Millie lay on her back, her eyes wide open, listening. Sid turned over, hunched the quilt round his shoulders, muttered ‘Good-night, ole girl.’ She heard Willie Cox and the other chap drop their clothes on to the kitchen floor, and then their voices, and Willie Cox saying, ‘Lie down, Gumboil. Lie down, yer little devil,’ to his dog. The house dropped quiet. She lay and listened. Little pulses tapped in her body, listening, too. It was hot. She was frightened to move because of Sid. ‘’E must get off. ’E must. I don’ care anythink about justice an’ all the rot they’ve bin spoutin’ to-night,’ she thought, savagely. ‘’Ow are yer to know what anythink’s like till yer do know. It’s all rot.’ She strained to the silence. He ought to be moving …. Before there was a sound from outside, Willie Cox’s Gumboil got up and padded sharply across the kitchen floor and sniffed at the back door. Terror started up in Millie. ‘What’s that dog doing? Uh! What a fool that young fellow is with a dog ’anging about. Why don’t ’e lie down an’ sleep.’ The dog stopped, but she knew it was listening.
Suddenly, with a sound that made her cry out in horror the dog started barking and rushing to and fro. ‘What’s that? What’s up?’ Sid flung out of bed. ‘It ain’t nothink. It’s only Gumboil. Sid, Sid!’ She clutched his arm, but he shook her off. ‘My Christ, there’s somethink up. My God!’ Sid flung into his trousers. Willie Cox opened the back door. Gumboil in a fury darted out into the yard, round the corner of the house. ‘Sid, there’s someone in the paddock,’ roared the other chap. ‘What is it—what’s that?’ Sid dashed out on to the front verandah. ‘’Ere, Millie, take the lantin. Willie, some skunk’s got ’old of one of the ’orses.’ The three men bolted out of the house, and at the same moment Millie saw Harrison dash across the paddock on Sid’s horse and down the road. ‘Millie, bring that blasted lantin.’ She ran in her bare feet, her nightdress flicking her legs. They were after him in a flash. And at the sight of Harrison in the distance, and the three men hot after, a strange mad joy smothered everything else. She rushed into the road—she laughed and shrieked and danced in the dust, jigging the lantern. ‘A—ah! Arter ’im, Sid! A—a—a—h! ketch him, Willie. Go it! Go it! A—ah, Sid! Shoot ’im down. Shoot ’im!’
(1913)
A Dying Race?
Apirana Ngata, ‘A Scene from the Past’
A description of the Maori Haka by Apirana T. Ngata.
(Prologue.)
We reck not that the day has past;
That Death and Time, the cruel Fates,
Have torn us from the scenes we loved,
And brought us to this unknown world.
In mem’ry ling’ring, all too hazy,
Blurred, uncertain, still they charm us.
Ah, we love them! Language doth but
Clothe in artifice our passion,
Doth but to the world proclaim
We are traitors to the past.
Traitors? when our hearts are beating,
Thrilling stirred by recollections?
Present, Future? Them we know not;
For us no memories they hold.
Traitors? when our ears are ringing,
Filled with echoes from the dead?
Deaf to all, these chords alone
Make heavenly music, penetrating
Souls by strangeness long since deadened,
Now in sympathy vibrating.
Traitors? Nay, we scorn the name!
Bigots, blind fanatic worshippers,
Idolaters serving things of clay,
Call us, and that name were dear!
On life’s rough stream you launched us forth;
You thought to buoy us, gave us hope.
Your sturdy oak, our flaxen bark,
Your iron-clad, our humble reed,
Made sorry company, and you glided,
Well equipped, the whilst we trembled.
Ah, no! your hope but kills all hope;
You crush the life you wish to save.
Nay, rather leave us with the past;
In mem’ry let us wander back
Amid the scenes we loved of yore.
There let us roam, untramelled, free,
For mem’ry, like that herb, embalms,
Preserves, endears our recollections.
(The Marae and Hui.)
One dear scene in my mind’s eye is floating,
Martial, warlike, yet so graceful;
Stag’d in meads that heard no bleating,
Save of savage babes at play.
There the old pa stands to-day,
Where the mountain, clad in koukas,
Bends with gentle slope and fondly
Show’rs kisses on the stream.
Rippling, laughing, winding, moaning,
Hies she on to join the ocean,
Emblem of a race that’s speeding
Sadly onwards to oblivion.
Day is breaking on that pa,
All within is bustle, stir.
’Tis the hour of dedication,
Te Kawanga, solemn consecration,
When our whare in its beauty
Tukutuku, pukana e korirari!
Duly to the gods in Heaven
With our war-dance must be given.
(The assembly of the tribes.)
All day long, from far and near,
The crowds pour in to see and hear.
Amid this group are chieftains bold,
Rewi, Taonui—names of old.
Yonder Kahungunu, mere in hand,
Frowning marshals forth his band—
Te Arawa, Tainui me Te Whakatohea
Whakaata, Taupare, Tuwhakairiora.
A noble sight th’ intruding band.
But grander yet unfolds itself,
Yonder, massed, one sea of forms,
Maids with warriors alternating.
In the van are maidens lovely,
Dressed in mats of finest fibre,
Cheeks with takou gaily hued,
Plumed with quills of rarest huia.
Beyond—but no; no more is seen,
Though hundreds lie to shout ‘Haere mai!’
The maids must first display their graces,
Then we’ll gaze on warriors’ faces.
(Maidens’ Welcome.)
Softly and gently, and chanting most sweetly,
Uplift they their welcome, ‘Haere mai! Haere mai!’
With knees bent gracefully, with slow step and gesture,
As soft as the panther; yet queenly and stately.
Hark! now it is changing, in chorus they’re joining;
It swells and it rings, it bursts forth triumphant.
In voice and in gesture; in body and limb,
Their welcome is spoken, ‘Naumai! naumai!’
How nimbly they foot it, how supple their bodies;
Ye nymphs and ye naiads, beware of your laurels!
These children untutored, by Nature endowed,
May charm yet Apollo, the god of all graces.
(Chant while withdrawing.)
Kihei aku mihi i pau atu, e hine!
Rokohanga koe ka pikauria e!
But now, behold, the nymphs subside,
The rythmic motion’s ceased, and lo!
The ranks give way, the van files off,
Unfolding terrors to our view.
Rows of warriors, dusky, war-like,
Line the earth and make it bristle;
All recumbent, silent, speechless,
Seeming in lethargic sleep.
(The Men’s Welcome.)
Aotearoa’s sons, ye warriors stern!
Awake! awake! they come! they come!
‘Welcome, ye strangers; Naumai! Naumai!’
Respond ye to the call so feebly,
Though your war-paint glows so fiercely!
‘Welcome ye strangers! Haere mai! Haere mai!’
Ha! ye sluggards, raise your voices,
Up and stamp and tread like Maoris!
’Tis the haka powhiri, war-dance,
Fierce and warlike, savage, martial!
(The Whakaara.)
Ko te iwi Maori e ngunguru nei! Au, au, au e ha!
Ko te iwi Maori e ngunguru nei! Au, au, au e ha!
Ko nga iwi katoa ra, tau tangata e taoho ai koe,
Taoho!
Ha! your blood is coursing now!
Ha! your spirit’s roused at last!
Ha! the welcome rings out clear!
Powhiritia atu! Haere mai! Haere mai!
Heads erect and bodies stately,
Proud, imperious, yet be graceful;
Arms and limbs in rhythm moving,
Mars, Apollo, are reviewing.
(The grand Powhiri.)
Tena i whiua!
With motion majestic, their arms now wide sweeping;
Now circles describing, then to heav’n up-lifted,
Their bodies set firmly, yet limbs in mid-air!
Tena i takahia!
With knee joints set loose;
With frenzy in gesture, with eye-brows contracting,
With eyes glowing fiercely, with bounding and leaping!
But, mark, mild Apollo, the War-god is soothing.
‘Powhiritia atu!’ ‘Haere mai! Haere mai!’
Ha! warriors are leaping; the ranks they are surging;
The War-god has conquered; the war-cry is raised!
’Tis sounding, ’tis swelling, ’tis roaring, ’tis thund’ring!
Ha! Frenzy, thou workest; ’tis blood now they smell.
‘The battle! the battle! our taiahas and meres!’
They shout as they leap; a madness has seized them.
‘Tako ki to kai rangatira! Tako!’
(1892; 1908)
Dora Wilcox, ‘Onawe’
Peaceful it is: the long light glows and glistens
On English grass;
Sweet are the sounds upon the ear that listens;—
The winds that pass
Rustle the tussock, the birds are calling,
The sea below
Murmurs, upon its beaches rising, falling,
Soft, soft, and slow.—
All undisturbed the Pakeha’s herds are creeping
Along the hill;
On lazy tides the Pakeha’s sails are sleeping,
And all is still.
Here once the mighty Atua had his dwelling
In mystery,
And hence weird sounds were heard at midnight, swelling
Across the sea.
Here once the Haka sounded; and din of battle
Shook the grey crags,
Triumphant shout, and agonised death-rattle
Startled the shags.
And now with peace upon this isthmus narrow,
With Maori blood
Once red!—these heaps of stones,—a greenstone arrow
Rough-hewn and rude!
Gone is the Atua, and the hillsides lonely,
The warriors dead;
No sight, no sound! The weird wild wailing only
Of gull instead.
Come not the Rangatira hither roaming
As once of yore,
To dance a ghostly Haka in the gloaming,
And feast once more?
Tene koe Pakeha! within this fortification
Grows English grass—
Tena koe! Subtle conqueror of a nation
Doomed, doomed to pass!
(1905)
Blanche Baughan, ‘Pipi on the Prowl’
Pipi was very happy. To an indifferent observer, it is true, the little mummy-like old Maori woman, bundled about with a curious muddle of rag-bag jackets and petticoats, and hobbling along the high-road on crippled bare brown feet, might have presented a spectacle more forlorn than otherwise. But then, what does the indifferent observer ever really see? That grotesque and pitiful exterior was nothing but an exterior; and it covered an escaping captive thing: it clothed incarnate Mirth. For Miria had gone to town, and Pipi, one whole long afternoon, was free!
She chuckled as she thought of Miria—Miria the decorous, Miria the pakeha coachman’s wife, Miria, who wore tan shoes. Miria did not like her grandmother to go roaming at her own sweet will along the roads; she did not even like her to smoke; what she did like was to have her squatted safe at the whare door, holding on to little Hana, whose kicking really began to be painful, and looking out that little Himi did not get hold of the axe and chop himself to bits. She had left her like that half an hour ago; probably she imagined her to be still like that—submissive, stationed, and oh, how lacklustre, how dull! Well, Pipi might perhaps be a little porangi (crazy) at times, but she was never anything like so porangi as that. How lucky that Ropata’s wife was a trustworthy crony! How fortunate that the babies could neither of them speak! Pipi smiled, and showed her perfect teeth; she took out, from deep recesses of her raiment, her treasured pipe, and stuck it in her mouth. E! Ka pai te paipa!—a good thing, the pipe! There was no topeka (tobacco) in it, to be sure; but who could say whence topeka might not come, this golden afternoon? To those newly at liberty all the world belongs. And, like stolen waters, stolen sport is sweet. No urchin who, having safely conveyed himself away at last out of earshot of mother or teacher, bounds breathless to the beloved creek where ‘bullies’ wait the hook, knows more of the mingled raptures of lawlessness and expectation than this old great-grandmother Pipi did, out upon the high-road, out upon the hunt!
Although it was midwinter, the afternoon was warm—there is never really cold weather upon that sheltered northern coast. The road ran right round the head of the league-long harbour, and showed a splendid view; for the tide was in; every cove and inlet was full, and the sinuous, satin-blue sheen of the water reflected with the utmost fidelity every one of the little long, low spits, emerald-turfed and darkly crowned with trees, that fringed, as with a succession of piers, the left-hand shore; while the low, orange-coloured cliffs of the fern-flats opposite burned in the brilliant sun like buttresses of gold. But what was a view to Pipi? Her rheumy old brown eyes sought but the one spot, where, far down the glittering water-way, and close to the short, straight sapphire line that parted the purple Heads and meant the open sea, the glass of the township windows sent sparkles to the sun. The township—seven miles away, and Miria not there yet! Ka pai! Pipi was ready for whatever fish Tangaroa might kindly send her on dry land, but meanwhile freedom, simple freedom, mere lack of supervision, was in itself enough; and happily, happily she trudged along, nodding, smiling, and sucking vigorously at her empty pipe.
Before very long she came to the river—the sinister-looking river, black and sluggish, that drains the valley-head. In the swamp on the other side of the long white bridge, dark manuka-bushes with crooked stems and shaggy boles, like a company of uncanny crones under a spell, stood knee-deep in thick ooze; some withered raupo desolately lined the bank above. Even on that bright day, this was a dismal place, and the raupo, with its spindly shanks and discoloured leaves fluttering about them, looked lamentably like poor Pipi. Poor Pipi, indeed? Dismal place? Huh! what does a fool know?
With brightened eyes, with uncouth gestures of delighted haste, out across the bridge scurried Pipi, slithered down into the swamp, clutched with eager claws at a muddy lump upon the margin, and emitted a deep low grunt of joy. Old snags, quite black with decay, lay rotting round her, and the stagnant water gave forth a most unpleasant smell. But what is foulness when glory beckons through it? Squatting in the slime, her tags and trails of raiment dabbling in and out of the black water, Pipi washed and scraped, scraped and washed, and finally lifted up and out into the sunshine with a grin of delight, a great golden pumpkin, richly streaked with green. The glint of its rind had caught her eye from the other side of the bridge. Evidently it had fallen from some passing cart, and rolled down into the swamp. It was big; it was heavy; it was sound. The goodness of this pumpkin! the triumph of this find! Pipi untied one of her most extra garments, tied the treasure securely in it, slung the bundle on her back as though it had
been a baby, and went on.
From the river, the road runs straight uphill, through a cutting betwen high banks of fern and gorse, with a crumbly crest of papa clay boldly yellow on the full blue sky. The road is of yellow papa also, and unmetalled, and rather heavy. Pipi grunted a good deal as she toiled up it; and about halfway up stood still to get her breath, for the pumpkin, precious as it was, lay like lead upon her frail old shoulders. Why! at the very top of the bank, glaring in the sunshine against the yellow papa, what was that? A white paper only, with nothing in it—or a white paper parcel? Steep as the bank was, go she must, of course, and see; and up, pumpkin and all, she climbed. Aha! Something inside. What?… Bread; and, inside the bread? Jam; thick, sweet, deep-red jam, very thick, very sweet, very good!
Next to tobacco, Pipi loved sweet things. She did not expend much pity upon the school-child that, heedlessly running along the top edge of the bank that morning, had lost its lunch and spent a hungry dinner-hour; neither did the somewhat travelled appearance of the sandwich trouble her. She scrambled down again on to the firmer footing of the road, and there she stood, and licked and licked at the jam. Miria’s face, if she had caught her at it! Oho, that face!—the very fancy of its sourness made the tit-bit sweeter. The bread itself she threw away. Her stomach was not hungry, Miria saw to that; but her imagination was, and that was why this chance-come, wayside dainty had a relish that no good, dull dinner in the whare ever had. Sport was good to-day. First that pumpkin, now this jam! Ka pai the catch! What next?
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 25