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Variety in Brief

In the early days of settlement in Hawke's Bay there were few, if any, people who had not heard of Te Hapuku. Many were the stories of his ferocity and prowess in the days gone by. His own particular “hapu” resided at Te Hauke on the present Napier-Wellington line, and even to this day many of them believe that he was undoubtedly possessed of more than natural powers.

However, many years ago, a day arrived when after months of work and preparation, which greatly interested the local Maori population, the first railway line in the district was completed, and a train loomed into sight.

“Auc!” gasped the Maoris in astonishment. Truly, the pakeha must be greater even than Te Hapuku, and the old chief was grim and silent. This challenge to his authority could not be allowed to pass unanswered. For a long time he remained deep in thought and communing with his ancient gods, when an idea came to him which made him smile. That evening, when all of the people were gathered in the meeting house, the old man arose and, after reciting the deeds of his ancestors, and reminding them of his own illustrious past, he asserted that his influence was still greater than that of this pakeha monster which puffed fire and smoke. He assured them that all he had to do was to call on his personal deities and put up his hand and the train would not proceed until he permitted it to do so.

Great was the excitement next time the train was due to appear, and the Maoris from all around had assembled to witness the great event. The train duly showed up in the distance, and all eyes gazed towards it expecting, they hardly knew what. Te Hapuku sat calmly by until the train was a few chains away, when he slowly walked on to the rails and stood there, reciting his incantations and brandishing his ancestral “mere.”

The engine let out a shriek and belched forth steam, but its rival still stood his ground though slightly shaken and pale underneath his lines of tattoo. The train slowed down gradually, and some little distance from the now highly excited Maori, came to a standstill. “Marvellous,” said the people, and their chief then walked off the line and motioned the train to proceed.

“There are no men born like Te Hapuku these days,” said my Maori friend seriously after relating the above story —S.J.

In his excellent article on Gisborne in the April issue, O. N. Gillespie omitted to mention the remarkable number of literary lights the town has produced. In fact, I am sure that no other town of Gisborne's size in New Zealand has produced as many. The list includes Dr. Merton Hodge (author of “The Wind and the Rain”); Rosemary Rees, the well-known novelist and actress; Lilla Gormhuille Mackay, who writes first quality verse; Phillip T. Kenway, the author of “Sheep Farming in Poverty Bay”; Mrs. Douglas Blair, who has had a volume of verse and a book of short stories printed; and that fine poet, the late David M. Ross (“Darius”). And there are also quite a number of lesser lights helping to brighten Gisborne's “Inky Way.”

—O.W.W.

“Jasmine's” mention of the Rev. William Gittos (N.Z.R.M. May issue) awakened memories. Thirty-five years ago he lived at Devonport, Auckland, within a few doors of my home. As a boy I was attracted to the venerable old man, as, indeed, everyone was. Behind his house stood a field with a large pond, which was the delight of all boys in the neighbourhood. It was here we played our games and frequently Mr. Gittos was the sole spectator. I can see him now, a tall, white-haired, dignified figure, applauding the victor and consoling the vanquished. Our chief delight was to hear him tell stories of the Maoris and of the stirring days on the Mission field. Sometimes we were invited to the house, where from the verandah overlooking the Waitemata, he would describe the harbour as he first knew it. He would point out the places where the Maori settlements stood and tell how the natives paddled their canoes to what had become the city. The pond has long since been filled in, and two streets intersect a block of houses built on the paddock, but I never pass the spot without recalling the old times.

—C.R.G.