To give warmth to a body half-frozen By snow and rain, Slashed by an unrelenting wind Sweeping off bare, bleak granite And sodden bush. The grain is crushed flat— The farmer's trial is in many different ways— The inundation of rich land, The residue of useless silt; Communications cut—the flooded road, The poles swaying in the wind, Clinging desperately to the earth— Futile efforts. The hungry unpredictable river, Fed by crumbling banks and incessant rain Flows on— The stone-wall, the farm-gate, the homestead Pose no barriers in its journey to the sea— A course predetermined by the contours Of the farmer's own land And the natural gateways of valley after valley, The metal road and dirt track And every insignificant gully. Rain then, is the frustrating factor; from humble beginnings—the heavy, spaced drops Flinging mud like small eruptions; Then the coalescing into a controlled deluge— Trickles becoming pools, overflowing into braided streams— Potentially dangerous, but carrying the element vital to all Life— Water, a paradox The following essay and poem are written by Sharon White, aged 14, of Maropiu District High School, Northland.

Kaihu Kaihu is like a lake on a sunny day, calm, peaceful, or in one word, serene. The only things that remind you of the town are the general store, garage and the local hotel. Kaihu has changed over the years at one time there used to be people bustling about. But there weren't enough jobs so people left to go to the towns and cities. The younger people here now just stay until they're old enough to go out to work. They eventually get married and only return during the holidays or when a relation dies. One day is much the same as the other here until Friday arrives. The hotel is surrounded by cars until everyone leaves to go somewhere for a party. Saturday afternoon is the same as Friday. Then Sunday comes and once again everything is serene.

The Maori Yesterday and To-day Through the years the Maori is changing as he is getting accustomed to the European way of life. Gradually he is losing the old traditions of his people. He is selling the land that has been passed down to him after many generations, land that has been fought for by great warriors of the past. The family heirlooms are being sold to Europeans to buy food and clothing, and other luxuries money can buy. Out in the country the Maori isn't losing his traditions so quickly. He still obtains much of his food from the land and sea. The Maori is asked, ‘Why do you not clear your land and grow on it grass instead of all the bush and scrub covering it now?’ But why should he clear away the bush that provides the home for the pigeon and the shade for the tasty kewai that lurk in the shallows of the streams, and is the garden of the old medical herbs. The old hui-house still stands there now but it is very old and shabby. The hinges of the doors are rusty, and the paint is peeling off the dilapidated boards. There are no carvings, for the old carvers are dead and gone; buried underneath the cracked old tombstones in the cemetery on the hill. In the city the Maori has to adapt himself to the European way of life to survive. He must go to work to get money to buy food and clothing for his family. But though some Maoris are forgetting their old customs, other youngsters are learning the old arts and crafts so that they may carry on the traditions handed down to them from their forefathers. Then in years to come they can pass their knowledge on to their descendants. Nowadays, the Maori is becoming someone in his country. No longer can the European cheat the Maori because of his lack of educa-