Best. — Maori Eschatology. 207 



of old, in the days when man was young upon the earth. It 

 has ever remained with us, even that all men, great and small, 

 are caught in the snare of Hine-nui-te-Po. There is no escape 

 from it. But this dying of our young people is a new thing. 

 In former times our people did not die so — they scarce knew 

 disease ; they died on the battlefield or of old age, they knew no 

 other death. These diseases which slay our people were brought 

 by the white man. They brought the epidemics which raged 

 in the days of our fathers, the rewharewha and the kurawaka, 

 which slew many thousands of the Maori people. Now we are 

 afflicted by the u>haka-pakoko (fever). Friends, we have prayed 

 long to the God that health and strength be given to the Maori 

 people, that we may retain life. But the scourge never ceases, 

 it continues and continues. Therefore have I ceased to pray 

 for health and vigour for our people ; I now pray that we old 

 people may be taken, but that our children be spared. But 

 methinks I see before me the end of the Maori people. They will 

 not survive. For we can see that our people are fast going from 

 the earth," &c. 



Next morning our party started on the last day's march to 

 Maunga-pohatu, over extremely rugged forest country where 

 the work of the bearers of the bier was no sinecure. When we 

 reached the summit of the high, bleak range of Te Whakaumu 

 a halt was made at the old taumata, or resting-place, used by 

 these foot-travellers of the great forest for centuries past. The 

 snow and cold sleet are driving fiercely across the sullen, exposed 

 summit, yet the bier-bearers are stripped to the wast and per- 

 spiring profusely. The ascent of Te Whakaumu is no joke. 

 When relieved they wrap blankets round their nude bodies and 

 drop behind the bearers. Through a break in the driving storm 

 we see the great rock bluff of Maunga-pohatu far above and ahead 

 of us. The mournful wail of the lament for the dead sounds 

 through the drifting snows. The mother of the dead child is 

 crouched upon a rock near by, and gazing across the forest ranges 

 at the storm-lashed mountain. She is greeting the sacred 

 mountain of the fierce Tama-kai-moana clan, the enchanted 

 mountain of many a wild legend, that, as Maori myth has it, 

 gave birth to the dark-skinned people who dwell beneath it, and 

 gathers them to her stony bosom in death. For she is the 

 mana of the clan — she is the mother of the Children of the Mist. 



The mother is in the whare potae. She is mourning for her 

 child, and greeting the landmarks of her home. It is a com- 

 bination of mother-love and the love of prim tive man for his 

 tribal lands. Now the summit of the mountain is suddenl 

 covered with a white pall of mist. An old man sa d, ' l'h 

 mountain is greeting for her child.' 1 The parents of the ch.il 



