There were many grotesque warriors and noted braves, around and among them was a curious carved figure of Tutanekai, the lover of Hinemoa, with his _putorino_, or flute, in his mouth, and by the magic strains of which he caused the dark syren to swim, nymph-like, to his island in the lake. It was a singular instrument, about a foot long, pointed at both ends, and flattened out in the centre like a fish. Near to him was the effigy of Uenukukopako, father of Whakatira, who was in his turn father of Tutanekai, and with his tongue hanging far out of his mouth, his eyes glaring wide, and his enormous hands pressed across his stomach, he looked as if he were still suffering from the effects of his adventures in the _Arawa_ canoe. Opposite was Whakatira, brother to Tama te Kapua. He is also represented on stilts, and is said to have been in partnership with his brother in the orchard-robbing business. Here also was Tiki, with a flute in his mouth. He was the friend and companion of Tutanekai. Near to him was Hurutirangi, grandson of Tutanekai. He is represented as grasping a curious weapon, the top of which was shaped like a bird's head. With this instrument he is said to have killed a chief called Wahiao, of another tribe. Near to the top of the central ridge-pole of the building was a curiously carved figure of the warrior Whakarra, with his feet resting on the head of a dog called _potokatawhiti_, and whose memory is curiously blended with the history of the tribe. At the bottom of the pole was a squat, dwarf-looking effigy, with slanting eyes and elongated, tattooed visage, and whose general appearance represented nothing so much as an ugly, ill-formed baby. This was Kuruaro, a chief who is said to have walked the earth six generations after Tutanekai. There were many other noted ancestors of the tribe, all hideous in appearance, yet all elaborately and marvellously carved, but it would require a volume to repeat their histories. It was on a bright morn, when in company with a native youth I stepped into a canoe and headed across Rotorua to the island of Mokia, which rose to a height of over five hundred feet from the centre of the lake. As soon as we had landed, my guide took me to a tree, into the hollow part of which the skeleton of a chief had been placed ages ago, but the forest giant, continuing to grow, had clasped the grim remnant of humanity in its firm embrace, and thus preserved the bones from decay in a very remarkable manner. We mounted through the thick fern to the summit of the island, where formerly stood a _pa_, but nothing of this remained save the graves, where some of the principal chiefs of the Ngatiwakaue await the coming of the great day, and the subterranean caves wherein the stone idols, said to have been brought from Hawaiki by the Arawas, dwell in a kind of pagan solitude, as if anxious to hide their diminished heads from the light of Christianity.