in Maori; it is easy to acquire the pronunciation, almost every word ends in a vowel; a language, when properly spoken, soft like Italian. Moreover, knowing the prayerbook, it is comparatively easy to read with due emphasis; talking in ordinary conversation is quite another matter. I speak to them in English, which they can follow fairly well. Every Maori takes part in the responses, which are rendered in most musical fashion, all together, as if they had been purposely trained, for their sense of rhythm and time is very keen. Their reverence too is noticeable.
After service they provide dinner for me in their "Runanga" or Social Hall, a low long wooden room, hung inside with "toi" reed, the woodwork and rafters painted in red, white and black, in the spiral patterns which Maori Art delights in, whether in colour or in carving. Dinner consists of a roast wild duck, but neither mustard or salt, potatoes steamed in Maori ovens, cake, biscuits and tea, with plenty of milk. Maories do not care for salt. I am left alone to eat. Maori etiquette is strong; a "Rangitira," i.e. chief, or man of good blood, eats by himself. Then there is a sort of social meeting in one of their houses, weather-boarded and snug, but with few chairs, as they prefer the floor, and we talk, always with much deliberation; I ask them to smoke, and by degrees they open out and tell me much of their old history and traditions, which are carefully handed down from father to son. "Do you use your Social Hall at night?" "Horomona" (Solomon). "Yes, we often sit there till late at night and talk of the old times in New Zealand and of our ancestors, and we are sad." "Why? you are all well to do, and have comfortable houses, and good land, and your families are all well
