But the rains came in. “Find that old tank down the bank—the one that the school got rid of. We'll put it on the storm side of the door so that the rains will never come in!” orders my mother in desperation. But the rains still forced their way in. Yes! My brothers did not like the back door. Our sleeping rooms were generous, large in size. There were only three of these and there were twelve of us. Five brothers slept in one room. Thank goodness it was a large one. My two sisters and I slept in the middle room. The rest of my brothers slept in a two-roomed hut at the back of the house. My father and my mother had a room of their own at the front. It was the biggest of the rooms. My mother had most of her babies delivered there by my father, so they needed lots of room. Out kitchen was our living room. We ate there. We sat and talked and laughed there. My father's brothers told stories there. My mother called out home the ‘Wayfarer's Inn’. We always had our uncles and aunts calling in; to wait for a bus or a taxi to town; to eat a meal with us whenever they could. Sometimes my mother grumbled at the frequent visits, as she was always very busy, but more often she was greateful; for they always brought something to eat—a piece of meat, a bag of fruit or vegetables. They always liked the smells of her cooking, and they didn't mind if the kitchen was untidy. Our kitchen was the best place of all. A huge double-sash window opened out to an orchard which was once used by my grandfather to keep his horses in. Then it was rescued by my mother so that we could see the fruits ripen instead of having them squashed by the horses. Just beyond the orchard was our hay paddock with its smells of warm summer grass and its glow of autumn brown. We were very fond of this window that opened to the orchard and all the mellowness of autumn and the freshness of spring. It was large enough for two to sit in. You could see all kinds of things in all kinds of weather. When the rains came, especially in spring, the trees glistened with water drops and at night the air was heavy with the scent of apple blossom. On warm days in summer the window was crowded with the red and yellow of ripe fruits, of early apples, plums and a few nectarines. Then, too, you could lean right out to wave to people riding on their horses, or just walking by. We had what is called a sitting-room. But we seldom sat in it except when we had special visitors. My mother furnished it very lovingly. It took seven years to save up enough money for the furniture. When it arrived there was great excitement. The pakeha school teachers next door had to be consulted—about how to lay the congoleum square and how to keep the furniture clean. Oh, there were such a lot of things to be learnt. These people were used to congoleum squares and stuffed sofas and beeswax and chromium things. They showed us what to do. The congoleum square was patterned in brown and gold. My mother would have had a carpet but that we couldn't afford. But when she saw the square she thought it was just as lovely and besides this would mean one floor less to scrub. On Saturdays we polished it with beeswax till it shone twice as new. The sitting room suite was green with touches of rust and gold. It reflected all its softness in the glow of the square. We loved to walk on the congoleum square. It was like walking on cool silk after treading on a bare floor. The chairs of the suite were covered with a rough cottage weave. They were springy and comfortable compared with the wooden chairs we had sat on for years and years. But we were not allowed to sit on them for long. My mother always had a fear that we would ruin them before we had important visitors to call. Seven years had been a long time. The wall paper was faded. My mother had some ornaments and photographs of historic importance. We covered the walls with these, especially where there were patches of paper worn bare. Above the mantelpiece over the chimney we hung a portrait of our illustrious ancestor. He was my mother's pride and glory. He was a chief, so she said. I did not like his arrogant face chiselled into severity with fierce tattoo. I thought he was ugly and he frightened me. On the other walls were more ancestors of varying importance. They were the descendants of the chief in the front of the chimney. A patu of whalebone was placed on the wall nearest the passage. My mother said it would fetch fifty pounds if she sold it to an antique shop. But a pakeha told us it would never fetch a penny; for its value lay only in sentiment and not in itself, so he said. There were photographs of my father's family on the opposite wall to this one. His family was not very important. There was a pakeha among his ancestors. Our house grew older, we grew older. The wallpaper faded even more. The suite lost its spring with the passing years. The kitchen paper peeled off and borers ate the floor. My mother complained a little, but my father did not reply. He was satisfied that the house was our own. One day a telegram announced visitors. My father, in his vague way, had invited people to stay. They were pakehas—very old friends of his that were kind to him in the city. Never was there such a commotion! My father was delighted that they were coming to visit us. My mother was worried, anxious and annoyed with my father's hasty gesture. She tossed and turned in her anxiety. It was not that she didn't like visitors. She loved to sit and talk. It was just that the house was not good enough for pakeha visitors to call. If they'd been Maoris it would not have mattered. Maoris were used to simple homes. But pakehas! She would never forgive my father for this foolish invitation!