in another world. Perhaps the Headmaster would not mind if she took her book down to the road and read it there as she waited for the red and white service car to come along. She liked her Headmaster. He was a Pakeha, but in the summertime when he wore only shorts, he got as brown as a—No! Not a Maori. “Pakehas don't seem to brown that way,’ she mused. “I wonder if it's because they are all pakeha inside?” In spite of his pakehaness the children all liked the kura mahita, for he was young and handsome and he could sing. He could also break up any fights that broke out among the big boys and girls on the sports field or during election year. He was a good man with a lot of kindness and a heap of understanding. In the classroom he opened up a whole new world to the children. Although the small village was practically cut off from the outside world by