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 As we drove along, Mother related reminiscences—tales of the early days when she had just come out to New Zealand, and the Maori troubles in that part of the country were at their worst. “Dad was ordered off, with all the rest of the men, the moment we landed, and all us women and children were herded together for safety,” narrated this Pilgrim mother. “I remember how I sat down with my young one in my arms—he’d been born on board ship comin’ out—an’ cried an’ cried. I was but only eighteen, and I’d made my mind up that we’d come out just to get killed. Things quieted down a bit after awhile, but for long enough they wasn’t properly settled. Once, after we’d got us a house to ourselves, there was a band of Maoris come into it at the front door, just as I’d caught my babies together (two there was by then), an’ run out into the flax-swamp by the back. Everything they could put their hands on they stole, them natives did; not a crumb of any one thing did they leave behind ’em; and, as I peered out from behind the flax an’ watched ’em go, I could see they was finishin’ up with eatin’, what do you think, now? Soap! Then, there was another time, an’ that was in the winter—bitter cold. I locked all the doors an’ went without fire for a week, that they might think the house deserted, for there they was, bands of ’em again, goin’ a-singin’ an’ a-screechin’ up an’ down the road. Hows’ever, none of ’em come in that time. . . The babies? Nay, I’d lost ’em, dear. I never reared them two.”

So peaceful looked the smiling country all about us, so placid were Mother’s soft tones, that it was hard to realise what danger and excitements, what