know those little jumpity wetas?’ he said softly. ‘One of those had got into grandfather's ear, and was gnawing on his eardrum.’ The silence was hot and buzzing. ‘What did you do?’ I said at last, trying to imagine the huge pain. ‘I tried to pick it out,’ Johnny said heavily. ‘But all I got was one hind leg—the rest was too far inside. Tweezers were what I needed, ne.’ ‘Aii’, his grandfather sighed softly. ‘Wire, I thought. So I tore through that cupboard again: nothing. So out I went to the shed, out with the lamp, and hunted for wire and a hammer. A hammer I found.’ ‘And the pain,’ said Johnny's grandfather. ‘There was I in the pain of hell.’ ‘Ho, the rush!’ Johnny exclaimed. ‘Over went boxes, and rubbish, and all sorts of old things, and the blood was running from my hand, and I don't know what else. And do you think I could find any wire, ne?’ ‘Did you?’ I asked. ‘Not a piece I found, until I banged against the door—and there was a whole coil hanging on the back.’ By this stage I was panting with interest. ‘Pliers,’ I said. ‘Did you have any pliers?’ ‘Pliers!’ snorted Johnny. ‘Was I going to waste time hunting for pliers?’ ‘I was suffering the pains of the damned,’ said Johnny's grandfather. ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘I broke it!’ said Johnny. ‘I broke off a piece of wire. And then slam! I hit the ends with the hammer, and flattened them, and then I doubled up the wire to make tweezers, panting like the very devil, ne, and all the time the blood was running from my hand. And the screams from the shack…’ Johnny's grandfather rubbed his ear with tender recollection. ‘Aii,’ he muttered. ‘So in I ran, and grabbed grandfather where he was flinging around, and held him down, and dug out that black weta, all in little pieces.’ There was a long silence. At length I could stand it no longer. ‘Well?’ I said. Johnny was silent, grim behind the lighting of another smoke, but his grandfather cupped his ear towards me. ‘Did it work!’ I yelled. He shook an old wise head. ‘It took too long,’ he said softly. ‘That little weta had all the time it needed.’ He nipped the magnificent flap of his right ear between thumb and first finger, and extended it towards me with a certain pride of ownership. ‘You see this ear?’ he said. I nodded. ‘Completely deaf,’ he said mournfully. ‘No eardrum at all.’ Then he peered up at me with a surprisingly twinkleful eye. ‘An interesting story, ne?’ he asked. I looked at them both, and then caught the eye of Johnny's grandmother, who was lingering proudly at the table. ‘A very interesting story,’ I said.

Tangi by Vera D. Davidson no maori stands alone in joy or sorrow; no Maori goes to the grave unhonoured. In death, a month-old babe unites her people. From near and far, men, women and children come to the tangi—the great wailing—and, against a background of mournful sound, the age-old ritual proceeds. First, the moment of silent tribute at the steps of the meeting-house, followed by the handclasps of sympathy, and purification with water. Next, much oratory, and prayers — sonorous and beautiful in the Maori tongue — until the heart-stopping moment of wailing when three hundred people become a tribal entity, bearing one woman's grief. Later, in the sunshine, there is feasting, and laughter returns to the marae. The tribal entity separates into three hundred irrepressible individuals, and a woman faces life again. Her tears are shed, her desolation shared, and there is no more wailing. No Maori stands alone in joy or sorrow. Dr Vera D. Davidson comes from Scotland, but has lived for some years in New Zealand. She is a medical officer for schools in Gisborne. After attending a tangi for the first time, she felt impelled to write about it. Later she sent her description to an English magazine, where it won first prize in a competition in which writers from all over the world took part. However, ‘Tangi’ has not previously been published in New Zealand. With Dr. Davidson's permission, it was sent to Te Ao Hou by Mrs G. Pewhairangi of Gisborne, who was so impressed with it that she wanted other people to have the opportunity of reading it.