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have said, none about the hills where Dunedin now stands, and not very many at Weller’s place. But there was an important settlement at the Heads, where the Natives had a fortified pah, and another at Purakanui. Did I know Taiaroa? Yes sir! I did; very well. Not the present Taiaroa, but his father, a regular thorough going Maori, who couldn’t speak a word of English. He was much shorter than this Taiaroa, but a man of enormous strength. But he wasn’t the head man among the Heads Maoris then—not by a long chalk. The principal men among them died soon after I got to Otago; it must have been the first season I was there. They called him Tattoo. That wouldn’t be his proper name, but it was what we all called him. He was a man whose history ought to be written by some one. He was a noble fellow, a real natural chief. Though he had been to Sydney several times, he was in all respects a pure Maori in his ways, as well as in his appearance; but he was a superior stamp of a man, liked by everyone, and respected by all. He was always strangely quiet and dignified, and he had the manners of a gentleman. One could see that as he went about, he was always eager to understand everything he saw among the white men; but he would seldom ask—he seemed to be anxious to avoid bothering anyone with his questions; and he was never known to ask for anything. Besides, he never touched spirits, and he had a way of his own of enforcing obedience without arguing the point, and without using bad language. Poor fellow! He did not live to see an old age. He was still almost a young man when he sickened and died of consumption. I went to see him when he was sick, and just as I would have done for any decent man, I tried to find out what he wanted, and it struck me that a comfortable pillow would help him to lie a bit easier, so I fetched him a feather