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In New Zealand and in almost every other island of the Pacific Ocean, the hero of all others to engage the attention of story-tellers and their circles of listeners is Maui. He is sometimes very great, his strength and power overshadowing the gods; sometimes he is very little as to his position in the estimation of the simple people who talk of him, but he is always clever and bright; sharpest and merriest when he is regarded as almost a man like ourselves.

Maui’s mother was one day counting her sons: she counted Maui the first, Maui the second, Maui the third, and Maui the fourth. “That is all,” she said; “they are all here.” “No,” said a gentle voice coming from beyond the brothers, “No, you have not counted me. I am Maui the baby.” “What,” said the mother, “you are no son of mine. I never saw you before.” “Oh yes,” said Maui the baby, “you have forgotten. A long time ago when I was born I was such a poor miserable little thing that you were ashamed to own me, so you threw me into the sea. But I did not die; the sea-gods made a cradle for me in the trough of