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Hilde KnorrPAVAN FOR A PIONEERTHEY WERE GOING to honour the pioneers. The descendants were to beserved as a side-dish, with I-wouldn't-have-know-you and how-you-havechangedpoured over as a sauce. The restored photographs were to becompared with the faded originals and saddened over because no-one, exceptthe old, believes that the person in the young skin and the person in theaged one are really the same.All the speakers had been contacted and by this time had envisaged themselvesin position . . . "so we meet to unveil this plaque to those who servedthis mountain so well and so unselfishly . . . contributed so much to our gloriousheritage ... I am prou-oud to be asked to speak on this great . . . the noblemen and women of the past . . .""We must not forget old Jock," said the Committee, "no direct connection,but one of the old stock." But not as if old stock were better quality, butrather as though it were reduced for the great stocktaking sale. The Committeemade faces at each other, both to show what they thought of old Jockand to spread thinner the responsibility of asking him.The morning of the honouring day was so beautiful as to seem exclusive.Nothing could be more lovely than the height of the mountains and thefragrance of the air. The birds were gone wild with it, and underneath theirsong the almost unheard voice of the river soothed hearts without their knowingit. They were even glad for the blue of Paterson's Curse which, having creptand crept to cover the narrow no-man's-land of the slagheaps left by the golddredge, was throwing a starshell or two into the pastures of the valley floor.The prime mover of this particular honouring cause rang EUie, a visitorfrom the city who had been infected by history only the day before, and askedher to please call and see if Mr Brice had left."He was to get a lift into town with the priest—no, he's not—he was tocatch him as he went past, but he might have missed him because the priestdidn't know and he travels like a bat out of hell. Between Masses, you know.And he'd be disappointed—old Jock I mean. Do you think you could?"EUie, running her hand up and down, up and down, the textured blue nylonof her stocking, was sure of that but apprehensive of the whole day."Oh, yes. I'll call, of course. But I wouldn't like to take him up themountain. You know I'm only a new driver, and nervous." She would rathernot have a man to shiver and shake in the back. The eyes of a man wouldaffect her shoulderblades. But she could manage a woman—if necessary.WESTERLY, No. 1 of 1967