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Variety in Breif

The bird life of New Zealand, while not very extensive, contains at the same time some very interesting species that are both unique and striking in appearance. One specimen remains in my mind's eye very vividly after the lapse of years. My recollections leap back to the fateful year of 1916 when as one of many “Pieces of wreckage” out of the “Somme” maelstrom I was receiving welcome relief in the “Tintown” section of the New Zealand General Hospital at Brockenhurst. Those “Diggers” who remember Sister Pengelly's ward will recollect “Frank,” the orderly, and his able and kindly attention. Two beds away from my own was that of a full-blooded Maori “Pioneer” from Awanui in the north, known as Graham. He was a fine specimen of his race, and stoical, but owing to a serious wound in the knee he was, when in pain, very moody. Frank and he were good “cobbers,” but as the old orderly with his long lank frame, long nose, rather retreating chin, and mop of grizzly hair brushed back, hurried up and down on his duties, the Maori boy, watching the life of the ward so keenly, was evidently reminded of something familiar in the thrust forward head and somewhat peculiar gait of the old man. “Frank,” he would call, and as often the answer was “Just a minute now,” he would grow impatient, and as the orderly passed again intent on service to another, a low voice would say, “Pukeko,” “Pukeko.” Always this got under Frank's skin a little, and he would protest, “That's not fair now Graham,” but it usually brought him to the Maori's side.

Years passed, and in South Otago I caught my first glimpse of the pretty blue body, long neck, thrust forward bill, and long high-stepping red legs of this interesting bird, and like a flash came back the hospital ward and the petulant Maori voice with its “Pukeko,” “Pukeko.”

—“Tenbar.”

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A story used to be told in Patea of a Maori who, before setting out on a long, dangerous journey, buried a very valuable mere on his land, saying that if he died, his spirit would return to it and help guard his family and tribal fires. He did die, and the mere reposed in its hiding place so far as Maoris were concerned. But Maori curios were bringing high prices in overseas markets, and before long a pakeha raided the place and took the sacred relic. It disappeared from his house soon after, and, guessing that some member of the dead man's family had taken it, either to avoid the wrath of the deceased or to retain the mana the mere carried with it, he returned to the spot and dug. Sure enough, there it was. Again he took it, and was preparing to send it to Wellington for sale or sending overseas when it disappeared again. A third time he went to dig, taking care it was a dark night. As he began to dig, a well-known Tohunga stepped into view and said in effect, “I think maybe better you not dig this place, or something bad happen you. This place very strong tapu.” He took the hint, as the Maoris at that time were often ready to take the law into their own hands.—C. McB.

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At some time or another each one of us is confronted by the difficulty of choosing a suitable gift for a relative or friend. There are so many occasions upon which this problem arises, Christmas perhaps being the climax, although it crops up at such events as weddings, birthdays, leaves-takings, also at Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day, and so on.

I suggest that a very welcome present—suitable for all seasons—would take the form of railway travel stamps to the value of whatever sum the giver desires to spend. As the prices range from 1/-, 2/-, 2/6 to 5/-, and any number can be purchased, there is no limit to the outlay, and being interest-bearing gives an added value.

Now that the forty-hour week has placed opportunities for taking trips within the reach of more and more New Zealanders, travel stamps must be the ideal modern gift in the Dominion.

—“Pohutu.”

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Between 1870 and 1880 a Maori chief at Waitara, New Plymouth, was undertaking the long journey to Auckland, walking overland. Before leaving, he consigned all his European wealth—two pickle-bottles of sovereigns—to the usual Maori hiding place—the ground.

He died on the journey and the coins became tapu—no Maori would touch them. This did not prevent them from telling about it to pakeha friends who were not worried about tapu. Several stories are told of efforts to locate the money, two trees on the bluff above the Mokau river serving as a guide, but all tell of failure. The Maoris were not surprised, claiming that the spirit of the owner prevented the marauders from recognising the money when they saw it. No doubt local gossip still speaks of the hiding place, but I cannot say. I have not been back there for thirty years.—Katiti.