aten up the maize as soon as it grew
green, and finished up the beans by way of dessert before the vines were
halfway up the poles.

Captain King did not despair, however. He took two natives home with
him, taught them all about the cultivation of maize, and the rearing of
pigs; and pork is now as popular in New Zealand as it is in Cincinnati.
You can hardly take a walk without meeting a mother-pig and a lot of
squealing piglets; and people pet them more than they ever did or ever
will in their native lands. Here, you know, when baby wants something to
play with, some one finds him a kitten, a ball of white floss, or a
little Maltese, or a black morsel with green eyes and a red mouth; but
in New Zealand they give him a very, very young pig, smooth as a kid
glove, with little slits of eyes, and his curly tail twisted up into a
little tight knot; and the brown baby hauls it about and pulls its ears
and goes to sleep hugging it fast; and there they lie together, the
piglet grunting comfortably, the baby snoring softly, for hours at a
time.

It is pleasanter to think of a piggy as a pet than as pork, and
pleasanter still to know that the little New Zealanders have something
really nice to eat--the finest sweet potatoes that grow anywhere.

They say that sweet potatoes, which they call _kumere_, is the food
good spirits eat, and they sing a song about them, and so do the
mothers, which is very pretty. The song tells how, long ago, Ezi-Ki and
his wife, Ko Paui, sailing on the water in a boat, were wrecked, and
would have been drowned but for good New Zealanders, who rescued them.
And Ko Paui saw that the children had very little that was wholesome for
them to eat, and showed her gratitude by returning, all by herself, to
Tawai, to bring them seeds of the _kumere_. And how storms arose and she
was in danger, but at last arrived in New Zealand safely and taught them
how to plant and raise this excellent food. And every verse of the song
ends with: "Praise the memory of beautiful Ko Paui, wife of Ezi-Ki,
forever."

Little New Zealanders run about with very little on, as a general thing,
but they all have cloaks--they call them "mats." Their mother sits on
the ground with a little weaving frame about two feet high before her,
and makes them of what is called New Zealand flax. The long threads hang
down in rows of fringes, one over the other, and shine like silk. They
have also water-proofs, or "rain-mats," made of long polish