‘Can you see anything yet?’ asked my husband; but I couldn't. I began to peel an orange for us, and just as we were dripping juice and bits in all directions, rocks and kelp and land appeared from nowhere and we were there! Dazzling white sand with foaming breakers; salt water clear as emerald (why hadn't we brought our togs?); moorland patterned in purple and brown; vast expanses of water inshore as well as out—and next thing we were charging a bright green runway, while neighbouring sheep and their tail-swinging lambs bustled for cover. Rows of Landrovers were there to meet the plane, and rows of trees, neatly fenced off. had shiny leaves as green as the grass. Our Chatham host couldn't have been kinder: ‘Had lunch? Well, how about a trip to Kaingaroa—you can see Chatham Island An old kopi—decorated tree An Eastern Bar-tailed Godwit forgetmenots in their wild state!—only, first, there's something I want to show you in a karaka grove—kopi, they call them here.’ He stopped the Landrover by the roadside. A walk over the paddock, through the trees, past a clearing into more trees—and there stood an old kopi, yellow with lichen, green with moss, and carved with a quaint and attractive figure—human or gnome?—with a tiki-like face set squarely, not over to one side, on a stripy body; the stripes looked a bit like those on a wasp, but they may have meant ribs. I wish we knew more about the Morioris! The last full-blooded one, the popular and jolly Tommy Solomon, died in 1933; there was a picture of him in our history books. His people were Polynesians, a branch of those who settled in New Zealand in far-off times to become the moa hunters. When the later Maoris reached New Zealand, the moa hunters faded away before them; but their Moriori cousins were left in