its isolation, the Headmaster brought the world itself to their feet. He made lessons in history and geography, reading and composition come alive, for Hinerangi at least, though not for her older sister who was always too busy making eyes at all the big boys in the classroom. On the way home from school Pare would boast about the number of times she had been kissed. “O-O-O! You know Pine caught me behind the sheltershed at playtime today, and d'you know, he kissed me—five times,” she said, holding up all the fingers on one hand and preparing to hold up the other to indicate that England and Penehana had helped to double the number. Turning to Hinerangi she asked, “How many times have they kissed you?” “Huh! I'd like to see them try!” “If they did, what would you do”? “I'd … I'd … Scratch their eyes out.” Secretly Hinerangi wondered what it would be like to be kissed. Pare seemed to enjoy it immensely, and so did her older brother who joined in the chase of other brothers' sisters when the teachers were all at lunch. The following afternoon when she went to get her coat and bag from the cloak room she found out. So did Hemi who wore the evidence for several days. When the Headmaster asked the scratch marks on his face, he looked at Hinerangi and spat out, “The cat scratched me.” Hinerangi blushed to the roots of her hair and tried to disappear through the lid of her desk as the entire class focussed its attention upon her in a burst of laughter. Humiliated beyond endurance, Hinerangi felt that feline urge rise within her again. How could she ever have held a secret admiration for Hemi for so long was now quite beyond her. She hated him! She hated him! At that moment she caught the knowing twinkle from her Headmaster's eyes as he remarked to Hemi, “Well, you must have deserved it.” Growing up close to Nature's heart was pure joy for Hinerangi. The village in which she lived was small in size but beyond measurement in beauty. With the exception of the teacher, the storekeeper and his family and a handful of other pakehas, the sparse population was entirely Maori. Hinerangi's home was perched high on a hill overlooking the beautiful sea and surrounded by the beautiful native bush. Although her family were virtually isolated from the surrounding neighbourhood, they were never alone. Nor lonesome. How could they be with three brothers and six sisters to play and scrap with and Nature's panoramic wonderland at their feet? During the winter months when it was impossible to stay out of doors for any length of time, the little three-roomed shack which was home to them all, bulged at the seams with noise and laughter, intermingled, at times, with tears. Davs like these called for special treats like popcorn and toffee to help restore peace and quiet. Hinerangi's mother would select a few cohs of brightly coloured popcorn from the bunches that had hung to dry all winter in the wide tin chimney. The children would eagerly shell the corn until their fingers were red, while their mother heated the butter in a pot over the blazing hot wood stove. The first “pop”, followed by another, then another brought cheers from the children. When a whole hailstorm of “pop-pops” rained against the lid lifting it right off the pot, the children cheered more wildly than ever, for it was as if their wonderful mother had performed another miracle. With a saucer full of popcorn and a promise of more to come with “toffee, too, if you're good” the children were quiet. Some played “Snakes and Ladders”, or cut out pictures to paste into scrap books, but Hinerangi took off for the bedroom. With books on the floor, popcorn and elbows next to it, her chin cupped in her hands, her hind quarters in the air and her mind miles away, she was lost to the world. Hinerangi's father worked with the P.W.D. He was a big, powerful man with a big, powerful build and a big, powerful laugh that sometimes “rocked the ship”, which meant he shook the house to its very foundations with his great big laugh—and with his sometimes great big growl, too, if the occasion warranted it. There was nothing he couldn't do, Hinerangi was sure, just as she was sure there wasn't a living soul in the world who could tell stories as well as her father. During the weekends when he was home from work, he would gather the children around him and tell them such fascinating stories that Hinerangi would lie awake hours afterwards thinking about them. Friends, many of them, found their way to their door. Her mother would always welcome them with a smile, then she would hurry to stoke the fire up and put the kettle on to boil for the never-ending and always welcome cup of tea. The children took the arrival of company as their cue to vacate the house, for they had been taught that “Little children should be seen and not heard.” Hinerangi, however, took it as her cue to slip quickly and quietly back inside when the grown-ups were too engrossed in conversation to notice her. Sometimes she would wiggle her way dexterously between legs and crawl beneath the table where she would be hidden from view by the long table cloth. Then she would listen while the grown-ups talked. One day someone told a story about a boy called Jimmy whose teacher had sent him home from school because he didn't smell clean. A very angry mother turned up at school with little Jimmy in tow. “‘Y for you sen my Shimmy home from school?” she roared. “I no sen my Shimmy here for you to schmell; I sen my Shimmy here for you to cheach. My Shimmy he no punch o' wiolet!” This story was greeted with momentary silence, while Hinerangi curled up small and hardly breathed at all lest they should discover her hiding place—almost on top of their feet. At last