old traditions. For the children there appears to be no burden and no sorrow. As with children anywhere, the world is their oyster. They don't yet realise that the oyster will be so hard to open—and may be lean and bitter to the taste. Some kaumatua said, ‘Forget the Maori way, the language,—even the Maori aroha; it will keep you poor, hold you down’. Maybe they are right. But some of the students could hardly believe it. They defended the Maori ‘life-style’ (as one put it) because they could see already that it was the way of a people who, in significant ways, could teach the Pakeha to be more human. And so it went on, everyone feeling strongly about this problem—‘Whence Maoritanga?’. Everyone with an opinion; no one with an answer. Is there one? The night before, there had been a dance for the young people, in the dining hall. The musicians were shy at first and it was ten o'clock before the show ‘got off the ground’. At first, students danced with students, children with children. But not for long. Without prompting, the music and the gaiety rose in tempo, as everyone became everyone else's partner. There was no ‘organizing’; fun was the master of ceremonies, until 3 a.m., when it finally folded up. Next day, a small group of students made a lightning opinion survey in the main town. Their opening gambit was an ‘innocent’ question about the worth of play centres, for Maori mothers and children. They came away surprised and sometimes shocked at the mixture of complacency, cynicism and Pakeha prejudice which the answers revealed. ‘He iwi kotahi tatau, 1968?’ After 150 years it is still mostly on paper—on the statute books, in political speeches, in polite conversation—but not in fact. Not in the cities and towns, except marginally. Certainly not in the rural communities. We are still a divided people. Friday night. Most of the work was completed—the fence was up, the grass cut, the drains dug, flax bushes and pohutukawa trees planted, a play centre painted. Some of us went to town, to the pub; some to a dance. A dozen of these ended up at a party—a real live ‘Hoolie’—and had their eyes and ears opened wider than they had bargained for. More food for thought! How to equate this side of life with the grace, courtesy and wisdom of the older people. There were sore heads and sad hearts next day. Saturday was pure holiday, for those in a condition to enjoy it. An outing to Reef Point by tractor and trailer—or by horseback for the romantic ones. Mussel gathering. And back on the marae that evening, a hangi-cooked meal and a final get-together of residents and students. Sunday, and the camp folded up. We departed as we had come—at intervals and by various means. But we ourselves were a little different. We had found new friends amongst our own group and amongst the local people, young and old. We had enjoyed the variety and depth of personalities. We had caught a glimpse of what might be called the spirit of old Maori life—a stillpowerful and intensely human thing that is not easy to understand, and even harder to put into words. We had, to some extent, crossed the old boundary of ‘race’ and culture—where this is still clearly defined —and felt a little wiser, and much richer, for the experience.

Mokemoke These are our hills, Moana, But the kowhais are gone And Cherry Grove is no more, Nor the pa where friendliness Wrapped me in warm embrace. Your trim house nestles Under nostalgic hills Where once we went barefoot After wild strawberries. You do not want to rermember. You are preoccupied With your silver teapot And wall to wall carpet And console televsion. I could cry on your ample bosom, I shall not come again, Moana. Eden Conway