The End of the Rainbow Freddy came to live at Te Hauke with his Uncle Jack somewhere about 1949 and he brought with him his young wife Martha. They had both been raised in the seaside district of Kawhia within the realm of the mighty monarchs of the Waikato, now the domain of Queen Te Atairangikaahu, direct descendant of Turongo and Mahinaarangi, their revered ancestors. The young couple were not strangers to Te Hauke, or the Poukawa Lake, a beautiful gem, viewed from the heights of the Raukawa range that gave a picturesque background to this bastion of tribal history. Poukawa lake abaundantly filled with and famed for its vast supply of tuna, kakahi and variety of bird life, was the early playground of the celebrated Mahinaarangi who was wooed and won by the chief Turongo many centuries earlier. Mahinaarangi, ‘Moonglow of the Heavens’, was indeed a figure of charm and poise, skilled in the arts of her people, and admired by all. Uncle Jack extended the hand of welcome to his nephew saying, ‘E te tau naumai, haeremai, haeremai, ki tānei taha o tātou. Me noho kōrua ki konei, kanui te mahi, kanui te ora o tātou i mahi ai i runga i tēnei whenua ātaahua, i roto i te riu o Heretaunga. Heretaunga ara rau, Heretaunga haukū nui. Heretaunga of Arcadian pathways, Heretaunga of lifegiving dew, Heretaunga the foodbowl of Aotearoa. Our man Fred was a modest Maori, not well educated academically, possessed of a deep resonant bass voice that could be heard from a long way off, physically well endowed, and with a happy-go-lucky nature that showed in the continual smile he wore on his face, a smile that exposed the gleaming whiteness of his teeth. A charming manner hid the power of his muscles and sinews, which he used with rhythmical grace in the calling that so many of our folk have followed. Eagerly as hundreds before him, Freddy donned the apparel of the shearing profession, the blue bush singlet and rweed trousers tied at the knees Aussie bowyang style, placed his feet in bale-top moccasins, wrapped a large sweat towel around his neck and with his hand piece that cost him his last ‘bob’, walked onto the shearing board and in due course made inroads into the flock of bleating animals that occupy the lush acres of Heretaunga, the acres that are the reason for the prosperity of Hawke's Bay. Soon with the dexterity of a ‘gun’ shearer he divested the animals of their fleeces, the ‘golden’ fleeces that are a symbol of the wealth of many in this district and a reminder of sweat, toil and pain of aching muscles to others. Martha learned the art of being a shedhand — to pick up a wool fleece, throw it up on the wool tables like a sheet when making a bed, skirt the fleece, separate the necks and the locks, class and stow into bins, sweep the floor, pick up the dags, trim the best, and work from daylight till dark. The weight of each fleece can be twelve pounds and in a long day they make an arduous and wearisome task for the stoutest heart, and more so when the shearers move at high speed. * * * Life here is never dull. Your nostrils inhale the smell of animals, dags, and dirt, your ears are filled with the barking of dogs, the never-ceasing bleating of sheep, the hum of the engines, and now and again a shepherd's curse. Your eyes behold the hustle and bustle and the sweat rolling from the shearers' brows, the worried look on the boss's brow as he tries to show an air of nonchalance about the quality of the work, which reflects in the price received on the brokers' table, and the programme of operation he may be able to plan from the mentally calculated financial return. But for Freddy, white spots are beginning to appear before his eyes. It's getting