The Maero Is Stalking.

Steep is his dwelling-place, treed-in and misty,
High is his haunting-house, high-up and lonely;
Nobody passes there, nobody, only
The wind who is stirring and howling and moaning.
Haste through the woods, not stopping by marsh-land,
Swiftly by raupo and twisted, pale reeds;
Heed not the echo that snakes through the red weeds,
But hasten, my littlest, loneliest, comeliest.
Vast is his home-path, steep-sloped and lofty,
Down he comes, shadowy, sneakingly, snaringly;
False is his voice which shall call so endearingly,
Hear not and heed not, little brown moth-child.
Greet the good Kauri, cry hail to the Kowhai,
Konini, Rata, all these will protect thee.
Shun the fierce Lawyer, who longs to ensare thee,
The Raupo, the Aka, shun these, my littlest.
Many his snares are, laid widely and cunningly,
Fierce are his ravages, darkness and death;
Pale grows the bog-land, all sick with his breath,
Know these for his signs, and knowing them, shun them.
Run through the wildwoods, run swiftly, unswervingly,
Light-footed, noiselessly, red flower, come homing;
Hasten for night o'er the dim hills is coming,
The Maero is stalking; good Tane protect thee.

—Mary R. Greig.

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