THE COMING OF THE PAKEHA
THE DUTCHMAN'S LOSS
I
It wanted a couple of hours to sunset. All the way from the rim of the world the blue Pacific waves heaved slumberously towards the shore, thundered against the iron rocks, and rolled lazily eastwards into the gathering night. The long cloud-shadows chased one another across the fern, the silver-winged gulls circled the blue bay, ready to chorus a harsh "good-night," and the sinking sun, flinging a challenge to the coming darkness, set the sky ablaze.
Night, swift, inexorable, was not far away; there would be no moon, and the Patupaiarehe, imps of evil, wander in the dark in search of mischief. Luckless the Maori who walks through forest glade or over fern-clad hill when they flit on their wicked way.
So, lest they should be caught by the tricksy sprites, the Maori, who were chatting in the marae, rose to disperse. Suddenly, one who had been looking carelessly about him, uttered a loud yell.
"He! He!" he cried. "Titira! Titira!" (Look! Look!).