STATION AMUSEMENTS IN NEWZEALAND

By Lady Barker

Preface.

The interest shown by the public in thesimple and true account of every-daylife in New Zealand, published by theauthor three years ago, has encouragedher to enlarge upon the theme. Thisvolume is but a continuation of"Station Life," with this difference: thatwhereas that little book dweltsomewhat upon practical matters, these

pages are entirely devoted toreminiscences of the idler hours of asettler's life.

Many readers have friends and relationsout in those beautiful distant islands,and though her book should possessno wider interest, the author hopes thatthese at least will care to know exactlywhat sort of life their absent dear onesare leading. One thing is certain: thatfew books can ever have afforded somuch pleasure to their authors, or canhave appeared more completely to writethemselves, than "Station Life," andthis, its sequel.

M. A. B.

Chapter I: A Bush picnic.

Since my return to England, two yearsago, I have been frequently asked by myfriends and acquaintances, "How didyou amuse yourself up at the station?"I am generally tempted to reply, "Wewere all too busy to need amusement;"but when I come to think the matterover calmly and dispassionately, I findthat a great many of our occupationsmay be classed under the head of playrather than work. But that would hardlygive a fair idea of our lives there, either.It would be more correct to say

perhaps, that most of our simplepleasures were composed of a solidlayer of usefulness underneath thefroth of fun and frolic. I purposetherefore in these sketches to describesome of the pursuits which afforded usa keen enjoyment at the time,anenjoyment arising from perfect health,simple tastes, and an exquisite climate.

It will be as well to begin with thedescription of one of the picnics,which were favourite amusements inour home, nestled in a valley of theMalvern Hills of Canterbury. Thesehills are of a very respectable height,and constitute in fact the lowest slopesof the great Southern Alps, which rise

to snow-clad peaks behind them. Ourlittle wooden homestead stood at thehead of a sunny, sheltered valley, andaround it we could see the hillsgradually rolling into downs, which intheir turn were smoothed out, some tenor twelve miles off, into the dead levelof the plains. The only drawback to thepicturesque beauty of these lowerranges is the absence of forest, or as itis called there, bush. Behind theMalvern Hills, where they begin to riseinto steeper ascents, lies many andmany a mile of bush-clad mountain,making deep blue shadows when thesetting sun brings the grand Alpinerange into sharp white outline againstthe background of dazzling Italian sky.

But just here, where my belovedantipodean home stood, we had notrees whatever, except those which wehad planted ourselves, and whosegrowth we watched with eager interest.I dwell a little upon this point, to try toconvey to any one who may glance atthese pages, how we all,dwellers amongtree-less hills as we were,longed andpined for the sights and sounds of a"bush."

Quite out of view from the house orgarden, and about seven miles away, laya mountain pass, or saddle, over arange, which was densely wooded, andfrom whose highest peak we could seea wide extent of timbered country.

Often in our evening rides we havegone round by that saddle, in spite of abreak-neck track and quicksands andbogs, just to satisfy our constantlonging for green leaves, wavingbranches, and the twitter of birds.Whenever any wood was wanted forbuilding a stockyard, or slabbing a well,or making a post-and-rail fence arounda new paddock, we were obliged to takeout a Government license to cut woodin this splendid bush. Armed with thenecessary document the next step wasto engage "bushmen," or woodcuttersby profession, who felled and cut thetimber into the proper lengths, andstacked it neatly in a clearing, where itcould get dry and seasoned. These

stacks were often placed in suchinaccessible and rocky parts of thesteep mountain side, that they had to bebrought down to the flat in rude littlesledges, drawn by a bullock, whorequired to be trained to the work, andto possess so steady and equable adisposition as to be indifferent to theannoyance of great logs of heavy wooddangling and bumping against his heelsas the sledge pursued its uneven waydown the bed of a mountain torrent, indefault of a better road.

Imagine, then, a beautiful day in ourearly New Zealand autumn. For a weekpast, a furious north-westerly gale hadbeen blowing down the gorges of the

Rakaia and the Selwyn, as if it hadcome out of a funnel, and sweepingacross the great shelterless plains withirresistible force. We had been closeprisoners to the house all those days,dreading to open a door to go out forwood or water, lest a terrific blastshould rush in and whip the lightshingle roof off. Not an animal couldbe seen out of doors; they had all takenshelter on the lee-side of the gorsehedges, which are always planted rounda garden to give the vegetables a chanceof coming up. On the sky-line of thehills could be perceived towardsevening, mobs of sheep feeding withtheir heads up-wind, and travelling tothe high camping-grounds which they

always select in preference to a valley.The yellow tussocks were bending allone way, perfectly flat to the ground,and the shingle on the gravel walkoutside rattled like hail against the lowlatticed windows. The uproar from thegale was indescribable, and the littlefragile house swayed and shook as thefurious gusts hurled themselves againstit. Inside its shelter, the pictures wereblowing out from the walls, until Iexpected them to be shaken off theirhooks even in those rooms which hadplank walls lined with papered canvas;whilst in the kitchen, store-room, etc.,whose sides were made of cob, thedust blew in fine clouds from thepulverized walls, penetrating even to

the dairy, and settling half an inch thickon my precious cream. At last, whenour skin felt like tightly drawnparchment, and our ears and eyes hadlong been filled with powdered earth,the wind dropped at sunset as suddenlyas it had risen five days before. Weventured out to breathe the dust-ladenatmosphere, and to look if the swollencreeks (swollen because snow-fed) haddone or threatened to do any mischief,and saw on the south-west horizongreat fleecy masses of cloud drivingrapidly up before a chill icy breeze.Hurrah, here comes a sou'-wester! Theparched-up earth, the shrivelled leaves,the dusty grass, all needed the blesseddamp air. In an hour it was upon us.

We had barely time to house the cowsand horses, to feed the fowls, andsecure them in their own shed, and tolight a roaring coal (or rather lignite, forit is not true coal) fire in the drawing-room, when, with a few warningsplashes, the deluge of cold rain camesteadily down, and we went to sleep tothe welcome sound of its refreshingpatter.

All that I have been describing was theweather of the past week. Disagreeableas it might have been, it was needed inboth its hot and cold, dry and wetextremes, to make a true New Zealandday. The furious nor'-wester had blownevery fleck of cloud below the horizon,

and dried the air until it was as light asether. The "s'utherly buster," on theother hand, had cooled and refreshedeverything in the most delicious way,and a perfect day had come at last.What words can describe the pleasure itis to inhale such an atmosphere? Onefeels as if old age or sickness or evensorrow, could hardly exist beneath sucha spotless vault of blue as stretched outabove our happy heads. I have oftenbeen told that this feeling of intensepleasure on a fine day, which is peculiarto New Zealand, is really a very lowform of animal enjoyment. It may beso, but I only know that I never stoodin the verandah early in the morning ofsuch a day as I am trying to sketch in

pen and ink now, without feeling thehighest spiritual joy, the deepestthankfulness to the loving Father whohad made His beautiful world so fair,and who would fain lead us through itspaths of pleasantness to a still moreglorious, home, which will be free fromthe shadows brooding from beneathsin's out-stretched wings over this one.As I stood in the porch I have oftenfancied I could seethe animals and eventhe poultry expressing in dumb brutefashion, their joy and gratitude to theGod from whom all blessings flow.

But to return to the verandah, althoughwe have never left it. Presently F cameout, and I said with a sigh, born of

deep content and happiness, "What aday!" "Yes," answered F: "a heavenlyday indeed: well worth waiting for. Iwant to go and see how the men aregetting on in the bush. Will you like tocome too?" "Of course I will. What canbe more enchanting than the prospectof spending such sunny hours in thatglorious bush?" So after breakfast I givemy few simple orders to the cook, andprepare, to pack a "Maori kit," or flatbasket made of flax, which could befastened to my side-saddle, with thepreparations for our luncheon. Firstsome mutton chops had to be trimmedand prepared, all ready to be cookedwhen we got there. These were neatlyfolded up in clean paper; and a little

packet of tea, a few lumps of whitesugar, a tiny wooden contrivance forholding salt and pepper, and a coupleof knives and forks, were added to theparcel.

So much for the contents of the basket.They needed to be carefully packed soas not to rattle in any way, or Helen, mypretty bay mare, would soon have gotrid of the luncheon and me. I wrappedup three or four large raw potatoes inseparate bits of paper, and slippedthem into F's pockets when he waslooking another way, and then beganthe real difficulty of my picnic: howwas the little tin tea-pot and an odddelf cup to be carried? F objected to

put them also in his pocket, assuringme that I could make very good tea byputting my packet of the fragrant leavesinto the bushmen's kettle, and drinkingit afterwards out of one of theirpannikins. He tried to bribe me to thislatter piece of simplicity by promisingto wash the tin pannikin out for mefirst. Now I was not dainty or overparticular; I could not have enjoyed myNew Zealand life so thoroughly if Ihad been either; but I did not like theidea of using the bushmen's teaequipage. In the first place, the tea nevertastes the same when made in their way,and allowed to boil for a moment ortwo after the leaves have been thrownin, before the kettle is taken off the fire;

and in the next place, it is very difficultto drink tea out of a pannikin; for itbecomes so hot directly we put thescalding liquid into it, that long afterthe tea is cool enough to drink, thepannikin still continues too hot totouch. But I said so pathetically, "Youknow how wretched I am without mytea," that F's heart relented, and hemanaged to stow away the little teapotand the cup. That cup bore a charmedlife. It accompanied me on all myexcursions, escaping unbroken; and is, Ibelieve, in existence now, spending itshonoured old age in the recesses of acupboard.

After the luncheon, the next question

to be decided is, which of the dogs areto join the expedition. Hector, ofcourse; he is the master's colley, andwould no more look at a sheep, exceptin the way of business, than he wouldfly. Rose, a little short-haired terrier,was the most fascinating of dogcompanions, and I pleaded hard forher, as she was an especial pet; thoughthere were too many lambs belongingto a summer lambing (in New Zealandthe winter is the usual lambing season)in the sheltered paddocks beneath thebush, to make it quite safe for her to beone of the party. She would not kill orhurt a lamb on any account, but shealways appeared anxious to play withthe little creatures; and as her own

spotless coat was as white as theirs, sheoften managed to get quite close to aflock of sheep before they perceivedthat she belonged to the dreaded raceof dogs. When the timid animals foundout their mistake, a regular stampedeused to ensue; and it was not supposedto be good for the health of the old oryoung sheep to hurry up the hill-sidesin such wild fashion as that in whichthey rushed away from Rose's attemptsto intrude on their society. Nettle maycome, for he is but a tiny terrier, and sofond of his mistress that he never straysa yard away from her horse's heels.Brisk, my beautiful, stupid water-spaniel, is also allowed an outing. He isperfect to look at, but not having had

any educational advantages in hisyouth, is an utter fool; amiable, indeed,but not the less a fool. Garibaldi,another colley, is suffering a long penalsentence of being tied up to his barrel,on account of divers unlawful chasesafter sheep which were not wanted; anddear old Jip, though she pretends to bevery anxious to accompany us; is fartoo fat and too rheumatic to keep pacewith our long stretching gallop up thevalley.

At last we were fairly off about eleveno'clock, and an hour's easy canter,intersected by many "flat-jumps," orrather "water-jumps," across thenumerous creeks, brought unto the

foot of the bush-clad mountain. Afterthat our pace became a very sober one,as the track resembled a broken rockystaircase more than a bridle-path. Butsuch as it was, our sure-footed horsescarried us safely up and down itsrugged steeps, without making a singlefalse step. No mule can be more sure-footed than a New Zealand horse. Hewill carry his rider anywhere, if onlythat rider trusts entirely to him, norattempts to guide him in any way.During the last half-hour of our slowand cat-like climb, we could hear thering of the bushmen's axes, and thewarning shouts preceding the crashingfall of a Black Birch. Fallen logs anddeep ruts made by the sledges in their

descent, added to the difficulties of thetrack; and I was so faint-hearted as toentreat piteously, on more than oneoccasion, when Helen paused andshook her head preparatory to climbingover a barricade, to be "taken off." ButF had been used to these dreadfulroads for too many years to regardthem in the same light as I did, andwould answer carelessly, "Nonsense:you're as safe as if you were sitting inan arm-chair." All I can say is, it mighthave been so, but I did not feel at alllike it.

However, the event proved him to havebeen right, and we reached the clearingin safety. Here we dismounted, and led

the horses to a place where they couldnibble some grass, and rest in the coolshade. The saddles and bridles weresoon removed, and halters improvisedout of the New Zealand flax, whichcan be turned to so many uses. Havingprovided for the comfort of ourfaithful animals, our next step was tolook for the bushmen. The spot whichwe had reached was their temporaryhome in the heart of the forest, buttheir work was being carried onelsewhere. I could not have told fromwhich side the regular ringing axe-strokes proceeded, so confusing werethe echoes from the cliffs around us;but after a moment's silent pause Fsaid, "If we follow that track (pointing

to a slightly cleared passage among thetrees) we shall come upon them." So Ikilted up my linsey skirt, and hung upmy little jacket, necessary for protectionagainst the evening air, on a bough outof the wekas' reach, whilst I followed Fthrough tangled creepers, "over brake,over brier," towards the place fromwhence the noise of falling treesproceeded. By the time we reached it,our scratched hands and faces boretraces of the thorny undergrowthwhich had barred our way; but allminor discomforts were forgotten inthe picturesque beauty of the spot.Around us lay the forest-kings, majesticstill in their overthrow, whilstsubstantial stacks of cut-up and split

timber witnessed to the skill andindustry of the stalwart figures beforeus, who reddened through theirsunburn with surprise and shyness atseeing a lady. They need not have beenafraid of me, for I had long ago madefriends with them, and during thepreceeding winter had established asort of night-school in my dining-room, for all the hands employed onthe station, and these two men hadbeen amongst my most constant pupils.One of them, a big Yorkshire-man, wasvery backward in his "larning," andthough he plodded on diligently, nevergot beyond the simplest words in thelargest type. Small print puzzled him atonce, and he had a habit of standing or

sitting with his back to me whilstrepeating his lessons. Nothing wouldinduce him to face me. The moment itbecame his turn to go on with thechapter out of the Bible, with whichwe commenced our studies, that instanthe turned his broad shoulders towardsme, and I could only, hear the faintestmurmurs issuing from the depths of agreat beard. Remonstrance would havescared my shy pupil away, so I was fainto put up with his own method ofinstruction.

But this is a digression, and I want tomake you see with my eyes thebeautiful glimpses of distant countrylying around the bold wooded cliff on

which we were standing. The groundfell away from our feet so completely insome places, that we could see over thetops of the high trees around us, whilstin others the landscape appearedframed in an arch of quivering foliage.A noisy little creek chattered andbabbled as it hurried along to join itsbig brother down below, and kept afringe of exquisite ferns, which grewalong its banks, brightly green by itsmoisture. Each tree, if taken by itself,was more like an umbrella thananything else to English eyes, for inthese primitive forests, where no kindpruning hand has ever touched them,they shoot up, straight and branchless,into the free air above, where they

spread a leafy crown out to thesunbeams. Beneath the dense shade ofthese matted branches grew a luxuriantshrubbery, whose every leaf was amarvel of delicate beauty, and fernsfound here a home such as they mightseek elsewhere in vain. Flowers werevery rare, and I did not observe manyberries, but these conditions vary indifferent parts of the beautiful middleisland.

That was a fair and fertile landstretching out before us, intersected bythe deep banks of the Rakaia, with hereand there a tiny patch of emerald greenand a white dot, representing the houseand English grass paddock of a new

settler. In the background the bush-covered mountains rose ever higher andhigher in bolder outline, till they shookoff their leafy clothing, and stood outin steep cliffs and scaurs from thesnow-clad glacier region of themountain range running from north tosouth, and forming the back bone ofthe island. I may perhaps make you seethe yellow, river-furrowed plains, andthe great confusion of rising groundbehind them, but cannot make you see,still less feel, the atmosphere around,quivering in a summer haze in thevalley beneath, and stirred to thefaintest summer wind-sighs as it movedamong the pines and birches overhead.Its lightness was its most striking

peculiarity. You felt as if your lungscould never weary of inhaling deepbreaths of such an air. Warm withoutoppression, cool without a chill. I canfind nothing but paradoxes to describeit. As for fatigue, one's muscles mightget tired, and need rest, but the usualdepression and weariness attendingover-exertion could not exist in such anatmosphere. One felt like a happy child;pleased at nothing, content to existwhere existence was a pleasure.

You could not find more favourablespecimens of New Zealand coloniststhan the two men, Trew and Domville,who stood before us in their workingdress of red flannel shirts and

moleskin trousers, "Cookham" bootsand digger's plush hats. Three yearsbefore this day they had landed at PortLyttleton, with no other capital thantheir strong, willing arms, and theirsober, sensible heads. Very different istheir appearance to-day from what itwas on their arrival; and the change intheir position and circumstances is asgreat. Their bodily frames have filledout and developed under the influenceof the healthy climate and abundanceof mutton, until they look ten yearsyounger and twice as strong, and eachman owns a cottage and twenty acresof freehold land, at which he works inspare time, as well as having morepounds than he ever possessed pence

in the old country, put safely away inthe bank. There can be no doubt aboutthe future of any working man orwoman in our New Zealand colonies. Itrests in their own hands, under God'sblessing, and the history of the wholehuman race shows us that He alwayshas blessed honest labour and rightlydirected efforts to do our duty in thisworld. Sobriety and industry are thefirst essentials to success. Possessingthese moral qualifications, and a pair ofhands, a man may rear up his childrenin those beautiful distant lands inignorance of what hunger; or thirst, orgrinding poverty means. Hitherto thewant of places of worship, and schoolsfor the children, have been a sad

drawback to the material advantages ofcolonization at the Antipodes; butthese blessings are increasing every day,and the need of them creates thesupply.

The great mistake made in England,next to that of sending out worthlessidle paupers, who have never done ahand's turn for themselves here, and arestill less likely to do it elsewhere, is forparents and guardians to ship off toNew Zealand young men who havereceived the up-bringing and educationof gentlemen, without a shilling in theirpockets, under the vague idea thatsomething will turn up for them in anew place. There is nothing which can

turn up, for the machinery ofcivilization is reduced to the mostprimitive scale in these countries; and Ihave known 500 pounds per annumregarded as a monstrous salary to bedrawn by a hard-worked official ofsome twenty years standing and greatexperience in the colony. From this wemay judge of the chances ofremunerative employment for a rawunfledged youth, with a smattering ofclassical learning. At first they simply"loaf" (as it is called there) on theiracquaintances and friends. At the endof six months their clothes arebeginning to look shabby; they feel theyought to do something, and they makeday by day the terrible discovery that

there is nothing for them to do in theirown rank of life. Many a poorclergyman's son, sooner than return tothe home which has been so pinched tofurnish forth his passage money andoutfit, takes a shepherd's billet, thoughhe generally makes a very bad shepherdfor the first year or two; or drivesbullocks, or perhaps wanders vaguelyover the country, looking for work, andgetting food and lodging indeed, forinhospitality is unknown, but no pay.Sometimes they go to the diggings, onlyto find that money is as necessary thereas anywhere, and that they are not fittedto dig in wet holes for eight or tenhours a day. Often these poor youngmen go home again, and it is the best

thing they can do, for at least they havegained some knowledge of life, on itsdark as well as its brighter side. But stilloftener, alas, they go hopelessly to thebad, degenerating into billiard markers,piano players at dancing saloons, cattledrivers, and their friends probably losesight of them.

Once I was riding with my husband upa lovely gulley, when we heard the crackof a stockwhip, sounding strangelythrough the deep eternal silence of aNew Zealand valley, and a turn of thetrack showed us a heavy, timber-ladenbullock-waggon labouring slowlyalong. At the head of the long teamsauntered the driver, in the usual

rough-and-ready costume, with his softplush hat pulled low over his face, andpulling vigorously at a clay pipe. Inspite of all the outer surroundings,something in the man's walk anddejected attitude struck my imagination,and I made some remark to mycompanion. The sound of my voicereached the bullock-driver's ears; helooked up, and on seeing a lady, tookhis pipe out of his mouth, his hat offhis head, and forcing his beasts a littleaside, stood at their head to let us pass.I smiled and nodded, receiving inreturn a perfect and profound bow, andthe most melancholy glance I have everseen in human eyes. "Good gracious,F," I cried, when we had passed, "who

is that man?" "That is Sir So-and-So'sthird son," he replied: "they sent himout here without a shilling, five yearsago, and that is what he has come to: aworking man, living with working men.He looks heart-broken, poor fellow,doesn't he?" I, acting upon impulse, asany woman would have done, turningback and rode up to him, finding itvery difficult to frame my pity andsympathy in coherent words. "No thankyou, ma'am," was all the answer I couldget, in the most refined, gentlemanlytone of voice: "I'm very well as I am. Ishould only have the struggle all overagain if I made any change now. It isthe truest kindness to leave me alone."He would not even shake hands with

me; so I rode back; discomfited, to hearfrom F that he had made manyattempts to befriend him, but withoutsuccess. "In fact," concluded F, withsome embarrassment, "he drinksdreadfully, poor fellow. Of course thatis the secret of all his wretchedness, butI believe despair drove him to it in thefirst instance."

I have also known an ex-dragoonofficer working as a clerk in anattorney's office at fifteen shillings aweek, who lived like a mechanic, andyet spake and stepped like his old self;one listened involuntarily for the clinkof the sabre and spur whenever hemoved across the room.

This has been a terrible digression,almost a social essay in fact; but I haveit so much at heart to dissuade fathersand mothers from sending their sons sofar away without any certainty ofemployment. Capitalists, even smallones, do well in New Zealand: thelabouring classes still better; but there isno place yet for the educated gentlemanwithout money, and with hands unusedto and unfit for manual labour and thedownward path is just as smooth andpleasant at first there, as anywhere else.

Trew and Domville soon got over theirmomentary shyness, and answered myinquiries about their families. Then I

had a short talk with them, but on theprinciple that it is "ill speaking to afasting man," we agreed to adjourn tothe clearing, where they had built arough log hut for temporary shelter,and have our dinner. They hadprovided themselves with some bacon;but were very glad to accept of F'soffer of mutton, to be had for thetrouble of fetching it. When wereached the little shanty, Trew producedsome capital bread, he had baked theevening before in a camp-oven; F'spockets were emptied of their load ofpotatoes, which were put to roast in thewood embers; rashers of bacon andmutton chops spluttered and fizzedside-by-side on a monster gridiron with

tall feet, so as to allow it to stand byitself over the clear fire, and we turnedour chops from time to time by meansof a fork extemporized out of apronged stick.

Over another fire, a little way toleeward, hung the bushmen's kettle onan iron tripod, and, so soon as itboiled, my little teapot was filled beforeDomville threw in his great fist-full oftea. I had brought a tiny phial of creamin the pocket of my saddle, but themen thought it spoiled the flavour ofthe tea, which they always drink "neat,"as they call it. The Temperance Societycould draw many interesting statisticsfrom the amount of hard work which

is done in New Zealand on tea. Now, Iam sorry to say, beer is creeping up tothe stations, and is served out atshearing time and so on; but in the olddays all the hard work used to be doneon tea, and tea alone, the men alwaysdeclaring they worked far better on itthan on beer. "When we have as muchgood bread and mutton as we can eat,"they would say, "we don't feel to missthe beer we used to drink in England;"and at the end of a year or two of teaand water-drinking, their bright eyesand splendid physical conditionshowed plainly enough which was thebest kind of beverage to work, andwork hard too, upon.

So there we sat round the fire: F withthe men, and I, a little way off, out ofthe smoke, with the dogs. Overhead,the sunlight streamed down on thegrass which had sprung up, as it alwaysdoes in a clearing; the rustle among thelofty tree tops made a deliciousmurmur high up in the air; a waft ofcool breeze flitted past us laden withthe scent of newly-cut wood (and whodoes not know that nice, cleanperfume?); innumerable paroquetsalmost brushed us with their emerald-green wings, whilst the tamer robin orthe dingy but melodious bell-bird camenear to watch the intruders. The sweetclear whistle of the tui or parson-bird so called from his glossy black suit

and white wattles curling exactly wherea clergy-man's bands would be,could beheard at a distance; whilst overhead thesoft cooing of the wild pigeons, andthe hoarse croak of the ka-ka or nativeparrot, made up the music of the birds'orchestra. Ah, how delicious it allwas,the Robinson Crusoe feel of thewhole thing; the heavenly air, thefluttering leaves, the birds' chirrups andwhistle, and the foreground of happy,healthy men!

Rose and I had enough to do, evenwith Nettle's assistance, in acting aspolice to keep off those bold thieves,the wekas, who are as impudent as theyare tame and fearless. In appearance

they resemble exactly a stout henpheasant, without its long tail; but theybelong to the apterix family, and haveno wings, only a tiny useless pinion ateach shoulder, furnished with a clawlike a small fish-hook: what is the useof this claw I was never able todiscover. When startled or hunted, theweka glides, for it can scarcely be calledrunning, with incredible swiftness andin perfect silence, to the nearest cover.A tussock, a clump of flax, a tuft oftall tohi grass, all serve as hiding-places;and, wingless as she is, the weka canhold her own very well against herenemies, the dogs. I really believe thegreat desire of Brisk's life was to catcha weka. He started many, but used to go

sniffing and barking round the flaxbush where it had taken refuge at first,long after the clever, cunning bird hadglided from its shelter to another coverfurther off.

After dinner was over and Domvillehad brought back the tin plates andpannikins from the creek where he hadwashed them up, pipes were lighted,and a few minutes smoking served torest and refresh the men, who had beenworking since their six o'clockbreakfast. The daylight hours were tooprecious however to be wasted insmoking. Trew and Domville wouldnot have had that comfortable nest-eggstanding in their name at the bank in

Christchurch, if they had spent muchtime over their pipes; so after a veryshort "spell" they got up from thefallen log of wood which had servedthem for a bench, and suggested that Fshould accompany them back to wheretheir work lay. "You don't mind beingleft?" asked F. "Certainly not," replied I."I have got the dogs for company, anda book in my pocket. I daresay I shallnot read much, however, for it is sobeautiful to sit here and watch thechanging lights and shadows."

And so it was, most beautiful andthoroughly delightful. I sat on the shortsweet grass, which springs upon therich loam of fallen leaves the moment

sunlight is admitted into the heart of abush. No one plants it; probably thebirds carry the seeds; yet it grows freelyafter a clearing has been made. Naturelays down a green sward directly on therich virgin mould, and sets to workbesides to cover up the unsightly stemsand holes of the fallen timber withluxuriant tufts of a species of hart's-tongue fern, which grows almost asfreely as an orchid on decayed timber. Iwas so still and silent that innumerableforest birds came about me. A woodpigeon alighted on a branch close by,and sat preening her radiant plumage ina bath of golden sunlight. Theprofound stillness was stirred now andthen by a soft sighing breeze which

passed over the tree tops, and made thedelicate foliage of the undergrowtharound me quiver and rustle. I hadpurposely scattered the remains of ourmeal in a spot where the birds couldsee the crumbs, and it was not longbefore the clever little creatures availedthemselves of the unexpected feast. Soperfectly tame and friendly were they,that I felt as if I were the intruder, andbound by all the laws of aerial chivalryto keep the peace. But this was no easymatter where Rose and Nettle wereconcerned, for when an imprudentweka appeared on the sylvan scene,looking around-as if to say, "Who'safraid?" it was more than I could do tokeep the little terriers from giving chase.

Brisk, too, blundered after them, but Ihad no fear of his destroying the charmof the day by taking even a weka's life.

Thus the delicious afternoon wore on,until it was time to boil the kettle oncemore, and make a cup of tea beforesetting out homewards. Thelengthening shadows added freshtenderness and beauty to the peacefulscene, and the sky began to paint itselfin its exquisite sunset hues. It has beenusual to praise the tints of tropic skieswhen the day is declining; but never, inany of my wanderings to East and WestIndies, have I seen such gorgeousevening colours as those which glorifyNew Zealand skies.

A loud coo-ee summoned F to tea, anddirectly afterwards the horses were re-saddled, the now empty flax basketfilled with the obnoxious teapot andcup, wrapped in many layers of flaxleaves, to prevent their rattling, and webade good night to the tired bushmen.We left them at their tea, and I wasmuch struck to observe that thoughthey looked like men who had done ahard day's work, there was none of theexhaustion we often see in Englanddepicted on the labouring man's face.Instead of a hot crowded room, thesebushmen were going to sleep in theirlog hut, where the fresh pure air couldcirculate through every nook and

cranny. They had each their pair of redblankets, one to spread over a heap offreshly cut tussocks, which formed adelicious elastic mattrass, and the otherto serve as a coverlet. During the daythese blankets were always hungoutside on a tree, out of the reach ofthe most investigating weka. You maybe sure I had not come empty-handedin the way of books and papers, andmy last glance as I rode away rested onTrew opening a number of Good Words[Note: Evening Hours was not inexistence at that time, or else its pagesare just what those simple God-fearingmen would have appreciated andenjoyed. Good Words and the LeisureHour used to be their favourite

periodicals, and the kindness ofEnglish friends kept me also wellsupplied with copies of Miss Marsh'slittle books, which were read with thedeepest and most eager interest.] withthe pleased-expression of a childexamining a packet of toys.

And so we rode slowly home throughthe delicious gloaming, with theevening air cooled to freshness so soonas the sun had sunk below the greatmountains to the west, from behindwhich he shot up glorious rays of goldand crimson against the blue etherealsky, causing the snowy peaks to lookmore exquisitely pure from thebackground of gorgeous colour.

During the flood of sunlight all day, wehad not perceived a single fleck ofcloud; but now lovely pink wreaths,floating in mid-air, betrayed that hereand there a "nursling of the sky"lingered behind the cloud-masseswhich we thought had all been blownaway yesterday.

The short twilight hour was over, andthe stars were filtering their softradiance on our heads by the time weheard the welcoming barks of thehomestead, and saw the glimmer of thelighted lamp in our sitting-room,shining out of the distant gloom. Andso ended, in supper and a night ofdeep dreamless sleep, one of the many

happy picnic days of my New Zealandlife.

Chapter II: Eel-fishing.

One of the greatest drawbacks in anEnglish gentleman's eyes to living inNew Zealand is the want of sport.There is absolutely none. There used tobe a few quails, but they are almostextinct now; and during four years'residence in very sequestered regions Ionly saw one. Wild ducks abound onsome of the rivers, but they arebecoming fewer and shyer every year.The beautiful Paradise duck is gradually

retreating to those inland lakes lying atthe foot of the Southern Alps, amidglaciers and boulders which serve as abarrier to keep back his ruthless foe.Even the heron, once so plentiful onthe lowland rivers, is now seldom seen.As I write these lines a remorsefulrecollection comes back upon me ofoverhanging cliffs, and of a bend in aswirling river, on whose rapid current abeautiful wounded heron its right wingshattered drifts helplessly round andround with the eddying water, eachcircle bringing it nearer in-shore to ourfeet. I can see now its bright fearlesseye, full of suffering, but yetunconquered: its slender neck proudlyarched, and bearing up the small

graceful head with its coronal or top-knot raised in defiance, as if to protestto the last against the cruel shot whichhad just been fired. I was but aspectator, having merely wandered thatfar to look at my eel-lines, yet I felt asguilty as though my hand had pulledthe trigger. Just as the noble bird driftedto our feet,for I could not help goingdown to the river's edge, where Pepper(our head shepherd) stood, lookingvery contrite,it reared itself half out ofthe water, with a hissing noise andthreatening bill, resolved to sell itsliberty as dearly as it could; but theeffort only spread a brighter shade ofcrimson on the waters surface for abrief moment, and then, with glazing

eye and drooping crest, the dyingcreature turned over on its side and wasborne helpless to our feet. By the timePepper extended his arm and drew it in,with the quaint apology, "I'm sorry Ishot yer, old feller! I, am, indeed," theheron was dead; and that happened tobe the only one I ever came acrossduring my mountain life. Once I sawsome beautiful red-shanks flying downthe gorge of the Selwyn, and F nearlybroke his neck in climbing the cragfrom whence one of them rose inalarm at the noise of our horses' feeton the shingle. There were three eggs inthe inaccessible cliff-nest, and hebrought me one, which I tried in vainto hatch under a sitting duck. Betty

would not admit the intruder amongher own eggs, but resolutely pushed itout of her nest twenty times a day, untilat last I was obliged to blow it and sendit home to figure in a little boy'scollection far away in Kent.

I have seen very good blue duckshooting on the Waimakiriri river, but50 per cent. of the birds were lost forwant of a retriever bold enough to facethat formidable river. Wide as was thebeautiful reach, on whose shore thesportsmen stood, and calmly as thedeep stream seemed to glide beneath itshigh banks, the wounded birds, flyinglow on the water, had hardly droppedwhen they disappeared, sucked beneath

by the strong current, and whirled pastus in less time than it takes one to writea line. We had retrievers with us whowould face the waves of an inland lakeduring a nor'-wester,which is giving adog very high praise indeed; but therewas no canine Bayard at hand to bravethose treacherous depths, and bring outour game, so the sport soon ceased; forwhat was the good of shooting thebeautiful, harmless creatures when wecould not make use of them as food?

I often accompanied F on his eel-fishing expeditions, but more for thesake of companionship than from anyamusement I found in the sport. I mayhere confess frankly that I cannot

understand anyone being an inveterateeel-fisher, for of all monotonouspursuits, it is the most self-repeating inits forms. Even the first time I went outI found it delightful only inanticipation; and this is the onemidnight excursion which I shallattempt to re-produce for you.

It had been a broiling midsummer day,too hot to sit in the verandah, too hotto stroll about the garden, or go for aride, or do anything in fact, except basklike a lizard in the warm air. NewZealand summer weather, however highthe thermometer, is quite different fromeither tropical or English heat. It isintensely hot in the sun, but always

cool in the shade. I never heard of aninstance of sun-stroke from exposureto the mid-day sun, for there alwayswas a light airoften scarcely perceptibleuntil you were well out in the open,totemper the fierce vertical rays. Itsometimes happened that I foundmyself obliged, either for business orpleasure, to take a long ride in themiddle of a summer's day, and myinvariable reflection used to be, "It isnot nearly so hot out of doors as onefancies it would be." Then there is noneof the stuffiness so often anaccompaniment to our brief summers,bringing lassitude and debility in itstrain. The only disadvantage of anunusually hot season with us was, that

our already embrowned complexionstook a deeper shade of bronze; but aswe were all equally sun-burnt there wasno one to throw critical stones.

What surprised me most was the utterabsence of damp or miasma. After ablazing day, instead of hurrying in outof reach of poisonous vapours as thetropic-dweller must needs do, we couldlinger bare-headed, lightly clad, out ofdoors, listening to the distant roar of ariver, or watching the exquisite tints ofthe evening sky. I dwell on this toexplain that in almost any other countrythere would have been risk inremaining out at night after such still,hot days.

On this particular evening, during myfirst summer in the New ZealandMalvern Hills, after we had watered mypet flowers near the house, andspeculated a good deal as to whetherthe mignonette seed had all been blownout of the ground by the last nor'-wester or not, F said, "I shall go eel-fishing to-night to the creek, down theflat. Why don't you come too? I amsure you would like it." Now, I amsorry to say that I am such a thoroughgipsy in my tastes that any pursuitwhich serves as an excuse for spendinghours in the open air, is full ofattraction for me; consequently, Iembraced the proposal with ardour,

and set about gathering, under F'sdirections, what seemed to bid fair torival the collection of an old rag-and-bottle merchant. First of all, there was amuster of every empty tin match-box inthe little house; these were to hold thebait-bits of mutton and worms. Then Iwas desired to hunt up all the odds andends of worsted which lurked in thescrap-basket. A forage next took placein search of string, but as no parcelswere ever delivered in that sequesteredvalley, twine became a precious and raretreasure. In default of any large supplybeing obtainable, my lamp and candle-wick material was requisitioned by F(who, by the way, is a perfect Uhlan forgetting what he wants, when bent on a

sporting expedition); and lastly, one ortwo empty flour-sacks were called for.You will see the use of thisheterogeneous collection presently.

It was of no use starting until thetwilight had darkened into a cloudy,moonless night; so, after our seveno'clock supper, we adjourned into theverandah to watch F make a largeround ball, such as children play with,out of the scraps of worsted withwhich I had furnished him. Instead ofcutting the wool into lengths, however,it was left in loops; and I learned thatthis is done to afford a firm hold forthe sharp needle-like teeth of aninquisitive eel, who might be tempted

to find out if this strange round thing,floating near his hole, would be goodto eat. I was impatient as achild,remember it was my first eel-fishing expedition,and I thought nineo'clock would never come, for I hadbeen told to go and dress at that hour;that is to say, I was to change my usualstation-costume, a pretty print gown,for a short linsey skirt, strong bootsand kangaroo-skin gaiters. F, and ourcadet, Mr. U , soon appeared, clad inshooting coats instead of their alpacacostumes, and their trousers stuffedinto enormous boots, the upperleathers of which came beyond theirknees.

"Are we going into the water?" Itimidly inquired.

"Oh, no,not at all: it is on account ofthe Spaniards."

No doubt this sounds veryunintelligible to an English reader; butevery colonist who may chance to seemy pages will shiver at the recollectionof those vegetable defenders of anunexplored region in New Zealand.Imagine a gigantic artichoke withslender instead of broad leaves, setround in dense compact order. Theyvary, of course, in size, but in our partof the world four or six feet incircumference and a couple of feet

high was the usual growth to whichthey attained, though at the back of therun they were much larger. Spaniardsgrow in clusters, or patches, among thetussocks on the plains, and constitute amost unpleasant feature of thevegetation of the country. Their leavesare as firm as bayonets, and taper at thepoint to the fineness of a needle, butare not nearly so easily broken as aneedle would be. No horse will facethem, preferring a jump at the cost ofany exertion, to the risk of a stab fromthe cruel points. The least touch of thisgreen bayonet draws blood, and a fallinto a Spaniard is a thing to beremembered all one's life. Interspersedwith the Spaniards are generally clumps

of "wild Irishman," a straggling sturdybramble, ready to receive and scratchyou well if you attempt to avoid theSpaniard's weapons. Especiallydetrimental to riding habits are wildIrishmen; and there are fragments ofmine, of all sorts of materials andcolours, fluttering now on their thornybranches in out-of-the-way places onour run. It is not surprising, therefore,that we guarded our legs as well as wecould against these foes to flesh andblood.

"We are rather early," said thegentlemen, as I appeared, ready andeager to start; "but perhaps it is all thebetter to enable you to see the track."

They each flung an empty sack overtheir shoulders, felt in their pockets toascertain whether the matches, hooks,boxes of bait, etc., were all there, andthen we set forth.

At first it appeared as if we hadstepped from the brightness of thedrawing-room into utter and pitchyblackness; but after we had groped fora few steps down the familiar gardenpath, our eyes became accustomed tothe subdued light of the soft summernight. Although heavy banks ofcloud,the general precursors ofwind,were moving slowly between usand the heavens, the stars shone downthrough their rifts, and on the western

horizon a faint yellowish tinge told usthat daylight was in no hurry to leaveour quiet valley. The mountain streamsor creeks, which water so well thegrassy plains among the Malvern Hills,are not affected to any considerableextent by dry summer weather. They aresnow-fed from the high ranges, andeach nor'-wester restores many a glacieror avalanche to its original form, andsends it flowing down the steep sidesof yonder distant beautiful mountainsto join the creeks, which, like a tangledskein of silver threads, ensure a goodwater supply to the New Zealandsheep-farmer. In the holes, under steepoverhanging banks, the eels love tolurk, hiding from the sun's rays in cool

depths, and coming out at night tofeed. There are no fish whatever in therivers, and I fear that the labours of theAcclimatization Society will be thrownaway until they can persuade thestreams themselves to remain in theirbeds like more civilised waters. Atpresent not a month passes that onedoes not hear of some eccentricproceeding on the part of either riversor creeks. Unless the fish are preparedto shift their liquid quarters at amoment's notice they will findthemselves often left high and dry onthe deserted shingle-bed. But eels areproverbially accustomed to adaptthemselves to circumstances, and afisherman may always count on getting

some if he be patient.

About a mile down the flat, betweenvery high banks, our principal creekran, and to a quiet spot among the flax-bushes we directed our steps. By thefast-fading light the gentlemen set theirlines in very primitive fashion. On thecrumbling, rotten earth the NewZealand flax, the Phormium tenax, lovesto grow, and to its long, ribbon-likeleaves the eel-fishers fastened their linessecurely, baiting each alternate hookwith mutton and worms. I declared thiswas too cockney a method of fishing,and selected a tall slender flax-stick, thestalk of last year's spike of red honey-filled blossoms, and to this extempore

rod I fastened my line and bait. Whenone considers that the old whalers wereaccustomed to use ropes made in therudest fashion, from the fibre of thisvery plant, in their deep-sea fishing forvery big prey, it is not surprising that wefound it sufficiently strong for ourpurpose. I picked out, therefore, acomfortable spot,that is to say, well inthe centre of a young flax-bush, whosesatiny leaves made the most elasticcushions around me; with my flax-stickheld out over what was supposed to bea favourite haunt of the eels, and withNettle asleep at my feet and a warmshawl close to my hand, prepared formy vigil. "Don't speak or move," werethe gentlemen's last words: "the eels are

all eyes and ears at this hour; they canalmost hear you breathe." Each manthen took up his position a fewhundred yards away from me, so that Ifelt, to all intents and purposes,absolutely alone. I am "free to confess,"as our American cousins say, that it wasa very eerie sensation. It was now pastten o'clock; the darkness was intense,and the silence as deep as the darkness.

Hot as the day had been, the night airfelt chill, and a heavy dew began to fall,showing me the wisdom ofsubstituting woollen for cottongarments. I could see the dim outlinesof the high hills, which shut in ourhappy valley on all sides, and the smell

of the freshly-turned earth of apaddock near the house, which was inprocess of being broken up for Englishgrass, came stealing towards me on thesilent air. The melancholy cry of abittern, or the shrill wail of the weka,startled me from time to time, but therewas no other sound to break the eternalsilence.

As I waited and watched, I thought, asevery one must surely think, withstrange paradoxical feelings, of one'sown utter insignificance in creation,mingled with the delightfulconsciousness of our individualimportance in the eyes of the Makerand Father of all. An atom among

worlds, as one feels, sitting there at suchan hour and in such a spot, still weremember with love and pride, that nota hair of our head falls to the groundunnoticed by an Infinite Love and anEternal Providence. The soul tries to flyinto the boundless regions of spaceand eternity, and to gaze upon otherworlds, and other beings equally theobject of the Great Creator's care; buther mortal wing soon droops and tires,and she is fain to nestle home again toher Saviour's arms, with the thought, "Iam my Beloved's, and He is mine." Thatis the only safe beginning and end ofall speculation. It was very solemn andbeautiful, that long dark night,a pauseamid the bustle of every day cares and

duties,hours in which one takes counselwith one's own heart, and is still.

Midnight had come and gone, whenthe sputter and snap of striking amatch, which sounded almost like apistol shot amid the profound silence,told me that one of the sportsmen hadbeen successful. I got up as softly aspossible, wrapped my damp shawlround my still damper shoulders, and,fastening the flax-stick securely in theground, stole along the bank of thecreek towards the place where a blazingtussock, serving as a torch, showed thesuccessful eel-fisher struggling with hisprize. Through the gloom I sawanother weird-looking figure running

silently in the same direction; for thefact was, we were all so cramped andcold, and, weary of sitting waiting forbites which never came, that we hailedwith delight a break in the monotonyof our watch. It did not matter nowhow much noise we made (withinmoderate limits), for the peace of thatportion of the creek was destroyed forthe night. Half-a-dozen eels must havebanded themselves together, and madea sudden and furious dash at theworsted ball, which Mr. U had beendangling in front of their mud hall-door for the last two hours. Just as hehad intended, their long sharp teethbecame entangled in the worsted loops,and although he declared some had

broken away and escaped, three or fourgood-sized ones remained, strugglingfrantically.

It would have been almost impossiblefor one man to lift such a weightstraight out of the water by a string;and as we came up and saw Mr. U 'sagitated face in the fantastic flickeringlight of the blazing tussock, which hehad set on fire as a signal of distress, Iinvoluntarily thought of the old JoeMiller about the Tartar: "Why don't youlet him go?" "Because he has caughtme." It looked just like that. The furioussplashing in the water below, and Mr. U grasping his line with desperate valour,but being gradually drawn nearer to the

edge of the steep bank each instant."Keep up a good light, but not toomuch," cried F to me, in a regular stage-whisper, as he rushed to the rescue. SoI pulled up one tussock after anotherby its roots,an exertion which resultedin upsetting me each time,and lightedone as fast as its predecessor burnedout. They were all rather damp, so theydid not flare away too quickly. By theblaze of my grassy torches I saw Ffirstseize Mr. U round the waist and draghim further from the bank; but thelatter called out, "It's my hands,theyhave no skin left: do catch hold, there'sa good fellow." So the "good fellow"did catch hold, but he was tooexperienced an eel-fisher to try to lift a

couple of dozen pounds weight of eelsout of the water by a perpendicularstring; so he tied it to a flax-bush near,and, stooping down in order to getsome leverage over the bank, very soondrew the ball, with its slimy, wrigglingcaptives, out of the water. Just as hejerked it far on shore, one or two of thecreatures broke loose and escaped,leaving quite enough to afford a mostdisgusting and horrible sight as theywere shuffled and poked into theempty flour-sack.

The sportsmen were delighted however,and departed to a fresh bend of thecreek, leaving me to find my way backto my original post. This would have

been difficult indeed, had not Nettleremained behind to guard my gloves,which I had left in his custody. As Ipassed, not knowing I was so near thespot, the little dog gave a low whimperof greeting, sufficient to attract myattention and guide me to where he waskeeping his faithful watch and ward. Ifelt for my flax-stick and moved it everso gently. A sudden jerk and splashstartled me horribly, and warned methat I had disturbed an eel who was inthe act of supping off my bait. In themomentary surprise I suppose I let go,for certain it is that the next instant myflax-stick was rapidly towed down thestream.

Instead of feeling provoked ormortified, it was the greatest relief toknow that my eel-fishing was over forthe night, and that now I had nothingto do except "wait till called for." So Itook Nettle on my lap and tried toabide patiently, but I had not been longenough in New Zealand to have anyconfidence in the climate, and as I felthow damp my clothes were, andrecollected with horror my West Indianexperiences of the consequences ofexposure to night air and heavy dew,my mind would dwell gloomily on theprospect of a fever, at least. It seemed along and weary while before Iperceived a figure coming towards me;and I am afraid I was both cross and

cold and sleepy by the time we set ourfaces homewards. "I have only caughtthree," said F. "How many have yougot?" "None, I am happy to say," Ianswered peevishly, "What could Nettleand I have done with the horriblethings if we had caught any?"

The walk, or rather the stumble home,proved to be the worst part of theexpedition. Not a ray of starlight hadwe to guide us,nothing but inkyblackness around and over us. We triedto make Nettle go first, intending tofollow his lead, and trusting to hiskeeping the track; but Nettle's place wasat my heels, and neither coaxing norscolding would induce him to forego it.

A forlorn hope was nothing to thedangers of each footstep. First one andthen the other volunteered to lead theway, declaring they could find the track.All this time we were trying to strike theindistinct road among the tussocks,made by occasional wheels to ourhouse, but the marks, never verydistinct in daylight, became perfect will-o'-the-wisps at night. If we crossed asheep-track we joyfully announced thatwe had found the way, but only to beundeceived the next moment bydiscovering that we were returning tothe creek.

From time to time we fell into and overSpaniards, and what was left of our

clothes and our flesh the wild Irishmendevoured. We must have got homesomehow, or I should not be writing anaccount of it, at this moment, but reallyI hardly know how we reached thehouse. I recollect that the next day therewas a great demand for gold-beater'sskin, and court-plaster, and thatwhenever F and Mr. U had a sparemoment during the ensuing week, theydevoted themselves to performingsurgical operations on each other with aneedle; and that I felt very subdued andtired for a day or two. But there was noquestion of fever or cold, and I wasstared at when I inquired whether itwas not dangerous to be out all night inheavy dew after a broiling day.

We had the eels made into a pie by ourshepherd, who assured me that if Ientrusted them to my cook she wouldsend me up such an oily dish that Ishould never be able to endure an eelagain. He declared that the Maoris, whoseem to have rather a horror of grease,had taught him how to cook both eelsand wekas in such a way as to eliminateevery particle of fat from both. I hadno experience of the latter dish, but hecertainly kept his word about the eels,for they were excellent.

Chapter III: Pig-stalking.

It was much too hot in summer to goafter wild pigs. That was our winter'samusement, and very good sport itafforded us, besides the pleasure ofknowing that we were really doinggood service to the pastoral interest, byridding the hills around us of almostthe only enemies which the sheep have.If the squatter goes to look after hismob of ewes and lambs in thesheltered slopes at the back of his run,he is pretty nearly certain to find themattended by an old sow with a dozenbabies at her heels. She will follow thesheep patiently from one campingground to another, watching for a new-born and weakly lamb to linger behind

the rest, and then she will seize anddevour it. Besides this danger, thepresence of pigs on the run keeps thesheep in an excited state. They have anuneasy consciousness that their foes arelooking after them, and they moverestlessly up and down the hills, notstopping to feed sufficiently to get fat.If a sheep-farmer thinks his sheep arenot in good condition, one of the firstquestions he asks his shepherd is, "Arethere any pigs about?" Our run had agood many of these troublesomevisitors on it, especially in the winter,when they would travel down from theback country to grub up acres on acresof splendid sheep pasture in search ofroots. The only good they do is to dig

up the Spaniards for the sake of theirdelicious white fibres, and the fact oftheir being able to do this will give abetter idea of the toughness of a wildpig's snout than anything else I can say.

It may be strange to English ears tohear a woman of tolerably peacefuldisposition, and as the advertisementsin the Times so often state, "thoroughlydomesticated," aver that she foundgreat pleasure in going after wild pigs;but the circumstances of the ease mustbe taken into consideration before I amcondemned. First of all, it seemedterribly lonely at home if F was outwith his rifle all day. Next, there was thetemptation to spend those delicious

hours of a New Zealand winter's day,between ten and four, out of doors,wandering over hills and exploring newgullies. And lastly, I had a firm idea thatI was taking care of F. And so I was ina certain sense, for if his rifle had burst,or any accident had happened to him,and he had been unable to reach thehomestead, we should never haveknown where to find him, and dayswould probably have passed beforeevery nook and corner of a runextending over many thousand acrescould have been thoroughly searched.

I had heard terrible stories ofshepherds slipping down and injuringthemselves so that they could not

move, and of their dead bodies beingonly found after weeks of carefulseeking. F himself delighted to terrifyme by descriptions of narrow escapes;and, as the pigs had to be killed, Iresolved to follow in the hunter's train.The sport is conducted exactly like deerstalking, only it is much harder work,and a huge boar is not so picturesquean object as a stag of many tines, whenyou do catch sight of him. There is justthe same accurate knowledge neededof the animal's habits and customs, andthe same untiring patience. It is quite asnecessary to be a good shot, for a greypig standing under the lee of a boulderof exactly his own colour is a muchmore difficult object to hit from the

opposite side of a ravine than a stag;and a wild boar is every whit as keen ofscent and sharp of eye and ear as anyantlered "Monarch of the Glen."

Imagine then a beautiful winter'smorning without wind or rain. Therehas been perhaps a sharp frost over-night, but after a couple of hours ofsunshine the air is as warm and brightas midsummer. We used to be gladenough of a wood fire at breakfast; butafter that meal had been eaten we wentinto the verandah, open to the north-east (our warm quarter), which made adelicious winter parlour, and basked inthe blazing sunshine. I used often tobring out a chair and a table, and work

and read there all the morning, withouteither hat or jacket. But it sometimeshappened that once or twice a week, onjust such a lovely morning, F wouldproclaim his intention of going out tolook for pigs, and, sooner than be leftbehind, I nearly always begged to beallowed to come too. There was no fearof my getting tired or lagging behind;and as I was willing to make myselfgenerally useful, by carrying thetelescope, a revolver for close quarters,and eke a few sandwiches, the offer ofmy company used to be graciouslyaccepted. We could seldom procure theloan of a good pig-dog, and after oneexcursion with a certain dog of thename of "Pincher," I preferred going

out by ourselves.

On that occasion F did not take hisrifle, as there was no chance of gettinga long shot at our game; for the dogwould surely bring the pig to bay, andthen the hunter must trust to a revolveror the colonial boar-spear, half a pairof shears (I suppose it should be calleda shear) bound firmly on a flax stick bygreen flax-leaves. We had heard of pigshaving been seen by our out-stationshepherd at the back of the run, and aswe were not encumbered by the heavyrifle, we mounted our horses and rodeas far as we could towards the rangewhere the pigs had been grubbing upthe hill sides in unmolested security for

some time past. Five miles from homethe ground became so rough that ourhorses could go no further; wetherefore jumped off, tied them to aflax-bush, taking off the saddles in casethey broke loose, and proceeded onfoot over the jungly, over-grown saddle.On the other side we came upon abeautiful gully, with a creek runningthrough it, whose banks were sodensely fringed with scrub that wecould not get through to the stream,which we heard rippling amid thetangled shrubs. If we could only havereached the water our best plan wouldhave been to get into it and follow itswindings up the ravine; but evenPincher could hardly squeeze and

burrow through the impenetrable fenceof matapo and goi, which were woventogether by fibres of a thorny creepercalled "a lawyer" by the shepherds.

It was very tantalising, for in less thanfive minutes we heard trusty Pincher"speaking" to a boar, and knew that hehad baled it up against a tree, and wascalling to us to come and help him.Fran about like a lunatic, calling out;"Coming Pincher: round him up, gooddog!" and so forth; but they were allvain promises, for he could not get in. Idid my best in searching for anopening, and gave many false hopes ofhaving found one. At last I said, "If Irun up the mountain side, and look

down on that mass of scrub, perhaps Imay see some way into it from above.""No: do you stay here, and see, if thepig breaks cover, which way he goes."Up the steep hill, therefore, F rushed,as swiftly and lightly as one of his ownmountain sheep; and in a minute ortwo I saw him standing, revolver inhand, on an overhanging rock, peeringanxiously down on the leafy massbelow.

Pincher and the creek made such anoise between them that I could nothear what F said, and only guessedfrom his despairing gestures that therewas no trap door visible in the greenroof. I signalled as well as I could that

he was to come down directly, for his-standing-place looked most insecure.Insecure indeed it proved. As I spokethe great fragment of rock looselyembedded in earth on the mountainside gave way with a crash, and cametumbling majestically down on the topof the scrub. As for F, he described aseries of somersaults in the air, whichhowever agreeable in themselves, werevery trying to the nerves of thespectatrix below. My first dread wasleast the rock should crush him, but tomy great joy I saw at once that it wasrolling slowly down the hill, whilst F'svigorous bound off it as it gave way,had carried him well into the middle ofthe leafy cushion beneath him, where

he presently landed flat on his back!

I expected every moment to hear therevolver go off, but mercifully it didnot do so; and as his thorny bed washardly to be endured, F soon kickedhimself off it, and before I couldrealize that he was unhurt, hadscrambled to his feet, and was rushingoff, crying in school-boy glee, "Thatwill fetch him out" That (the rock)certainly did fetch him (the pig) out in amoment, and Pincher availed himselfof the general confusion to seize holdof his enemy's hind leg, which he neverafterwards let go. The boar keptsnapping and champing his great tusks;but Pincher, even with the leg in his

mouth, was too active to be caught: soas the boar found that it was both futileand undignified to try to run away witha dog hanging on his hind-quarters, hetried another plan. Making for a clumpof Ti-ti palms he went to bay, andcontrived to take up a very gooddefensive position. Pincher would havenever given up his mouthful of leg if Fhad not called him off, for it seemedimpossible to fire the revolver whilstthe dog held on. This change of tacticswas much against Pincher's judgment,and he kept rushing furiously inbetween F and the boar. As for me, Iprudently retired behind a big boulder,on which I could climb if the worstcame to the worst, and called out from

time to time, to both dog and man,"Oh, don't!"

They did not even hear me, for the dinof battle was loud. The pig dodgedabout so fast, that although F's bulletslodged in the palm tree at his back, notone struck a vulnerable part, and at lastF, casting his revolver behind him forme to pick up and reload, closed withhis foe, armed only with the shear-spear. Pincher considered this toodangerous, and rushed in betweenthem to distract the boar's attention.Just as F aimed a thrust at his chest,forit was of no use trying to penetrate hishide,the boar lowered his head, caughtpoor faithful Pincher's exposed flank,

and tore it open with his razor-liketusk; but in the meantime the spear hadgone well home into his brawny chest,exactly beneath the left shoulder, andhis life-blood came gushing out. I wasso infuriated at the sight of Pincher'sfrightful wound that I felt none of myusual pity for the victim; and rushingup to F with the revolver, of whichonly a couple of chambers wereloaded, thrust it into his hand with anentreaty to "kill him quickly." This Fwas quite willing to do for his ownsake, as a wounded boar is about themost dangerous beast on earth; andalthough the poor brute kept snappingat the broken flax-stick sticking in hisheart, he fired a steady shot which

brought the pig on his knees, only toroll over dead the next moment.

I cannot help pausing to say that Isewed up Pincher's wound then andthere, with some of the contents of myCambusmore house-wife; which alwaysaccompanied me on my sportingexpeditions, and we carried himbetween us down to where the horseswere fastened. There I mounted; and Flifting the faithful creature on my lap,we rode slowly home, dipping ourhandkerchiefs in cold water at everycreek we crossed, and laying them onhis poor flank. He was as patient andbrave as possible, and bore hissufferings and weakness for days

afterwards in a way which was a lessonto one, so grateful and gentle was he.His brave and sensible behaviour metits due reward in a complete thoughslow recovery.

I have only left myself space for onelittle sketch more; but it comes sovividly before me that I cannot shut itout. After a long day's walking, over thehills and vallies, so beautiful beneathour azure winter-sky, walking whichwas delightful as an expedition, butunsuccessful as to sport, we crossed thetrack of a large boar. We knew he wasold by his being alone, and it wastherefore very certain that he wouldshow fight if we came up with him.

Patiently we followed the track over alow saddle, through a clump ofbrushwood menuka, the broken twigsof which showed how large an animalhad just passed by. Here and there afreshly grubbed-up Spaniard showedwhere he had paused for a snack; but atlength we dropped down on the riverbed, with its wide expanse of shingle,and there we lost all clue to our game.

After a little hesitation, F decided onclimbing a high cliff on the right bankof the river, and trying to catch aglimpse of him. The opposite hill-sidewas gaunt and bare; a southern aspectshut out the sun in winter, and for allits rich traces of copper ore, "Holkam's

Head" found no favour in the eyes ofeither shepherds or master. Grasswould not grow there except insummer, and its gray, shingly sides werean eye-sore to its owner. We sat downon the cliff, and looked aroundcarefully. Presently F said, in abreathless whisper of intense delight, "Isee him." In vain I looked and looked,but nothing could my stupid eyesdiscover. "Lie down," said F to me, justas if I had been a dog. I crouched aslow as possible, whilst Fsettled himselfcomfortably flat on his stomach, andprepared to take a careful aim at theopposite side of the hill.

After what seemed a long time, he

pulled his rifle's trigger, and the flashand crack was followed apparently byone of the gray boulders oppositeleaping up, and then rolling heavilydown the hill. F jumped up in triumphcrying, "Come along, and don't forgetthe revolver." When we had crossed theriver, reckless of getting wet to ourwaists in icy-cold water, F took therevolver from me and went first; but,after an instant's examination, he calledout, "Dead as a door-nail! come andlook at him." So I came, with greatcaution, and a more repulsive anddisgusting sight cannot be imaginedthan the huge carcass of our victimalready stiffening in death. The shothad been a fortunate one, for only an

inch away from the hole the bullet hadmade his shoulders were regularlyplated with thick horny scales, offwhich a revolver bullet would haveglanced harmlessly, and he bore marksof having fought many and many abattle with younger rivals. His hugetusks were notched and broken, and hehad evidently been driven out fromamong his fellows as a quarrelsomemember of their society. Already thekeen-eyed hawks were hovering abovethe great monster, and we left him tohis fate in the solitary river gorge, whereall was bleak and cold and gloomy,afitting death-place for the fierce oldwarrior.

Chapter IV: Skating in the backcountry.

I do not believe that even in Canada theskating can be better than that whichwas within our reach in the MalvernHills. Among our sheltered valleys ansunny slopes the hardest frost onlylasted a few hour after dawn; buttwenty-five miles further back, on theborder of the glacier region, themountain tarns could boast of iceseveral feet thick all the winter. Weheard rumours of far-inland lakes,across which heavily-laden bullock-teams could pass in perfect safety for

three months of the year, and wegrumbled at the light film over ourown large ponds, which would not beareven my little terrier's weight after mid-day: and yet it was cold enough atnight, during our short bright winters,to satisfy the most icy-minded person. Ithink I have mentioned before that thewooden houses in New Zealand,especially those roughly put togetherup-country, are by no means weather-tight. Disagreeable as this may be, it isdoubtless the reason of theextraordinary immunity from colds andcoughs which we hill-dwellers enjoyed.Living between walls formed by inch-boards over-lapping each other, andwhich can only be made to resemble

English rooms by being canvassed andpapered inside, the pure fresh air findsits way in on all sides. A hot room inwinter is an impossibility, in spite ofdrawn curtains and blazing fires,therefore the risk of sudden changesof temperature is avoided.

Some such theory as this is absolutelynecessary to account for thewonderfully good health enjoyed by all,in the most capricious and tryingclimate I have ever come across. Whena strong nor'-wester was howling downthe glen, I have seen the pictures on mydrawing-room walls blowing out to anangle of 45 degrees, although everydoor and window in the little low

wooden structure had been carefullyclosed for hours. It has happened to memore than once, on getting up in themorning, to find my clothes, which hadbeen laid on a chair beneath mybedroom window overnight,completely covered by powdered snow,drifting in through the ill-fittingcasement. This same window waswithin a couple of feet of my bed, andbetween me and it was neither curtainnor shelter of any sort. Of a winter'sevening I have often been obliged towrap myself up in a big Scotch maud,as I sat, dressed in a high linsey gown,by a blazing fire, so hard was the frostoutside; but by ten o'clock nextmorning I would be loitering about the

verandah, basking in the sunshine, andwatching the light flecks of cloud-wreaths and veils floating against anItalian-blue sky. Yet such is the inherentdiscontent of the human heart, thatinstead of rejoicing in this lovely mid-day sunshine, we actually mournedover the vanished ice which at daylighthad been found, by a much-enviedearly riser, strong enough to slide on forhalf an hour. It seemed almostimpossible to believe that any one hadbeen sliding that morning within a fewfeet of where I sat working in a blazeof sunshine, with my pretty grey andpink Australian parrot pluming itselfon the branch of a silver wattle closeby, and "Joey," the tiny monkey from

Panama, sitting on the skirt of mygown, with a piece of its folds arrangedby himself shawl-wise over his glossyblack shoulders. If either of thesetropical pets had been left out afterfour o'clock that sunny day, they, wouldhave been frozen to death before oursupper time.

It was just on such a day as this, and injust such a bright mid-day hour, that adistant neighbour of ours rode up tothe garden gate, leading a pack horse.Outside the saddle-bags, with whichthis animal was somewhat heavilyladen, could be plainly seen a beautifulnew pair of Oxford skates, glinting inthe sunshine; and it must have been the

sight of these beloved implementswhich called forth the half-enviousremark from one of the gentlemen, "Isuppose you have lots of skating up atyour place?"

"Well, not exactly at my station, butthere is a capital lake ten miles from myhouse where I am sure of a good day'sskating any time between June andAugust," answered Mr. C. H, our newlyarrived guest.

We all looked at each other. I believe Iheaved a deep sigh, and dropped mythimble, which "Joey" instantly seized,and with a low chirrup of intensedelight, commenced to poke down

between the boards of the verandah. Itwas too bad of us to give such broadhints by looks if not by words. PoorMr. C. H was a bachelor in those days:he had not been at his little out-of-the-way homestead for some weeks, andwas ignorant of its resources in the wayof firing (always an important matter ata station), or even of tea and mutton.He had no woman-servant, and wastotally unprepared for an incursion ofskaters; and yet,New Zealandfashion,no sooner did he perceive thatwe were all longing and pining forsome skating, than he invited us allmost cordially to go up to his back-country run the very next day, withhim, and skate as long as we liked. This

was indeed a delightful prospect, themore especially as it happened to beonly Monday, which gave us plenty oftime to be back again by Sunday, forour weekly service. We made it a rulenever to be away from home on thatday, lest any of our distantcongregation should ride their twentymiles or so across country and find usabsent.

When the host is willing and the guestseager, it does not take long to arrange aplan, so the next morning found threeof us, besides Mr. C. H mounted andready to start directly after breakfast. Ihave often been asked how I managedin those days about toilette

arrangements, when it was impossibleto carry any luggage except a small"swag," closely packed in a waterproofcase and fastened on the same side asthe saddle-pocket. First of all I mustassure my lady readers that I pridedmyself on turning out as neat and nattyas possible at the end of the journey,and yet I rode not only in my every-daylinsey gown, which could be made longor short at pleasure, but in mycrinoline. This was artfully looped upon the right side and tied by a ribbon,in such a way that when I came outready dressed to mount, no one in theworld could have guessed that I had onany cage beneath my short riding habitwith a loose tweed jacket over the body

of the dress. Within the "swag" wasstowed a brush and comb, collar, cuffsand handkerchiefs, a little necessarylinen, a pair of shoes, and perhaps aribbon for my hair if I meant to be verysmart. On this occasion we all foundthat our skates occupied a terribly largeproportion both of weight and spacein our modest kits, but still we weremuch too happy to grumble.

Where could you find a gayer quartettethan started at an easy canter up thevalley that fresh bracing morning?From the very first our faces wereturned to the south-west, and before usrose the magnificent chain of theSouthern Alps, with their bold snowy

peaks standing out in a glorious dazzleagainst the cobalt sky. A stranger, orcolonially speaking, a "new chum,"would have thought we must needscross that barrier-range before we couldpenetrate any distance into the backcountry, but we knew of long windingvallies and gullies running up betweenthe giant slopes, which would lead us,almost without our knowing how highwe had climbed, up to the elevated butsheltered plateau among the backcountry ranges where Mr. C. H'shomestead stood. There was only onesteep saddle to be crossed, and that laybetween us and Rockwood, six milesoff. It was the worst part of the journeyfor the horses, so we had easy

consciences in dismounting andwaiting an hour when we reached thatmost charming and hospitable ofhouses. I had just time for one turnround the beautiful garden, where theflowers and shrubs of old Englandgrew side by side with the wild andlovely blossoms of our new islandhome, when the expected coo-e rangout shrill and clear from the rose-covered porch. It was but little pastmid-day when we made our secondstart, and set seriously to work overfifteen miles of fairly good gallopingground. This distance brought us wellup to the foot of a high range, and thelast six miles of the journey had to beaccomplished in single file, and with

great care and discretion, for the trackled through bleak desolate vallies,round the shoulder of abutting spurs,through swamps, and up and downrocky staircases. Mr. C. H and his cobboth knew the way well however, andmy bay mare Helen had the cleverestlegs and the wisest as well as prettiesthead of her race. If left to herself sheseldom made a mistake, and the fewtumbles she and I ever had together,took place only when she foundherself obliged to go my way insteadof her own. We entered the gorges ofthe high mountains between us and thewest, and soon lost the sun; even thebrief winter twilight faded away moreswiftly than usual amid those dark

defiles; and it was pitch dark, thoughonly five o'clock, when we heard asudden and welcome clamour of dogvoices.

These deep-mouthed tones invariablyconstitute the first notes of a sheep-station's welcome; and a delightfulsound it is to the belated andbewildered traveller, for besides guidinghis horse to the right spot, the noiseserves to bring out some one to seewho the traveller may be. On thisoccasion we heard one man say to theother, "It's the boss:" so almost beforewe had time to dismount from ourtired horses (remember they had eachcarried a heavy "swag" besides their

riders), lights gleamed from thewindows of the little house, and awood fire sparkled and sputtered onthe open hearth. Mr. C. H only justguided me to the door of the sitting-room, making an apology andinjunction together,"Its very rough I amafraid: but you can do what youlike;"before he hastened back to assisthis guests in settling their horsescomfortably for the night. Labour usedto be so dear and wages so high,especially in the back country of NewZealand, that the couple of men,onefor indoor work, to saw wood, milk,cook, sweep, wash, etc., and the other toact as gardener, groom, ploughman,and do all the numerous odd jobs

about a place a hundred miles andmore from the nearest shop,representeda wage-expenditure of at least 200pounds a year. Every gentlemantherefore as a matter of course sees tohis own horse when he arrivesunexpectedly at a station, and I knew Ishould have at least half an hour tomyself.

The first thing to do was to let downmy crinoline, for I could only walk likea crab in it when it was fastened up forriding, kilt up my linsey gown, take offmy hat and jacket, and set to work Thecurtains must be drawn close, and thechairs moved out from theirsymmetrical positions against the wall;

then I made an expedition into thekitchen, and won the heart of thestalwart cook, who was already fryingchops over the fire, by saying in my bestGerman, "I have come to help you withthe tea." Poor man! it was very unfair,for Mr. C. H had told me during ourride that his servitor was a German,and I had employed the last long hourof the journey in rubbing up myexceedingly rusty knowledge of thatlanguage, and arranging one or twoeffective sentences. Poor Karl's surpriseand delight knew no bounds, and heburst forth into a long monologue, towhich I could find no readier answersthan smiles and nods, hiding myinability to follow up my brilliant

beginning under the pretence of beingvery busy. By the time the gentlemenhad stabled and fed the horses andwere ready, Karl and I between us hadarranged a bright cosy little apartmentwith a capital tea-dinner on the table.After this meal there were pipes andtoddy, and as I could not retire, likeMrs. Micawber at David Copperfield'ssupper party, into the adjoiningbedroom and sit by myself in the cold,I made the best of the somewhat denseclouds of smoke with which I wassoon surrounded, and listened to thefragmentary plans for the next day.Then we all separated for the night, andin two minutes I was fast asleep in alittle room no bigger than the cabin of

a ship, with an opossum rug on a sofafor my bed and bedding.

It was cold enough the next morning, Iassure you: so cold that it was difficultto believe the statement that all thegentlemen had been down at daybreakto bathe in the great lake which spreadlike an inland sea before the bay-window of the little sitting room. Thislake, the largest of the mountain chain,never freezes, on account partly of itsgreat depth, and also because of itssunny aspect. Our destination lay farinland, and if we meant to have a goodlong day's skating we must start at once.Such a perfect day as it was! I felt halfinclined to beg off the first day on the

ice, and to spend my morningwandering along the rata-fringed shoresof Lake Coleridge, with its gloriousenclosing of hills which might fairly becalled mountains; but I feared to seemcapricious or lazy, when really my onlydifficulty was in selecting a pleasure.The sun had climbed well over the highbarriers which lay eastwards, and wasshining brightly down through thequivering blue ether overhead; the frostsparkled on every broad flax-blade orslender tussock-spine, as if the silverside of earth were turned outwardsthat winter morning.

No sooner had we mounted (with no"swag" except our skates this time) than

Mr. C. H set spurs to his horse, andbounded over the slip-rail of thepaddock before Karl could get it down.We were too primitive for gates in thoseparts: they only belonged to thecivilization nearer Christchurch; and Ihad much ado to prevent my ponyfrom following his lead, especially asthe other gentlemen were only toodelighted to get rid of some of theirhigh spirits by a jump. However Karlgot the top rail down for me, and"Mouse" hopped over the lower onegaily, overtaking the leader of theexpedition in a very few strides. Wecould not keep up our rapid pace long;for the ground became terribly brokenand cut up by swamps, quicksands,

blind creeks, and all sorts of snares andpit-falls. Every moment added to thedesolate grandeur of the scene. Bleakhills rose up on either hand, with stillbleaker and higher peaks appearingbeyond them again. An awful silence,unbroken by the familiar cheerfulsound of the sheep calling to eachother,for even the hardy merino cannotlive in these ranges during the wintermonths,brooded around us, and thedark mass of a splendid "bush,"extending over many hundred acres,only added to the lonely grandeur ofthe scene. We rode almost the wholetime in a deep cold shade, for betweenus and the warm sun-rays were suchlofty mountains that it was only for a

few brief noontide moments he couldpeep over their steep sides.

After two hour's riding, at the best pacewhich we could keep up through theseterrible gorges, a sharp turn of thetrack brought us full in view of ourdestination. I can never forget that firstglimpse of Lake Ida. In the cleft of ahuge, gaunt, bare hill, divided as if by agiant hand, lay a large black sheet of ice.No ray of sunshine ever struck it fromautumn until spring, and it seemedimpossible to imagine our venturing toskate merrily in such a sombre lookingspot. But New-Zealand sheep farmersare not sentimental I am afraid. Beyonda rapid thought of self-congratulation

that such "cold country" was not ontheir run, they did not feel affected byits eternal silence and gloom. The icewould bear, and what more couldskater's heart desire? At the end of thedark tarn, nearest to the track by whichwe had approached it, stood a neat littlehut; and judge of my amazement when,as we rode up to it, a young gentleman,looking as if he was just going out fora day's deer-stalking, opened the lowdoor and came out to greet us. Yes, herewas one of those strange anomaliespeculiar to the colonies. A young man,fresh from his University, of refinedtastes and cultivated intellect, wasleading here the life of a boor, withoutcompanionship or appreciation of any

sort. His "mate" seemed to be a roughWest countryman, honest and wellmeaning enough, but utterly unsuitedto Mr. K. It was the old story, of wildunpractical ideas hastily carried out. Mr.K had arrived in New Zealand a coupleof years before, with all his worldlywealth,1,000 pounds. Finding thiswould not go very far in the purchaseof a good sheep-run, and hearing somecalculations about the profit to bederived from breeding cattle, basedupon somebody's lucky speculation, heeagerly caught at one of the manyoffers showered upon unfortunate"new chums," and bought the worstand bleakest bit of one of the worstand bleakest runs in the province. The

remainder of his money was laid out inpurchasing stock; and now he had satdown patiently to await, in his little hut,until such time as his brilliantexpectations would be realized. I maysay here they became fainter and fainteryear by year, and at last faded awayaltogether; leaving him at the end ofthree lonely, dreadful years with exactlyhalf his capital, but double hisexperience. However this has nothingto do with my story, except that I cannever think of our skating expeditionto that lonely lake, far back amongthose terrible hills, without a thrill ofcompassion for the only living humanbeing, who dwelt among them.

It was too cold to dawdle about,however, that day. The frost lay whiteand hard upon the ground, and we feltthat we were cruel in leaving our poorhorses standing to get chilled whilst weamused ourselves. Although mybeloved Helen was not there, havingbeen exchanged for the day in favourof Master Mouse, a shaggy pony,whose paces were as rough as its coat, Ibegged a red blanket from Mr. K, andcovered up Helen's stable companion,whose sleek skin spoke of a mildertemperature than that on Lake Ida's"gloomy shore." Our simplearrangements were soon made. Mr. Kleft directions to his mate to prepare arepast consisting of tea, bread, and

mutton for us, and, each carrying ourskates, we made the best of our wayacross the frozen tussocks to the lake.Mr. K proved an admirable guide overits surface, for he was in the habitduring the winter of getting all hisfirewood out of the opposite "bush,"and bringing it across the lake onsledges drawn by bullocks. We accusedhim of having cut up our ice dreadfullyby these means; but he took us to a partof the vast expanse where an unbrokenfield of at least ten acres of icestretched smoothly before us. Herewere no boards marked"DANGEROUS," nor any intimationof the depth of water beneath. Themost timid person could feel no

apprehension on ice which seemedmore solid than the earth; soaccordingly in a few moments we hadbuckled and strapped on our skates,and were skimming and glidingand Imust add, fallingin all directions. Wewere very much out of practice at first,except Mr. K, who skated every day,taking short cuts across the lake totrack a stray heifer or explore a blindgully.

I despair of making my readers see thescene as I saw it, or of conveying anyadequate idea of the intense, theappalling loneliness of the spot. Itreally seemed to me as if our voices andlaughter, so far from breaking the deep

eternal silence, only brought it out intostronger relief. On either hand rose up,shear from the waters edge, a great,barren, shingly mountain; before usloomed a dark pine forest, whose blackshadows crept up until they merged inthe deep crevasses and fissures of theSnowy Range. Behind us stretched thewinding gullies by which we hadclimbed to this mountain tarn, and Mr.K's little hut and scrap of a garden andpaddock gave the one touch of life, orpossibility of life, to this desolateregion. In spite of all scenic wetblankets we tried hard to be gay, and noone but myself would acknowledgethat we found the lonely grandeur ofour "rink" too much for us. We skated

away perseveringly until we were bothtired and hungry, when we returned toMr. K's hut, took a hasty meal, andmounted our chilled steeds. Mr. C. Hinsisted on bringing poor Mr. K backwith us, though he was somewhatreluctant to come, alleging that a fewdays spent in the society of his kindmade the solitude of his weather-boardhut all the more dreary. The next dayand yet the next we returned to ourgloomy skating ground, and when Iturned round in my saddle as we rodeaway on Friday evening, for a last lookat Lake Ida lying behind us in herwinter black numbness, her aspectseemed more forbidding than ever, foronly the bare steep hill-sides could be

seen; the pine forest and white distantmountains were all blotted and blurredout of sight by a heavy pall of cloudcreeping slowly up.

"Let us ride fast," cried Mr. K, "or weshall have a sou'-wester upon us;" sowe galloped home as quickly as wecould, over ground that I don't reallybelieve I could summon courage towalk across, ever so slowly, to-day,butthen one's nerves and courage are invery different order out in NewZealand to the low standard whichrules for ladies in England, who "live athome in ease!" Long before we reachedhome the storm was pelting us: my littlejacket was like a white board when I

took it off, for the sleet and snow hadfrozen as it fell. I was wet to the skin,and so numb with cold I could hardlystand when we reached home at last inthe dark and down-pour. I could onlyget my things very imperfectly dried,and had to manage as best I could, butyet no one even thought of making theinquiry next morning when I came outto breakfast, "Have you caught cold?"It would have seemed a ridiculousquestion.

Chapter V: Toboggon-ing.

I cannot resist the temptation to touch

upon one of the winter amusementswhich came to us two years later. Yetthe word "amusement" seems out ofplace, no one in the Province havingmuch heart to amuse themselves, forthe great snow storm of August, 1867,had just taken place, and we were in thefirst days of bewilderment at thecalamity which had befallen us all. Aweek's incessant snow-fall,accompanied by a fierce and freezingsouth-west wind, had not only coveredthe whole of the mountains from baseto brow with shining white, throughwhich not a single dark rock jutted, buthad drifted on the plains for many feetdeep. Gullies had been filled up by thesoft, driving flakes, creeks were bridged

over, and for three weeks and more allcommunication between the stationsand the various townships was cut off.The full extent of our losses wasunknown to us, and dreary as were ourforebodings of misfortune, none of usguessed that snow to be the windingsheet of half a million of sheep. Themagnificent semi-circle of the SouthernAlps stood out, for a hundred milesfrom north to south, in appalling whitedistinctness, and no one in the wholeColony had ever seen the splendidrange thus free from fleck or flaw. Wehad done all we could within workingdistance, but what was, the use ofdigging in drifts thirty feet deep?Amidst, and almost above, the terrible

anxiety about our own individualsafety,for the snow was over the roofof many of the station-houses,camethe pressing question, "Where are thesheep?" A profound silence unbrokenby bleat of lamb, or bark of dog, orany sound of life, had reigned for manydays, when a merciful north-westerlygale sprung, up, and releasing theheavily-laden earth from its whitebondage, freed the miserable remnantof our flocks and herds. At least, Ishould say, it freed those sheep whichhad travelled down to the vallies, drivenbefore the first pitiless gusts, but weknew that many hundreds, if notthousands, of wethers must have beensurprised and imprisoned far back

among the hills.

Such knowledge could not be actedupon, however, for no human beingcould hope to plunge through thedrifts around us. Old shepherds whohad lived on the run for fifteen years,confessed that they did not know theirway fifty yards from the homestead.The vallies were filled up, so that onegully looked precisely like its fellow;rocks, scrub, Ti-ti palms, all our localland-marks had disappeared; not afence or gate could be seen in all thecountry side. Here and there a longwave-like line in the smooth masswould lead us to suppose that a wirefence lay buried beneath its curves, but

we had no means of knowing forcertain. Near the house every shrub andout-building, every hay-stack or wood-heap, had all been covered up, and noman might even guess where they lay.

This had been the terrible state ofthings, and although the blessed warmwind had removed our immediate andpressing fear of starvation, we couldnot hope to employ ourselves insearching for our missing sheep formany days to come. None of us hadbeen able to take any exercise for morethan a fortnight, and having done allthat could possibly be done near athand, F set to work to manufacturesome sledges out of old packing-cases.

Quite close to the house, a hill slopedsmoothly for about 300 yards, at anangle of 40 degrees; along its side lay aperfectly level and deep drift, which didnot show any signs of thawing formore than a month, and we resolved touse this as a natural Montagne Russe. Theconstruction of a suitable sledge wasthe first difficulty to be surmounted,and many were the dismal failures andbreak-neck catastrophes whichpreceded what we considered a safeand successful vehicle. Not only was itimmensely difficult to make, withouteither proper materials or tools, a sledgewhich could hold two people (for Fdeclared it was no fun sleighing alone),but his "patent brakes" proved the

most broken of reeds to lean uponwhen the sledge was dashing down thesteep incline at the rate of a thousandmiles an hour.

We nearly broke our necks more thanonce, and I look back now withamazement to our fool-hardiness. Howwell I remember one expedition, whenF, who had been hammering away in ashed all the morning, came to find mesitting in the sun in the verandah, andto inform me that at last he hadperfected a conveyance which wouldcombine speed with safety. Undauntedby previous mishaps, I sallied forth,and in company with Mr. U and F,climbed painfully up the high hill I

have mentioned, by some steps whichthey had cut in the frozen snow.Without some such help we could nothave kept our footing for a moment,and as long as I live I shall never forgetthe sensation of leaving my friendlyAlpenstock planted in the snow, and ofseating myself on that frail sledge.Perhaps I ought to describe it here. Aboard, about six feet long by one footbroad, with sheet-iron nailed beneath it,and curved upwards in front; on itsupper surface a couple of battens werefixed, one quite at the foremost end,and one half-way. That was F's newpatent sledge, warranted to go fasterdown an incline than any otherconveyance on the surface of the earth.

I was the wretched "passenger," as hecalled me, on more than one occasion,and I will briefly describe myexperiences. "Why did you go?" is avery natural question to arise in myreader's mind; and sitting here at mywriting-table, I feel as if I must havebeen a lunatic to venture. But in thosedelicious wild days, no enterpriseseemed too rash or dangerous toengage in, from mounting a horsewhich had never seen or felt thefluttering of a habit, to embarking onthe conveyance I have described above,and starting down a mountain-side atthe risk of a broken neck.

Well, to return to that terrible moment.

I see the whole scene now. The frail,rude sledge, with its breaks made outof a couple of standards from a wirefence, connected by a strong iron chain;Fseated at the back of the preciouscontrivance, firmly grasping a standardin each hand; Mr. U clingingdesperately to his Alpen-stock with onehand, whilst with the other he helps meon to the board; and Nettle, my dearlittle terrier, standing shivering on threelegs, sniffing distrustfully at the sledge.It is extremely difficult even to takeone's place on a board a dozen incheswide. My petticoats have to be firmlywrapped around me, and care takenthat no fold projects beyond the sledge,or I should be soon dragged out of my

frail seat. I fix my feet firmly against thebatten, and F cries, "Are you ready?""Oh, not yet!" I gasp, clinging to Mr.U 's hand as if I never meant to let it go."Hold tight!" he shouts. Now what amockery this injunction was. I hadnothing to hold on to except my ownknees, and I clasped them convulsively.Mr. U says, "You're all right now," andbefore I can realize that he has let gomy hand, before my courage is half-wayup to the necessary height, we are off.The breaks are slightly depressed forthe first few yards, in order to regulateour pace, and because there is atremendously steep pitch just at first.Once we have safely passed that he tiltsup the standards, and our sledge shoots

like a meteor down the perfectlysmooth incline. I cannot draw mybreath, we are going at such a pacethrough the keen air; I give myself upfor lost. We come to another steeppitch near the bottom of the hill; F islaughing to such a degree at me that hedoes not put down his breaks soonenough, and loses control of thesledge. We appear to leap down the dip,and then the sledge turns first one wayand then the other, its zinc prow beingsometimes up-hill and some-timesdown. It seems wonderful that we keepon the sledge, for we have no means ofholding on except by pressing our feetagainst the battens; yet in the grand andfinal upset at the bottom of the hill, the

sledge is there too, and we find we havenever parted company from it.

Will any one believe that after such aperilous journey, I could actually bepersuaded to try again? But so it was.At first the fright (for I was reallyterrified) used to make me very cross,and I declared that I was severely hurt,if not "kilt entirely;" but after I hadshaken the snow out of my linsey skirt,and discovered that beyond the damageto my nerves I was uninjured, F wasquite sure to try to persuade me tomake another attempt, and I wasequally sure to yield to the temptation.As well as my memory serves me, weonly made one really successful journey,

and that was on an occasion when wekept the breaks down the whole way.But I never could insure similarprecautions being taken again, and weconsequently experienced every varietyof mishaps possible to sledge travellers.I persevered however for some daysuntil the north-westerly wind, whichwas blowing softly all the time, beganto lay bare the sharpest points of therocks, and then I gave in at once, andwould not be a "passenger" any more.It was rather too much to strike one'shead against a jagged fragment of rock,or to dislocate one's thumb against aconcealed stump of a palm tree. Thenthe sharp points of the Spaniardsbegan to stick up through the softening

snow, and nothing would induce me torun the risk of touching their greenbayonets. Besides which, the fast-thawing snow made it very difficult toclimb up to the top of our hill, for thecarefully-cut steps had disappearedlong ago. So I gave up sledge journeyson my own account, and used only tolook at F and Mr. U taking them.

These two persevered so long as aninch of snow remained on the hill-side.Some of their adventures were veryalarming, and certainly ratherdangerous. One afternoon I had beenwatching them for more than an hour,and had seen them go through everyvariety of disaster, and capsize with no

further effect than increasing theirdesire for "one more" trial. On theblind-side of the hill,that is to say theside which gets scarcely any sun inwinter,a deep drift of snow stilllingered, filling up a furrow made informer years by a shingle-slip. Thitherthe two adventurous climbers draggedtheir sledge, and down the steep inclinethey performed their perilous descentmany a time. I became tired ofwatching the board shoot swiftly overthe white streak; and I strolled roundthe shoulder of the hill, to see if therewas any appearance of the snow-falllessening in the back country.

I must have been away about half an

hour, and had made the circuit of thelittle knoll which projected from themountain side, returning to where Iexpected to find sleigh and sleighersstarting perhaps on just "one more"journey. But no one was there, and adozen yards or so from the usualstarting-point, the snow was a gooddeal ploughed up and stained in largepatches by blood. Here was an alarmingspectacle, though the only wonder wasthat a bad accident had not occurredbefore. I saw the sledge, deserted andbroken, near the end of the drift: ofthe passengers there was neither signnor token. I must say I was terriblyfrightened, but it is useless in NewZealand to scream or faint; the only

thing to do in an emergency is to coo-e;and so, although my heart wasthumping loudly in my ears, and at firstI could not produce a sound, Imanaged at last, after many attempts, tomuster up a loud clear coo-e. There wasthe usual pause, whilst the last sharpnote rang back from the hill-sides, andvibrated through the clear silent air; andthen, oh, welcome sound! I heard avigorous answer from our own flatwhere the homestead stood. I set offdown-hill as fast as I could, and hadthe joy, when I turned the slope whichhad hidden our little house from myview, to see F and Mr. U walking about;but even from that distance I could seethat poor Mr. U 's head was bandaged

up, and as soon as I got near enough tohear, Fshouted "I have broken myneck!" adding, "I am very hungry: let usgo in to supper."

Under the circumstances these wordswere consolatory; and when I came tohear the story, this was the way theaccident happened. As I mentionedbefore, even this drift had thawed till itwas soft at the surface and worn awayalmost to the rocks. During a rapiddescent the nose of the sledge dippedthrough the snow, and stopped deadagainst a rock. Mr. U was instantlyburied in the snow, falling into a youngbut prickly Spaniard, which assaultedhim grievously; but F shot over his

head some ten yards, turned asomersault, and alit on his feet. Thissounds a harmless performanceenough, but it requires practice; and Fdeclared that for weeks afterwards hisneck felt twisted. The accident musthave looked very ridiculous: the sledgeone moment gliding smoothly along atthe rate of forty miles an hour,the nexta dead stop, and Fflying through the airover his passenger's head, finishing feetfirst plump down in the soft snow.

Looking back on that time, I canremember how curiously soon theexternal traces of the great snow-stormdisappeared. For some weeks after thefriendly nor-wester, the air of the whole

neighbourhood was tainted by deadand decaying sheep and lambs; and thewire fences, stock-yard rails, and every"coign of vantage," had to be madeuseful but ghastly by a tapestry ofsheep-skins. The only wonder was thata single sheep had survived a stormsevere enough to kill wild pigs. Greatboars, cased in hides an inch thick, hadperished through sheer stress ofweather; while thin-skinned animals,with only a few months growth of finemerino wool on their backs, hadendured it all. It was well known thatthe actual destruction of sheep wasmainly owing to the two days of heavyrain which succeeded the snow. Out ofa flock of 13,000 of all ages, we lost,

on the lowest calculation, 1,000 grownsheep and nearly 3,000 lambs; and yetour loss was small by comparison withthat of our neighbours, whose runswere further back among the hill, andless sheltered than our own.

Long before midsummer our cloud-shadowed hills were green once more;and I think I see again their beautifuloutlines, their steep sides planted withsemi-tropical palms and grasses, whilstthe more distant peaks are veiled in asultry haze. During that peculiarlybright and lovely summer we often askeach other, Could it have been true thatno one knew one mountain from theother, and that hills had been

apparently levelled and vallies filled upby the heaviest snow-fall ever known.But whilst the words were on our lips,we could see a group of palm-trees, tenfeet high, with their topmost leavesgnawed to the stump by starving sheep,that must have been standing on at leastseven feet of snow to reach them; andthere was scarcely a creek on the runwhose banks were not strewn, for manya long day, by bare and bleachingbones.

Chapter VI: Buying a run.

Like many other people in the world, I

have occasionally built castles in the air,and equally of course they haveinvariably tumbled down in due timewith a crash This particular castlehowever, not only attained to a greatelevation in the visionary builder's eyes,but it covered so vast an area of land,that the story of its rise and falldeserves to be placed on record, as awarning to aerial architects and also as abeacon-light to young colonists.

This was exactly the way it allhappened. The new year of 186-foundus living very quietly and happily on asmall compact sheep-farm, at the footof the Malvern Hills, in the provinceof Canterbury, New Zealand. As runs

went, its dimensions were small indeed;for we only measured it at 12,000 acres,all told. The great tidal wave ofprosperity, which sets once in a whiletowards the shores of all colonies, hadthat year swelled and risen to its fullforce; but this we did not know. Bornealoft upon its unsubstantial crest wecould not, from that giddy height,discern any water-valleys of adversity orclouds of change and storm along theshining horizon of the new worldaround us. All our calculations werebased on the assumption that theexisting prices for sheep, wool, cattle,and all farm-produce, would rule formany a long day; and the delightful partof this royal road to wealth was, that its

travellers need not exert themselves inany way: they had only to sit still withfolded hands whilst their sheepincreased, and it was well known that aflock doubled itself in three shortyears. The obvious deduction from thisagreeable numerical fact was, that in anequally short period your agent'spayments to your bank account wouldalso be doubled. In the meantime thedrays were busy carting the wool to theseaports as fast as they could be loaded,whilst speculative drovers rode allabout the country buying up the fatcattle and wethers from every run.These were wanted to supply the WestCoast Diggings which had just "brokenout" (as the curious phrase goes there),

and so was every description of grainand dairy produce.

We squatters were not the onlyinhabitants of this fool's paradise. Thelocal Government began planningextensive works: railways were laid outin every direction, bridges plannedacross rivers, which proved the despairof engineers; whilst a tunnel, thewonder of the Southern Hemisphere,was commenced through a range ofhills lying between Port Lyttleton andChristchurch. All this work wasundertaken on a scale of pay whichmade the poor immigrants whothronged to the place by every ship, rubtheir eyes and believe they must be

dreaming, and that they wouldpresently wake up and find themselvesback again in the old country, at the oldstarvation rate of wages. Smallcapitalists, with perhaps only one ortwo hundred pounds in the world, bidagainst each other as purchasers ofquarter-acre sections in the fast-springing townships, or of fifty-acrelots of arable land in the projectedsuburbs. Subscriptions were raised forbuilding a Cathedral in Christchurch;but so dear was both labour andmaterial, that 7,000 pounds barelysufficed to lay its foundations.

The paramount anxiety in men's mindsseemed to be to secure land. Sheep-

runs in sheltered accessible parts of thecountry commanded enormous prices,and were bought in the mostcomplicated way. The first comers hadtaken up vast tracts of land in alldirections from the Government, at analmost nominal rental. This hadhappened quite in the dark and remoteages of the history of the colony, atleast ten or twelve years before the dateof which I write. As speculators withplenty of hard cash came down fromAustralia, these original tenants sold, asit were, the good-will and stock oftheir run at enormous prices; but whatalways seemed to me so hard was, thatafter you had paid any number ofthousand pounds for your run, you

might have to buy it all, or at any rate,some portion of it, over again. Landcould only be purchased freehold fromthe Government, for 2 pounds an acre;and if a "cockatoo" (i.e., a smallfarmer), or a speculator in mines,fancied any part of your property, hehad only to go to the land office, andchallenge your pre-emptive rights. Theofficials gave you notice of thechallenge, and six weeks' grace in whichto raise the money, and buy it freeholdyourself; but few sheep-farmers couldafford to pay a good many hundredpounds unexpectedly to secure eventheir best "flats" or vallies. Hence itoften happened that large runs in themost favourable situations were cut up

by small investors, "free selectors" asthey are called in Australia, and it usedto be rather absurd the way one grew todistrust any stranger who was descriedriding about the run. The poor manmight be looking for a stray horse, orhave lost his way, but we always fanciedhe must be "prospecting" for eithergold or coals, or else be a "cockatoo"disguised as a traveller.

Such was the state of things when mystory opens. Shearing was just over, andwe knew to a lamb how rapidly ourflocks and herds were increasing. Asuccession of mild winters and earlygenial springs had got the flock intocapital order. The wool had all been

sent off to Christchurch by drays, thesheep were turned out on the beautifulgreen hills for ten months of perfectrest and peace; whilst the dogs, whohad barked themselves quite hoarse,were enabled to desist from theirlabours in mustering and watching theyet unshorn mobs on the vallies.Although our run was as well grassedand watered as any in the province, stillit could not possibly carry more than acertain number of sheep, and to thattotal our returns showed that we wererapidly approaching. The most carefulcalculations warned us that by nextshearing we should hardly know whatto do with our sheep. It is always betterto be under than overstocked, for the

merino gets out of conditionimmediately, and even the staple of thewool deteriorates if its wearer be at allcrowded on his feeding-grounds.

"You must take up more countrydirectly," was the invariable formula ofthe advice we, comparatively "newchums," received on all sides. This waseasier to say than to do. Turn whichever way we would, far back beyondour own lovely vallies and green hills,back up to the bleak region of glaciers,where miles of bush and hundreds ofacres of steep hill-side, formed theback-est of "back country," every inchof land was taken up. No fear hadthose distant Squatters of "cockatoos,"

or even of miners; for no one cametheir way who could possibly help it.Still we should have been comparativelyglad to buy such a run fifty or sixtymiles further back,at the foot, in fact ofthe great Southern Alps,just as asummer feeding-ground for the leastvaluable portion of our flock. But noone was inclined to part with a singleacre, and we were forced to turn oureyes in a totally different direction.

If my readers will refer to theaccompanying map of New Zealand,and look at the Middle or South Island,they will notice a long seaboard on theeastern side of the island, stretchingSS.W. for many hundred leagues. It

extends beyond the Province ofCanterbury to that of Otago, andembraces some of the mostmagnificent pastoral land in thesettlement. Not only is the soil rich andproductive, but the climate is rather lesswindy than with us in the northernportion of the island; and the capitalof Otago (Dunedin) had risen intocomparative position and importancebefore Christchurch,was in short anelder sister of that pretty little town.Most of the settlers in Otago wereScotchmen, and as there are no bettercolonists anywhere, its prosperity hadattained to a very flourishing height.Gold-digging had also broken out atthe foot of the Dunstan range, so that

Otago held her head quite as high, ifnot higher, than her neighbourCanterbury. Of course all the first-classpasture-land "down south," as it wascalled, had been taken up long before;but we heard rumours of splendidsheep country, yet unappropriated, farback towards the west coast of Otago,just where its boundary joinedCanterbury.

With our minds in this state of desirefor what poor Mazzini used todenounce as "territorialaggrandisement," we paid our usualpost-shearing visit to Christchurch. Fhad his agent's accounts to examine, anice little surplus of wool-money to

receive, and many other squattinginterests to attend to; whilst I had to layin chests of tea, barrels of sugar andrice, hundreds of yards of candle-wick,flower-seeds, reels of cotton, and manyother miscellaneous articles. Butthrough all our pleasant, happy littlebustle ran the constant thought: "Whatshall we do for more country?" A dayor two before the expiration of theweek's leave of absence which wealways gave ourselves, F came into mysitting-room at the hotel, flung downhis hat on the table with an air oftriumph, and cried, "I've heard of sucha splendid run! One hundred thousandacres of beautiful sheep-country, andgoing for a mere song!" Now I had

lived long enough in the world todiscover that one sometimes danced onthe wrong foot to the tune of these"mere songs," so I cautiously inquired,"Where is it?" F seemed a little dashedthat the only question which he couldnot answer favourably should be thefirst I asked, and he replied vaguely,"Well, it is rather a long way off, but Iam sure we can manage it." A littlemore sifting elicited the fact that this"desirable investment" stretched alongthe shores of Lake Wanaka, famous forits beautiful scenery, and was to be hadfor what certainly seemed a ridiculouslysmall sum;only a few hundred pounds."Of course it has no sheep on it,"added F; "but that is all the better. I'll

burn it this year, and then turn somecattle on it, and after next shearing we'llhave a good mob of sheep to draft outand stock it." He further added, that hehad invited his man of business andthe individual who owned thismagnificent property to dine with usthat evening, and that then I shouldhear all about it And I may truly saythat I did hear about it, for my brainreeled with figures and calculations. Bybedtime I was wondering if we couldpossibly spend the enormous fortunewhich would be quite certain to accrueto us in a few years if only we couldmake up our minds to invest themodest balance at our bankers in thistempting bargain. I remember well that

I found myself wishing we were notgoing to be quite so rich; half ourpromised income would have beenample, I thought. My anxieties on thatscore turned out to have been, to saythe least, premature.

Not to make my story too long, I maybriefly say that after making dueallowance for the natural exaggerationof the owner, the run on LakeWanaka's shores seemed certainly tooffer many attractions. Besidesthousands of acres of beautifulsheltered sheep country, it was said topossess a magnificent bush, in whichsawyers were already hard at work. Ofcourse all this timber would become

our own, and we were to make somuch a year by selling it. "How aboutthe carriage?" inquired F cautiously,having visions of costly bullock-drays,and teams and drivers at fabulouswages. "Oh, the lake is your highway,"replied the would-be seller, airily; "youhave nothing to do but lash your felledtrees together, as they do in themahogany-growing countries, and setthem afloat on the lake, they will thusform a natural raft, and cost you littleor nothing to get down to a goodmarket. You know the Dunstandiggings are just at the foot of the lake,and they haven't a stick there; timber isvery badly wanted in those parts, notonly for fuel and building, but also for

slabbing the shafts which the minerssink."

By the time the coffee was served F hadmade up his mind to buy the LakeWanaka run; his business agent urginghim strongly not to hesitate for amoment in securing such a chance. Thenegotiations reached thus far withoutthe least hitch, but at this point Fsaid,"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do: we willstart in a day or two and go straight upto this run and look round it, and if Ifind it anything like so good as youboth make it out, I'll buy it on thespot."

Never did that sociable little word "we"

sound so delightful to my ears! "Then Iam to come too," I thought to myself,but I prudently concealed from thecompany that I had ever had anymisgivings on that point. However, thecompany did not concern themselveswith my doubts and fears, for our twoguests seemed much taken aback at thisvery matter-of-fact proposal of F's."That won't do at all, my dear fellow,"said the owner of the run; "I am goingto England by the next mail steamer,which you know sails next week, andthe reason I am literally giving away myproperty is that I don't want anysuspense or bother. Take it or leave it,just as you like. There's Wilkinson andFairwright and a lot of others all

clamouring for the refusal of it, andI've only waited to see if you reallywanted it before closing withFairwright. He is walking about with acheque all ready filled up in his pocket,and only begging and praying me to lethim have the run on my own terms.Why you might be weather-bound orkept there for a month, and what shall Ido then? No, its all just as I've told you,and you can call it your own to-morrow, but I can't possibly wait foryou to go and look at it." No words ofmine can give any idea of the tone ofscorn in which our guest pronouncedthese last three words; as if looking atan intended purchase was at once themeanest and most absurd thing in-the

world. F seemed half ashamed ofhimself for his proposal, but still heurged that he never liked to take a leapin the dark, backing up his opinion byseveral world-revered adages. "That's allvery fine," chimed in our preciousbusiness adviser," but this transactioncan hardly be said to be in the dark;here are the plans and the Governmentlease and the transfer deeds, all regularand ready." With this he produced theplans, and then it was all up with us.Who does not know the peculiar smellof tracing-paper, with its suggestionsof ownership? When these fresh andcrackling drawings were opened beforeus they resembled nothing so much as averitable paradise. There shone the

lakea brilliant patch of cobalt blue,bordered by outlines of vivid greenpasture and belts of timber. Here andthere, on the outskirts, we read thewords, "proposed township," "buildinglots," "probable gold fields," "sawmills." F laid his hand down over alarge wash of light green paint andasked," Now what sort of country isthis; really and truly, you know?" "Firstclass sheep country, I give you myword," replied the owner eagerly, "onlywants to be stocked for a year or two."

Why need I go on? It was the old, oldstory of misplaced confidence. NeitherF nor I could believe that our friendswould wilfully over-reach us, so it was

settled that the first thing next morningthe money should be handed over andthe Government lease transferred to us.We decided that as we were so far onthe way to our new property, we wouldgo and look at it before returning tothe Malvern Hills, and the next fewdays were very busy ones, as we had toarrange our small domestic affairs, sendup the dray, etc., etc. I felt ratheranxious at the postponement of ourreturn home, for I had left several"clutches" of eggs on the point ofbeing hatched, and I had gravemisgivings as to the care my expectedducklings and chickens would receiveat the lands of my scatter-brained maidservants, to say nothing of the dangers

besetting them from hawks and rats.However, small interests must give wayto great ones, and F and I were alreadytasting the cares of proprietorship. Ourfriend, the former owner of our newproperty, sailed for England in the mailsteamer, in high spirits, saying cordiallyas he shook F's hand at parting, "Wellyou have got your fortune cut out foryou, and no mistake; I feel half sorryalready to think that I've parted withthat run." About two days after hisdeparture, F who had registered hisname at the land office as the presenttenant of 100,000 acres in the LakeWanaka district, received a politerequest from official quarters to pay upthe annual rent, just due, amounting to

100 pounds or so. We had effected ourbrilliant negotiations about a week toosoon it seemed, but that was our ownfault, so we had nothing to do but paythe money with as good a grace aspossible. I am "free to confess" that thissecond cheque ran our banker'saccount very fine indeed, but still inthose palmy days of the past this wasno subject of uneasiness to a squatter.His credit was almost unlimited, and hecould always raise as much money as heliked on an hypothecation of nextyear's wool. But we had not come tothat yet. The weather was delightful; thecustomary week of heavy rain just afterour midsummer Christmas, had cooledthe air and laid the dust, besides

bringing out a fresh spring-like greentint over the willows and poplars, andcausing even the leaves of the gums tolose their leather-like look for a fewdays.

After much consultation we decided togo by coach as far as Timaru, and thentrust to circumstances to decide ourfuture means of transport. Not onlywere we obliged to pay a large sum forour places but our luggage was chargedfor by the pound, so we found itnecessary to reduce our kit to the mostmodest dimensions, and only to takewhat was absolutely necessary. Thejourney was a long and weary one, theonly variety being caused by a strong

spice of danger at each river. At somestreams we were transferred bodily to alarge raft-like ferry boat, and so takenacross. At others the passengers andluggage only were put into the boat, thelumbering coach with its leathernsprings left behind, whilst the horsesswam in our wake across the wide andrushing river, to be re-harnessed toanother coach on the opposite shore.The Rakaia, Ashburton, and Rangitatahad been crossed in this way, and wehad reached the Otaio, a smaller river,when we found a new mode oftransport awaiting us. A large dray witha couple of powerful horses was inreadiness, and into this springlessvehicle we were unceremoniously

bundled. The empty coach and horseswas driven over at another part of thestream. I shall never forget the jolting:the river must have been at least aquarter of a mile wide at that reach,and over its bed of boulders and rockswe bumped In the middle stretched along strip of shingle, which seemed assmooth as turf by contrast with thefirst half of the river-bed. When wecharged into the water again our driverremoved his pipe from his mouth,looked over his shoulder and remarked,"River's come down since mornin'; besttuck up your feet, marms all." I cananswer for this "marm" tucking up herfeet with great agility, and not amoment too soon either, for as a light

wind was blowing, a playful wave camerippling over and through the plankedfloor of the dray, floating all thesmaller parcels about. But no one couldspeak, we were so jolted: it literallyseemed as if our spines must comethrough the crown of our heads, and Iexpected all my teeth to tumble out.

In the midst of my fright and suffering,a laugh was jolted out of me by theabsurd behaviour of one of ourfellow-passengers. He was what iscalled a bush carpenter: i.e., awandering carpenter, who travels fromstation to station, doing any little oddrough jobs wanted. This man had beenworking for us some time before, and

had often amused me with his quaintways. On this occasion he was on hisoppressively good behaviour, and satquite silent and solemn on the oppositeledge of the dray. But when for thesecond time the water came swirlingthrough our rude conveyance with aforce which threatened to upset italtogether, Dale fumbled in his pocket,as if he were seeking for a life-belt,produced an enormous pair of greengoggle spectacles, which might havemade part of Moses Primrose'spurchases at the fair, and adjustingthem on his nose as steadily as hecould, said gravely, "This must belooked to!" He continued to stare at thewash of water during the remainder of

our perilous and rough transit withoutvouchsafing any explanation of hismeaning, but after we had safely landedhe replaced his spectacles, first in theirhuge shagreen case, and next in hispocket, with an air which seemed to say,"The danger is now over: thanks to myprecautions."

Timaru was reached very late, and thebest accommodation at the inn placedat our disposal. Still, in those distantdays there was no such thing as aprivate sitting room, and we had all toeat our supper in the same rough-boarded little apartment. But in all myvaried wanderings in different parts ofthe world, when the accidents of travel

have thrown me for a time among theclass whom we foolishly speak of asthe lower orders, I have never yet hadto complain of the slightestinconvenience or disagreeableness frommy fellow-travellers. On the contrary, Ihave always received the mostchivalrous politeness at their hands, andhave noticed how ready they were toforego their usual tastes and habits lestthey should cause me any annoyance. Iwonder whether fine gentlemen in theirsplendid clubs would be quite sowilling to spoil the pleasure of theirevening if any accident were to throwan unwelcome lady amongst them? Atall events, they could not be more self-sacrificing than my friends in fustian

jackets have always proved themselves,and on this particular evening thelandlord of the inn was so amazed atthe orders for tea and coffee instead ofthe usual "nips" of spirits, that he wasconstrained to inquire the reason. Astalwart drover who was sittingopposite to me at the rude table,murmured from the depths of his greatbeard, in an oracular whisper, "Thesmell of speerits might'nt be agreeblelike to the lady." In vain I protested thatI did not mind it in the least; tea andcoffee was the order of the evening,and solemn silence and goodbehaviour. No smoking, no songs, noconviviality of any sort. I would fainhave shown my appreciation of their

courtesy by talking to them; but alas, Iwas one vast ache all over! Althoughthe road had been a dead level, sixteenhours of jolting and bumping hadreduced me to a limp, black-and-bluecreature, with out a word or a smile. Ofcourse I retired to what was literally apallet, and a very hard pallet too, asearly as possible, but even after I hadvanished behind the thin woodenpartition which formed my bedroom,the greatest silence and decorumcontinued to reign among my fellow-travellers.

Chapter VII: "Buying a run."continued.

Early the next morning we allbreakfasted together, and thenseparated with most polite adieux. Wesallied forth to look for a couple ofriding horses. There were none to behired, so we had to buy two good-looking nags for 45 pounds a-piece.Now-a-days the same horses would notfetch more than 10 pounds and I havebeen told that in Australia you can buya horse for a shilling, but ours in NewZealand have never sunk lower than acouple of pounds, if they had any legsat all. It seemed to the horse-dealerquite a superfluous question when Itimidly inquired if my horse had evercarried a lady. "No: I can't just say as he

has, mum, as you see there aint noladies in these parts for him to carry.But," he added magnanimously, "I'll tryhim with a blanket fust, if you're at alloneasy about him." We did not startuntil the next day, as we had to hunt upside-saddles, and I had to sew a fewyards of grey linsey into a riding-skirt;but by the following day we were allready, and our "swags" packed andstrapped to the saddles by nine o'clock.F's horse looked a very nice one inevery respect; mine was evidentlyuneasy in his mind at the strange shapeof his saddle, and I was recommendedto mount outside the little enclosure,on a patch of open ground, where mysteed would not be able to brush me

off. The moment I mounted, the"Hermit" as he was called, made for adry ditch and tried to lie down, but asharp cut from a stock-whip broughthim out of it, and then he laid his earswell back and started for a good gallop,to endeavour to get rid of his strangerider. However, his head was turned inthe right direction; there were noobstacles in the way, and before he gottired of his pace we had left Timaru agood many miles behind us. F lookedcomplacently at the "Hermit," andobserved, "He'll carry you very nicely, Ithink." I could only breathe a sincerehope that he might.

It was a beautiful day, warm but not

oppressive, and delightfully calm. Ourroad lay at first along the sea-shore.Ever since we had left Christchurch theground had been almost level, and theroad consisted merely of a track clearedfrom tussocks. On our left extended thevast strip known as the Ninety-milesBeach, whilst far on our right, betweenus and the west coast, the SouthernAlps, rose in all their might and beauty,sometimes lightly veiled by a summerhaze, at others cutting our Italian-bluesky sharp and clear with their grandoutlines. Our horses were a trifle too fatfor good condition, and we feared tohurry them the first day, so we made anearly halt at Mahiki, only a twenty milesstage; but the next day they took us on

to Waitaki Ferry, past a splendid bush,and so into the heart of the hillcountry.

Between the ranges, beautiful fertilevalleys extended; when I say fertile, Imean that the soil was excellent, and theland well-grassed. But there was nocultivation. Not a sod had ever beenturned there since the creation of theworld, and the whole country wore thepeculiar yellow tinge caught from thetall waving tussocks, which is theprevailing feature of New Zealandscenery au naturel. Every acre had been"taken up," but as yet the runs wererather understocked. Our fourth day'sride was the longest,fifty-five miles in

all, though we halted for a couple ofhours at a miserable accommodationhouse. Our bivouac that night wasclose to Lake Wanaka, at the MolyneuxFerry-house, and there I was keptawake all night by the attentions of acat. I never saw such a ridiculousanimal. Prince, for that was his name,took the greatest fancy to me, or ratherto my woollen skirt I suppose, andfound a linsey lap much morecomfortable than the corduroy kneeson which he took his usual eveningnap. At all events he followed me intomy room, which only boasted of amattress, stuffed with tussock-grass bythe way, on the floor. Here I shouldhave slept very well after my long

journey, if Prince would havepermitted it. In vain I put him out ofthe window, not always very gently; hereturned in five minutes, bringing apalpitating, just-caught bird or mouse,which he softly dropped on my face,and purred loudly with delight at hisown gallantry. Twenty times did I strikea match that night and try to restore thevictims to life; only one recoveredsufficiently to be released, and Princebrought it in again, quite dead, fiveminutes later. I shut the little casementwindow, but the room became so hotand stuffy, and suspicious fumes ofstale beer and tobacco began to asserttheir presence, so that I found myselfobliged to open it again. Sometimes the

victim's bones were crunched close tomy ear, and I found more than onefeather in my hair in the morning.Never was any one so persecuted by acat as I was by Prince that weary night.

The next day we got to a station knownas "Johnson's." It was just at the headof the lake, and as we arrived tolerablyearly in the forenoon we embarked,after the usual station dinner ofmutton, tea, and damper, on LakeWanaka. Alas for those treacherousblue waters! We had only a little pair-oared boat, in which I took my place ascoxwain, and after pulling for a mile ortwo under a blazing sun, over shortchopping waves, with a head-wind, we

all became so deadly sea-sick that wehad to turn back! As soon as we hadrested and recovered, a council of warwas held as to our movements, and wedecided, in spite of our recentexperiences, to turn our horses, whohad done quite enough for the present,out on the run, and so make our waydown the lake by boat. Already F wasbeginning to look anxious, for heperceived that, even after the head ofthe lake had been reached, the woolwould cost an enormous sum to cartdown to either Oamaru or Timaru,from whence alone it could be shipped.

The mile or two of the run which layalong the shore of the lake showed us

frightfully rough country. A densejungle of tussocks and thorny busheschoked up the feed, and made itimpossible to drive any animalsthrough it, even supposing that goodpasturage lay beyond. Still we hopedthat we might be looking at the worstportion of our purchase, and determined to persevere in the attempt topenetrate to the furthest end of ournew property. Accordingly we hired asafe old tub of a boat which, thoughtoo heavy to pull, was warranted to sailsteadily, and with a couple of men,some cold mutton, bread, tea, andsugar, started valiantly on our cruise.But the "blue, unclouded weather," inwhich we had hitherto basked, was at

an end for the present. We had alreadyenjoyed a longer succession of calmdays than usually falls to the lot of thetravellers in that windy middle island,and it was now quite time for theimprisoned "nor'-wester" to have histurn over the surface of the domain.

Accordingly the first day's sail wasagainst a light, ominously warm head-wind, and we only made any way at allby keeping up a complicated system oftacking. The start had not been an earlyone, so darkness found us but littleadvanced on our voyage, and we passedthe night in a rough shanty, on beds offern-leaves, wrapped in our redblankets. Tired as we were, none of us

could sleep much. The air was dry andparched; every now and then a soughof the rising hot gale swept throughour crazy shelter without cooling us,and warned us to prepare for what wascoming. Our only chance of getting onwas to make an early start, forfortunately a true "nor'-wester" issomewhat of a sluggard. The skieswore their peculiar chrysoprase greentint, except towards the weather quarter,where heavy banks of lurid cloudshowed that the enemy was collectingin force. Even the hour of dawn,usually so crisp and cool, brought nosense of refreshment to our languidlimbs, and we embarked with the direstforebodings. A few miles further up the

lake we reached an out-station hut,built by our host Mr. Johnson when hefirst "took up" his country andintended to push his boundary as far asthis. He soon drew in his lines howeveron account of the rough nature of theground. The hut was in a mostpicturesque spot, and althoughdeserted, remained still in good repair.The little scrap of garden ground was atangle of gooseberry and currantbushes among which potatoesflourished at their own sweet will.

We had only time to beach the boat,that is to say F and the two men did so,whilst I ran backwards and forwardswith the blankets and provisions,

before the hurricane was upon us.Henceforth there was no stirring outof doors until the gale had blown itselfout. We dragged in some driftwood,barricaded the door, and prepared topass the time as well as we could. Oh,the fleas in the hut! The ground wasliterally alive with them, and theiraudacity and appetite was unparalleled.Our boatmen sat tranquilly by the tinywindow and played cribbageincessantly with very dirty cards and aboard made out of a small bar of soap.As for me, I turned an empty box upon its end, so as to get out of the wayof the fleas, and perched myself on it,finding ample occupation in defendingmy position from the attacks of the

active little wretches. Sometimes I felt asif I must rush out into the lake anddrown myself and my tormentorstogether. It was very bad for everybody.The poor boatmen doubtless wished tosmoke, but were too polite to doanything of the sort. F had nothingwhatever to read, except a torn piece ofan old Times, at least two years old,which we had brought to wrap upsome of our provisions; whilst I wasstill more idle and wretched. Two wearyinterminable days dragged, or perhaps Ishould say, blew, themselves along inthis miserable fashion, but at sundownon the evening of the third day thewind dropped suddenly, and we didnot lose a moment in darting out of

our prison and embarking once more.For the first time since we started wecould perceive the grandeur of thesurrounding country; but grandscenery is not necessary nor indeeddesirable in a sheep run. Splendidmountains ran down in steep spurs tothe very shore of the enormous lake.Behind them, piled in snowy steeps,rose the distant Alps of the Antipodes;great masses of native bush made darkpurple shadows among the clefts of thehills, whilst the lake rippled in and outof many a graceful bay and quietharbour. Not a fleck or film of cloudfloated between us and the serene anddarkening sky; a profound, delightfulcalm brooded over land and water.

Although there was no moon, the starsserved us as lights and compass untiltwo o'clock in the morning, by whichtime we had reached the head of thelake (which is thirty-five miles inlength), where we landed, extemporizeda tent out of the boat sail, and turnedin for a refreshing flea-less sleep.

The next day was beautifully still, with alight air from the opposite point, justsufficient to cool the parchedatmosphere; and we made our wayalong the head of the lake to a placewere a couple of sawyers were at work.One of them had brought his wife withhim, and her welcome to me was themost touching thing in the world. She

took me entirely under her care, andwould hardly let me out of her sight. Imust say it was very nice to be waitedon so faithfully, and I gave myself upto the unaccustomed luxury. All sherequired of me in exchange for herincessant toil on my behalf was "news."It did not matter of what kind, everyscrap of intelligence was welcome toher, and she refused to tell me to whatdate her "latest advices" extended.During the three days of our stay inthat clearing among the great pines ofthe Wanaka Bush, I gave my hostess acomplete abridgment of the history ofEngland political, social, and moral,beginning from my earliestrecollections. Then we ran over

contemporary foreign affairs, dweltminutely on every scrap of colonialnews, and finally wound up with a full,true, and particular account of myselfand all my relations and friends. WhenI paused for breath she would cease herwashing and cooking on my behalf,and say entreatingly, "Go on now, do!"until I felt quite desperate.

All this time whilst I was being"interviewed" nearly to death,Femployed himself in makingexcursions to different parts of the run.One of the sawyers lent him amiserable half-starved little pony; andhe penetrated to another sawyer's hut,seven miles distant up the Matukituki

river. But no matter whether he turnedhis steps to north or south, east orwest, he met with the samedisheartening report. There was theground indeed, but it was perfectlyuseless. Not only was there was nopasturage, but if there had been, thenature of the country would haverendered it valueless, on account of theway it was overgrown. It would betedious to explain more minutely whythis was the case. Sufficient must it beto say that whilst F was only tooanxious to keep his eyes shut as to theground he had alighted on after hisleap in the dark, and the sawyers wereequally anxious to induce settlers tocome there, and so bring a market for

their labour close to their hand nothingcould make our purchase appearanything except a dead loss. As for theplans, they were purely imaginary. Theblue lake was about the only part trueto nature; and even that should havehad a foot-note to state that it wasgenerally lashed into high, unnavigablewaves, by a chronic nor'-wester.

No: there was nothing for it but to gohome again to the little run which hadseemed such a mere paddock in oureyes, whilst we indulged in castle-building over 100,000 acres of country.It was of no use lingering amid suchdisappointment and discomfort;besides which my listener, the sawyer's

wife, had turned her husband andherself out of their hut, and weresleeping under a red blanket tent. Poorwoman, she was most anxious to getaway; and the lovely sylvan scene, withthe tall trees standing like sentinels overtheir prostrate brethren, the wealth ofbeauteous greenery, springing throughfronds of fern and ground creepers,the bright-winged flight of paroquetsand other bush birds, even the vastexpanse of the lake which stretchedalmost from their threshold for somany miles, all would have been gladlyexchanged for a dusty high street in anycountry town-ship. Her last wordswere, "Can't you send me a paper orhany thing printed, mam?" I faithfully

promised to do my best, and carriedout my share of the bargain bydespatching to her a large packet ofmiscellaneous periodicals andnewspapers; but whether she everreceived them is more than I can say.

We were afraid of lingering too long,lest another nor'-wester should becomedue; and we therefore started as soon asF had decided that it was of no useexploring our wretched purchase anyfurther. We had a stiff breeze from thenorth-west all the way down the lake;but as it was right a-stern it helped usalong to such good purpose, that oneday's sailing before it brought us backto Mr. Johnson's homestead and

comparative civilization. The littleparlour and the tiny bed-room beyond,into which I could only get access byclimbing through a window (for thearchitect had forgotten to put a door),appeared like apartments in a spaciouspalace, so great was the contrastbetween their snug comfort and thedesolate misery of our hut life. Ofcourse nothing else was talked ofexcept our disappointment at our newrun; and although Mr. Johnson hadindulged in forebodings, which wereonly too literally fulfilled, he had thegood taste never to remind us of hisprophecies.

"Of all the forms of human woe,

Defend me from that dread, 'I told youso.'"

After a day's halt and rest we mountedour much refreshed horses, and set ourfaces straight across country forDunedin. This is very easy to write, butit was not quite so easy to do. We couldonly ride for the first fifty-two miles,which we accomplished in two days.These stages brought us to the foot ofthe Dunstan Range, and near the gold-diggings of that name. I would fainhave turned aside to see them, but wehad not time. However, we felt theauriferous influence of the locality; fora perfect stranger came up to us, whilstwe were baiting at another place, called

the Kaiwarara diggings, and offered tobuy our horses from us for 30 poundseach, and also to purchase our saddlesand bridles at a fair price. This wasexactly what we wanted, as we hadintended to sell them at Dunedin; and Iwas no ways disinclined to part withthe Hermit; who retained the sulky,misanthropical temper which hadearned him his name. He was nowpronounced "fit to carry a lady," andpurchased to be sold again at thediggings. Whether there were any ladiesthere or not I cannot tell. Of course,before parting with our nags weascertained that the ubiquitous "Cobb'scoach" started from our resting placefor Dunedin next day, and we made the

rest of our journey in one of that well-known line. Its leathern springs, whilstnot so liable to break by sudden jolts,impart a swinging rocking motion tothe body of the vehicle, which is mostdisagreeable; but rough and rude asthey are, they deserve to be lookedupon with respect as the pioneers ofcivilization. All over America, Australia,and now New Zealand, the momenthalf-a-dozen passengers areforthcoming, that moment theenterprising firm starts a coach, and thevehicle runs until it is ousted by arailway. All previous tracks which I hadjourneyed over seemed smoothturnpike roads, compared to thatterrible tussocky track which led to

Dunedin.

But that bright little town was reachedat last, the hotel welcomed us, tired andbruised travellers that we were, andnext evening we started in the Geelongfor Port Lyttleton. This little coastingsteamer seemed to touch at everyhamlet along the coast, and after eachpause I had to begin afresh my agoniesof sea-sickness. There was no suchthing as getting one's sea-legs; for wewere seldom more than a few hoursoutside, and had no chance of gettingused to the horrible motion. Timaruwas reached next day, but we hadsuffered so frightfully during the nightfrom a chopping sea and an open

roadstead, that we went on shore, andentrusted ourselves once more to theold coach. It seemed better to endurethe miseries we knew of, than to makeexperiments in wretchedness. So wewent through the old jolting andjumbling until we were dropped at anaccommodation house, fifteen milesfrom Christchurch, where we slept thatnight, and at daylight despatched amessenger to the next station for ourown horses. He had only thirty-fivemiles to ride, and about mid-day westarted to meet him on hired horses,which we were very glad to exchangefor better nags a stage further on.

And so we rode quietly home in the

gloaming, winding up the lovely,tranquil valley, at whose head stood ourown snug little homestead. At first wewere so glad to be safely at hone againthat we scarcely gave a thought to ourfruitless enterprise; but as our bruisedbodies became rested and restored, ourhearts began to ache when we thoughtof the money we had so rashly flungaway in BUYING A RUN.

Chapter VIII: Looking for acongregation.

It is to be hoped and expected thatsuch a good understanding has been

established between my readers andmyself by this time, that they will notfind the general title of these papersunsuitable to the heading of thisparticular chapter. Indeed, I may trulysay, that, looking back upon the manyhappy memories of my three years lifein that lovely and beloved MiddleIsland, no pleasures stand out morevividly than my evening rides upwinding gullies or across low hill-ranges in search of a shepherd's hut, ora cockatoo's nest. A peculiar brightnessseems to rest on those sun-lit peaks ofmemory's landscape; and it is but fittingthat it should be so, for otherexcursions or expeditions used to beundertaken merely for business or

pleasure, but these deliciouswanderings were in search of scattereddwellings whose lonely inhabitantsfarremoved from Church privileges formany a long year pastmight be bidden,nay, entreated, to come to us on Sundayafternoons, and attend the Service weheld at home weekly.

And here I feel constrained to say aword to those whose eyes may haplyrest on my pages, and who may findthemselves in the coming years inperhaps the same position as I did ashort time ago. A new comer to a newcountry is sure to be discouraged if heor she (particularly she, I fancy) shouldattempt to revive or introduce any

custom which has been neglected oroverlooked. This is especially the casewith religious observances. At everyturn one is met by dishearteningwarnings. "Oh, the people here are verydifferent to those in the old country;they would look upon it asimpertinence if you suggested theyshould come to church." "You will finda few may come just at first, and thenwhen the novelty wears off and theyhave seen all the pretty things in yourdrawing room, not a soul will evercome near the place."

"If even the men don't say somethingvery free and easy to you when youinvite them to your house on Sunday

afternoons, you may depend upon itthat after two or three weeks you willnot know how to keep them in order."

Such, and many more, were thediscouraging remarks made when Iconsulted my neighbours about myplan for collecting the shepherds fromthe surrounding runs, and holding aChurch of England Service everySunday afternoon at our own littlehomestead. To my mind, the distancesseemed the greatest obstacle, as manyof the men I wanted to reach livedtwenty-five or even thirty miles away,with very rough country between. I hadno fear of impertinence, for it isunknown to me, and seldom comes, I

fancy, unprovoked; whilst with regardto the novelty wearing off and the menceasing to attend, that must be left inGod's hands. We could only endeavourto plant the good seed, and trust toHim to give the increase. It was a greatcomfort to me in those early days thatF, who had been many years in thecolony, never joined in thedisheartening prophecies I have alludedto. Although as naturally averse toreading aloud before strangers as a manwho had lived a solitary life would besure to be, he promised at once, with agood grace, to read the Evening Serviceand a sermon afterwards, and thussmoothed one difficulty over directly.His advice to me was precisely what I

would fain repeat: "Try, by all means: ifyou fail you will at least feel you havemade the attempt." May all who trysucceed, as we did! I believe firmly theywill, for it is an undertaking on whichGod's blessing is sure to rest, and thereare no such fertilizing dews as thosewhich fall from heaven. The mistsarising from earth are only miasmicvapours after all!

But I fear to linger too long on the end,instead of telling you about the means.

It was May when we were fairly settledin our new home at the head of a hill-encircled valley. With us that monthanswers to your November, but fogs

are unknown in that breezy MiddleIsland, and my first winter inCanterbury was a beautiful season,heralded in by an exquisite autumn.How crisp the mornings and eveningswere, with ever so light a film of hoarfrost, making a splendid sparkle onevery blade of waving tussock-grass!Then in the middle of the day thedelicious warmth of the sun temptedone to linger all day in the open air, andI never wearied of gazing at the strangepurple shadows cast by a passing cloud;or up, beyond the floating vapourouswreath, to the heaven of brilliant bluewhich smiled upon us. And yet, when Icome to think of it, I don't know that Ihad much time to spare for glancing at

either hills or skies, for we were justsettling ourselves in a new place, andno one knows what that means unlessthey have tried it, fifty miles away fromthe nearest shop. The yeast alone was aperpetual anxiety to me,it would notkeep beyond a certain time, and had atendency to explode its confiningbottles in the middle of the night, so itbecame necessary to make it in smallerquantities every ten days or so. If byany chance I forgot to remind myscatter-brained damsels to replenish theyeast bottles, they used up the last drop,and then would come smilingly to mewith the remark, "There aint not a dropo' yeast, about, anywhere, mum." Thisentailed flap-jacks, or scones, or soda

bread, or some indigestible compoundfor at least three days, as it was of nouse attempting to make proper breaduntil the yeast had worked. Then thewell needed to be deepened, a kitchengarden had to be made, shelter to beprovided for the fowls and pigs; a shedto be put up for coals; a thousandthings which entailed thought andtrouble, had to be done.

It is true these rough jobs were notexactly in my line, but indoors I wasjust as busy trying to make big things fitinto little spaces and vice versa. We couldnot afford to take things coolly and doa little every day, for at that time of yearan hour's change in the wind might

have brought a heavy fall of snow, or asharp frost, or a; deluge of rain downupon the uncovered and defencelessheads of our live stock. The poor dearsheep, the source of our income, wereafter all the least well-cared forcreatures on the Station. A well grassedand watered run, with sunny vallies forwinter feeding, and green hills forsummer pasturage, had been providedby antipodean Nature for them, and tothese advantages we only added sometwenty or twenty-five miles of wirefencing, and then they were left tothemselves, with a couple of shepherdsto look after fifteen thousand sheep allthe year round.

But yet, busy as we were, we foundtime to look up a congregation. Thevery first Sunday afternoon, whilst wewere still in the midst of a chaos ofchips and big boxes and straw andempty china-barrels, our ownshepherds came over, by invitation, andthe only very near neighbours we had aScotch head-shepherd and hischarming young wife,and we held aService in the half-furnished drawingroom. After it was ended we had a longtalk with the men, and they confessedthat they had enjoyed it very much, andwould like to come regularly. Whenquestioned as to the feasibility ofinducing others to join, they said that itmight be suggested to more than one

distant, lonely hill-shepherd, but hisuncontrollable shyness would probablyprevent his attendance.

"Jim Salter, and Joe Bennett, and a lotmore on 'em, would be glad enow tocome, if so be they could feel as howthey was truly wellcombe," said ourshepherd, Pepper, who prided himselfon the elegance and correctness of hisphraseology. He added, after a reflectivepause, turning bashfully away, "If so beas the lady would just look round andgive 'em a call, they'd be to bepersuaded belike."

So the scheme was Pepper's after all,you see. But this "looking round," to

which he alluded so airily, meantscrambling rides, varying from ten totwenty-eight miles in length, overbreak-neck country, and this on theslender chance of finding the men in-doors. Now a New Zealand shepherdalmost lives out on the hills, so theprospect of finding any of ourcongregation at home was slightindeed. However, as I said before, Fstood by me, and although we neitherof us could well spare the time, weagreed to devote two afternoons everyweek, so long as the fine open autumnweather, lasted, to making excursions insearch of back-country huts. There areno roads or finger posts or guides ofany sort in those distant places. When

we inquired what was the name of"Mills" shepherd (the masters arealways plain Smith or Jones, and theshepherds Mr., in the colonies) theanswer was generally very vague. "WiryBill, we mostly calls 'im; but I think I'veheerd say his rightful name was Mr.Pellet, mum. He's a little chap, as strongas the 'ouse," explained Pepper, whowas an incorrigible cockney, "and helives over there," pointing with histhumb to a mountain range behind us."He's in one of them blind gullies. Yougo along the gorge of the river till youcome to a saddle all over fern, and youdrop down that, and follow the best o'three or four tracts till you come to aswamp."

Here Pepper paused, in considerationof my face of horror; for if there wasone thing I dreaded more than anotherin those early days, it was a swamp.Steep hill sides, wide creeks, honey-combed flats, all came in, the day'sride,but a swamp! Ugh! the horribletreacherous thing, so green andinnocent looking, with here and there aquicksand or a peaty morass, in which,without a moment's warning, yourhorse sank up to his withers! It wasdreadful, and when we came to such aplace Helen used to stop dead short,prick her pretty ears well forward, and,trembling with fear and excitement, puther nose close to the ground, smelling

every inch, before she would place herfore foot down on it, jumping off itlike a goat if it proved insecure.Generally she crossed a swamp, by aseries of bounds in and out of flaxbushes; and hopeless indeed would amorass be without those green cities ofrefuge!

Horrible as a large swamp is howeverto a timid horsewoman, it is dear to theheart of a cockatoo. He gladly buys afreehold of fifty acres in the midst ofone, burns it, makes a sod fence, sownwith gorse seed a-top, all round hissection, drains it in a rough and readyfashion, and then the splendid fertilesoil which has been waiting for so

many thousand years, "brings forthfruit abundantly." Such enormousfields of wheat and oats and barley asyou come upon sometimes,with, alas,never a market near enough to enablethe plenteous crop to return sevenfoldinto its master's bosom!

I shall not inflict upon you adescription of all our rides in search ofmembers for our congregation. Two, inwidely differing directions, will serve asspecimens of such excursions. Inconsideration of my new-chumishness,F selected a comparatively easy track forour first ride. And yet, "bad was thebest," might surely be said of thatbreakneck path. What would an

English horse, or an English lady say, toriding for miles over a slippery windingledge on a rocky hill side, where a wallof solid mountain rose upperpendicularly on the right hand, andon the left a very respectable sized riverhurried over its boulders far beneaththe aerial path; yet this wascomparatively a safe track, andpresented but one serious obstacle,over which I was ruthlessly taken. It isperhaps needless to say we were ridingin single file, and equally unnecessary tostate that I was the last; for certainly weshould never have made much progressotherwise. Helen, my bay mare, wouldfollow her stable companion, on whichF was mounted, so that was the way we

got on at all.

A sudden sharp turn showed me whatappeared to be a low stone wallrunning own the spur of the mountain,right across our track, and I had alreadybegun to disquiet myself about thepossibility of turning back on such anarrow ledge, when I saw F's powerfulblack horse, with his ears well forward,and his reins, lying loose on his neck,make a sort of rush at the obstacle,climb up it as a cat would, stand for aninstant, exactly like a performing goat,with all four legs drawn closely togetherunder him, and then with a springdisappear on the other side. "This wall",I thought, "must be but loosely built,

for Leo has displaced some of thestones from its coping." Helen, prettydear, hurried after her friend and leader;and before I had time to realize whatshe was going to do, she was balancingherself on the crumbling summit ofthis stone wall (which was only thefreak of a landslip), and as it provedimpossible to remain there, perched likea bird on a very insecure branch,nothing remained except to gatherherself well together and jump off. Butwhat a jump! the ground fell sheer awayat the foot of the wall, and left a chasmmany feet wide, which the horse couldnot see until it had climbed to the topof the wall, and as turning back wasout of the question, the only alternative

was to give a vigorous bound on to thenarrow ledge beyond. Terrified as I felt,I luckily refrained from jerking Helen'shead, or attempting to guide her in anyway. The only chance of safety overNew Zealand tracks, or New Zealandcreeks, is to leave your horse entirely toitself. I have seen men who werereckoned good riders in England, getthe most ignominious tumbles from adisregard of this advice. An up-countryhorse knows perfectly well the onlysound spots in a swamp; or the onlysound part of a creek's banks. If hisrider persists in taking him over thelatter, where he himself thinks itnarrowest and safest, he is pretty sureto find the earth rotten and crumbling,

and to pay for his obstinacy by awetting; whilst in the case of a swampthe consequences are even moreserious, and the horse often gets badlystrained in floundering out of aquagmire.

But it was not all danger and difficulty,and the many varieties of scene in thecourse of a long ride constituted someof its chief charms. At first, perhaps,after we had left our own fair valleybehind, the track would wind throughthe gorge of a river, with loftymountains rising sheer up from thewater side. All here was sad and grey,and very solemn in its eternal silence,only made more intense by the ceaseless

monotonous roar of the ever-rushingwater. Then we would emerge on acresand acres of softly rolling downs,higher than the hillocks we call by thatname at home, but still marvellouslybeautiful in their swelling curves allfolding so softly into each other, anddotted with mobs of sheep, makingpastoral music to a flock-owner's ear.Over this sort of ground we couldcanter gaily along, with "Hector," F'spet colley, keeping close to the heels ofhis master's horse,for it is the worst ofbad manners in a colley to look at aneighbour's sheep. The etiquette inpassing through a strange run is for thedog to go on the off side of hismaster's horse, so that the sheep shall

not even see him; and this piece ofcourtly politeness Hector alwayspractised of his own accord.

A wire fence always proved a verytiresome obstacle, for horses have agreat dread of them, and will not beinduced to jump them on any account.If we could find out where the gatewas, well and good; but as it might behalf a dozen miles off, on one side orthe other, we seldom lost time orpatience in seeking it. When there wasno help for it, and such a fence had tobe crossed, the proceedings were,always the same. Fdismounted, andunfastened one of his stirrup leathers;with this he strapped the wires as firmly

as possible together, but if the fencehad been lately fresh-strained, it wassometimes a difficult task. Still hegenerally made one spot lower than therest, and over this he proceeded toadjust his coat very carefully; he thenvaulted lightly over himself, and callingupon me to aid by sundry flicks onLeo's flank, the horse would beinduced to jump over it. This wasalways a work of time and trouble, forLeo hated doing it, and would ratherhave leaped the widest winter creek,than jumped the lowest coat-coveredwire fence. Helen had to jump with meon her back, and without any friendlywhip to urge her, but except once,when she caught her hind leg in the

sleeve of the coat which was hangingover the fence, and tore it completelyout, she got over very well. Upon thatoccasion F had to carry his sleeve in hispocket until we reached the neat littleout-station hut, where Jim Salter lived,and where we were pretty sure to find ahousewife, for shepherds are as handyas sailors with a needle and thread.

I shall always believe that some bird ofthe air had "carried the matter" toSalter, because not only was he athome, and in his Sunday clothes, but hehad made a cake the evening before,and that was a very suspiciouscircumstance. However we pretendednot to imagine that we were expected,

and Jim pretended with equal successto be much surprised at our visit, soboth sides were satisfied. Nothingcould be neater than the inside of thelittle hut; its cob walls papered with,old Illustrated London News,not onlypictures but letter-press,its tiny windowas clean as possible, a new sheep-skinrug laid down before the openfireplace, where a bright wood fire wassputtering and cracking cheerily, andthe inevitable kettle suspended from ahook half-way up the low chimney.Outside, the dog-kennels had beennewly thatched with tohi grass, thegarden weeded and freshly dug, thechopping-block and camp-oven asclean as scrubbing could make them. It

was too late in the year for fruit, butSalter's currant, raspberry, andgooseberry bushes gave us a good ideaof how well he must have fared in thesummer. The fowls were just devouringthe last of the green-pea shoots, andthe potatoes had been blackened by ourfirst frosts.

It was all very nice and trim andcomfortable, except the loneliness; thatmust have been simply awful. It isdifficult to realise how completely cutoff from the society of his kind a NewZealand up-country shepherd is,especially at an out-station like this.Once in every three months he goesdown to the homestead, borrows the

pack horse, and leads it up to his hut,with a quarter's rations of flour, tea,sugar and salt; of course he provideshimself with mutton and firewood, andhis simple wants are thus supplied.After shearing, about January, his wagesare paid, varying from 75 pounds to100 pounds a year, according to thelocality, and then he gets a week's leaveto go down to the nearest town. If hebe a prudent steady man, as our friendSalter was, he puts his money in thebank, or lends it out on a freeholdmortgage at ten per cent., onlydeducting a few pounds from hiscapital for a suit of clothes, a couple ofpair of Cookham boots for hillwalking, and above all, some new

books.

Without any exception, the shepherds Icame across in New Zealand were allpassionately fond of reading; and theywere also well-informed men, whooften expressed themselves in excellent,through superfine, language. Theirlibraries chiefly consisted of yellow-covered novels, and out of my visits insearch of a congregation grew ascheme for a book-club to supplysomething better in the way ofliterature, which was afterwards mostsuccessfully carried out. But of this Ineed not speak here, for we are stillseated inside Salter's hut,so small in itsdimensions that it could hardly have

held another guest. Womanlike, my eyeswere everywhere, and I presently spiedout an empty bottle, labelled"Worcestershire Sauce."

"Dear me, Salter," I cried, "I had noidea you were so grand as to havesauces up here: why we hardly ever usethem." "Well, mum," replied Salter,bashfully, and stroking his long blackbeard to gain time to select the grandestwords he could think of, "it is hardly tobe regarded in the light of happetite,that there bottle, it is more in the natureof remedies." Then, seeing that I stilllooked mystified, he added, "You see,mum, although we gets our 'elthuncommon well in these salubrious

mountings, still a drop of physic isoften handy-like, and in a general way Ialways purchase myself a box ofHolloway's Pills (of which you do getsuch a lot for your money), and also abottle of pain-killer; but last shearingthey was out o' pain-killer, they said, sothey put me up a bottle o' Cain pepper,and likewise that 'ere condiment, whichwas werry efficacious, 'specially towardsthe end o' the bottle!" "And do youreally mean to say you drank it, Salter?"I inquired with horror.

"Certainly I do, mum, whenever I feltout o' sorts. It always took my mindoff the loneliness, and cheered me upwonderful, especial if I hadded a little

red pepper to it," said Salter, getting upfrom his log of wood and making me alow bow. All this time F and I wereseated amicably side by side on poorSalter's red blanket-covered "bunk," orwooden bedstead, made of emptyflour-sacks nailed between rough poles,and other sacks filled with tussockgrass for a mattress and pillow.

The word loneliness gave me a goodopening to broach the subject of ourSunday gatherings, and my suspicionsof Jim's having been told of our visitwere confirmed by the alacrity withwhich he said, "I have much pleasure inaccepting your kind invitation, mum, ifso be as I am not intruding."

"No, indeed Salter," F said; "you'd bevery welcome, and you could alwaysturn Judy into the paddock whilst wewere having service."

Now if there was one thing dearer toSalter's heart than another, it was hislittle roan mare Judy: her excellentcondition, and jaunty little hog-maneand tail, testified to her master's lovingcare. So it was all happily settled, andafter paying a most unfashionably longvisit to the lonely man, we rode awaywith many a farewell nod and smile. Imay say here that Salter was one of themost regular of our congregation formore than two years, besides being a

member of the book club. In time, itsmore sensible volumes utterly displacedthe yellow paper rubbish in his butlibrary, and I never can forget the poorman's emotion when he came to bid megood-bye.

At my request he made the rough littlepen and ink sketches which are heregiven, and as he held my offered hand(not knowing quite what else to dowith it) when I took leave of him afterour last home-service, when my facewas set towards England, he could notsay a word. The great burly creature'sheart must have been nearly as big ashis body, and he seemed hardly toknow that large tears were rolling down

his sunburnt face and losing themselvesin his bushy beard. I tried to becheerful myself, but he kept repeating,"It is only natural you should be glad togo, yet it is very rough upon us." Invain I assured him I was not at all gladto go,very, very sorry, in fact: all hewould say was, "To England, home andbeauty, in course any one would bepleased to return." I can't tell you whathe meant, and he had no voice to wasteon explanations; I only give poor dearJim's valedictory sentences as they fellfrom his white and trembling lips.

Very different was Ned Palmer, themost diminutive and wiry of hillshepherds, with a tongue which seemed

never tired, and a good humouredsmile for every one. Ned used to try mygravity sorely by stepping up to me halfa dozen times during the service, tofind his place for him in his Prayer-book, and always saying aloud, "Thankyou kindly, m'm."

Chapter IX: Another shepherd's hut.

To get to Ned's hutwhich was notnearly so trim or comfortable as Salter's,and stood out in the midst of a vastplain covered with waving yellowtussocks,we had to cross a low range ofhills, and pick our way through nearly a

mile of swampy ground on the otherside. The sure-footed horses zig-zaggedtheir way up the steep hill-side withastonishing ease, availing themselveshere and there of a sheep track, forsheep are the best engineers in theworld, and always hit off the safest andeasiest line of country. I did not feelnervous going up the hill, although wemust have appeared, had there been anyone to look at us, more like flies on awall than a couple of people on horseback, but when we came to the ridgeand looked down on the descentbeneath us, my heart fairly gave way.

Not a blade of grass, or a leaf of ashrub, was to be seen on all the steep

slope, or rather precipice, for there wasvery little slope about it; nothing butgrey loose shingle, which the first hoof-fall of the leading horse invariably sentslipping and sliding, in a perfectavalanche of rubble, down into thesoft bright green morass beneath. Ofall the bad "tracks" I encountered in myprimitive rides, I really believe Isuffered more real terror and anguishon that particular hill-side than on anyother. My companion's conduct too,used to be heartless in the extreme. Helet the reins fall loosely on his horse'sneck, merely holding their extremeends, settled himself comfortably in hissaddle, leaning well back, and turninground laughingly to me, observed,

"Aren't you coming?" "Oh, not there," Icried in true melo-dramatic tones ofhorror; but it was all in vain, F merelyremarked "You have nothing to do butfancy you are sitting in an arm-chair athome, you are quite as safe." "Whatnonsense," I gasped. "I only wish I wasat home: never, never will I come outriding again." All this time the leadinghorse was slowly and carefully edginghimself down hill a few steps to theright, then a few to the left, just as hethought best, displacing tons of loosestone and even small rocks at everymovement. Helen, nothing daunted,was eager to follow, and although shequivered with excitement at the noise,echoed back from the opposite hills,

lost no time in preparing to descend.Her first movement sent such showersof rubble down upon F and his horse,that I really thought the latter wouldhave been knocked off his legs. "If youcould keep a little more to the right, so asto send the stones clear of me, I shouldbe very grateful," shouted F, who wasactually near the bottom of the hillalready, so sharp had been the angles ofhis horse's descent. I felt afraid ofattempting to guide Helen, lest the leastcheck should send us both head overheels into the quagmire below, and yetit seemed dreadful to cause the deathof one's husband by rolling down cartloads of stones upon him. It could nothave been more than five minutes

before Helen and I stood side by sidewith Leo, on the only bit of firmground at the edge of the morass. Ibelieve I was as white as my pockethandkerchief; and if fright could turn aperson's hair grey, I had beensufficiently alarmed to make myselfeligible for any quantity of walnutpomade.

Fortunately the summer had provedrather a dry one, and the swamp wasnot so wet as it would have been after aheavy rain-fall. The horses steppedcarefully from flax bushes to "niggerheads" (as the very old blackened grassstumps are called), resting hardly amoment anywhere, and avoiding all the

most seductive looking spots. I thoughtmy companion must have gonesuddenly mad, when, a hawk rising upalmost from beneath our horses' feet,he flung himself off his saddle andcried out, "A late hawk's nest, Ideclare!" And so it proved, for a littlesearching in a sheltered and tolerablydry spot revealed a couple of eggs,precisely like hens' eggs, until broken,when their delicate pale green innermembrane betrayed their dangerousorigin. It is chiefly owing to thispractice of laying in swamps that thevarious kinds of hawk increase andthrive as they do, for if it were possibleto get at them, the shepherds wouldsoon exterminate the sworn foe of

their chickens and pigeons. They arealso the great drawback to theintroduction of pheasants andpartridges, for the young birds have nota chance in the open against even asparrow-hawk.

Although it is a digression, I must tellyou here how, one beautiful earlywinter's day, I was standing in theverandah at my own home, when oneof our pigeons, chased by a hawk, flewright into my face and its pursuer wasso close and so heated by the chase,that it flung itself also with greatviolence against my head, with a screamof rage and triumph, hurting me agood deal as it dug its cruel, armed heel

into my cheek. The pigeon hadfluttered, stunned and exhausted to theground, and, quick as lightning Istooped to pick it up; so great had beenthe impetus of the hawk's final chargethat he had never perceived his victimhad escaped him. The cunning of thesebirds must be seen to be believed. Ihave often watched a wary old hawkperched most impudently on the stock-yard rails, waiting until a rash chickenor duckling should, in spite of itsmother's warning clucks of terror,insist on coming out from under hersheltering wings. If I took an umbrella,or a croquet mallet, or a walking stick,and went out, the bird would remainquite unmoved, even if I held my

weapon pointed gun-wise towards him.But let anyone take a real gun and holdit ever so well hidden behind theirback, and emerge ever so cautiouslyfrom the shelter of the shrubs, my finegentleman was off directly, mountingout of sight with a few strokes of hispowerful wings, and uttering a shriekof derision as he departed. Nothing isso rare as a successful shot at a hawk.

We consoled ourselves however on thisoccasion, by reflecting that we hadannihilated two young hawks beforethey had commenced their lives ofrapine and robbery, and rode on ourway rejoicing, to find Ned Palmersitting outside his but door on a log of

drift wood, making, candles. In themore primitive days of the settlement,the early settlers must have been asbadly off for light, during the long darkwinter evenings, as are even now thepoorer inhabitants of Greenland or ofIceland, for their sole substitute forcandles consisted of a pannikin halffilled with melted tallow, in which apiece of cork and an apology for awick floated. But by my time all thishad long been past and over, and even aback-country shepherd had a nice tinmould in which he could make a dozencandles of the purest tallow at a time.

Ned was just running a slender pieceof wood through the loops of his

twisted cotton wicks, so as to keepthem above the rim of the mould, andthe strong odour of melted mutton fatwas tainting the lovely fresh air. ButNew Zealand run-holders have often toput up with queer smells as well assights and sounds, therefore we onlycomplimented Ned on being providentenough to make a good stock ofcandles before-hand, for homeconsumption, during the coming darkdays. After we had dismounted andhobbled our horses with the stirrupleathers, so that they could move aboutand nibble the sweet blue grassgrowing under each sheltering tussock,I sat down on a large stone near, andbegan to tell Ned how often I had

watched the negroes in Jamaica makingcandles after a similar fashion, only theyuse the wax from the wild bee nestsinstead of tallow, which was a rare andscarce thing in that part of the world. Idescribed to him the thick orange-coloured wax candles which used to bethe delight of my childhood, giving outa peculiar perfuming odour after theyhad been burning for an hour ortwo,an odour made up of honey andthe scent of heavy tropic flowers.

Ned listened to my little story withmuch politeness, and then, feeling itincumbent on him to contribute to theconversation, remarked, "I never makescandles ma'am without I thinks of

frost-bites."

"How is that, Palmer?" I asked,laughingly. "What in the world havethey to do with each other?"

"Well, ma'am, you see it was just in thisway. It was afore I come here, which isquite a lively, sociable place comparedto Dodson's back country out-station,at the foot o' those there rangesbeyond. I give you my word, ma'am, itused always to make me feel as if I wasdead, and living in a lonely eternity.Them clear, bright-blue glassers (glaciers,he meant, I presume) was awfullonesome, and as for a human beingthey never come a-nigh the place. Well

as I was saying, ma'am, one day I findsI had run out o' candles, and as thelong dark evenings (for it was theheight o' winter) was bad enough, evenwith a dip burning, to show me oldSpot's face for company, I set to work,hot haste, to make some more. It wasbitter, biting cold, you bet, ma'am; and Iwas hard at work just after I had had mybit o' breakfast, before I went out for tolook round my boundarymelting andmaking my dips, so that they might befine and hard for night. I ought prapsto mention that Spot used to get soclose to the fire-place, that as often asnot, I dropped a mossel of the hotgrease on the dog; and if it touched athin place in his coat, he would jump

up howling. Well, ma'am, I was pouringa pannikin full o' biling tallow into themould, when poor old Spot he gives asudden howl and yell, and runs to thedoor. I paid no attention to him at thetime, for I was so busy; but he went onleaping up and howling as if he hadgone mad. As soon as I could putdown the pannikin out o' my hand, Iwent to the door meaning to open itand,sorry am I to say it,kick the poorbeast out for making such a row abouta drop o' hot grease. But the dogturned his face round on me, and gaveme a look as much as to say, 'Makehaste, do; there's a good chap: I oughtto be outside there.' And what with thesense shinin' in his eyes, and a curious

kind o' sound outside, I takes down thebar (for the door wouldn't stay shutotherwise), and looks out. Never untilmy dyin' day, and not even then, Iexpect, shall I forget what the dog and Isaw lying on the ground, which was allwhite and hard with frost, the sun nothaving got over the East range yet. Thedog he had more sense and a deal morepluck than I had, for he knows thereaint a moment to be lost; and he runsup to the flat, tumbled-down heap o'clothes, gets on its back (for no facecould I see), so as to be doingsomething, and not losing time, andbegins licking. Not very far off therewas a lean horse standing, but he didn'tseem to like to come through the slip-

rail o' the paddock fence.

"In coorse I couldn't stand gaping thereall day, so I went and stooped down tothe man, who was lying flat on his face,with his arms straight out. He wasn'tsensibleless (Palmer's favourite wordfor senseless), for he opened his eyes,and said, "For God's sake, mate, takeme in." "So I will, mate," I makes reply"and welcome you are. Can you get onyour legs, think you?" With that hegroans awful, and says, "My legs is friz."Well, I looks at his legs, and sees he wasdressed in what had been goodmoleskins, and high jack riding-boots,coming up to his knees; but sureenough they was as hard as a board,

and actially, if you'll believe me, ma'am,there was a rim o' solid hice round thetops of his boots. As for standing, hecouldn't do it: his legs was no more useto him than they was to me, and he wasa tall, high fellow besides. Cold as itwas, I felt hot enough by the time I hadlugged that poor man inside my place,and got him up on my bunk. He couldspeak, though his voice was weak asweak could be, and he helped me aswell as he could by catching hold withhis arms, but his legs was stone dead. Ihad to get the tommy (anglice-tomahawk), and chop his boots off, andthat's the gospel truth, ma'am. I brokemy knife, first try, and the axe was toobig. He told me, poor fellow, that two

days before, as he was returning fromprospecting up towards the backranges, his horse got away, and hecouldn't catch him. No: he tried with allhis might and main, for in his swag,which was strapped to the D's of hissaddle, was not only his blanket, but hisbaccy, and tea, and damper, and a glasso' grog. The curious thing, too, was thatthe horse didn't bolt right away, as theygenerally do: he jest walked a-head,knowing his master was bound tofollow wherever he led, for in coorse hehad hopes to catch him every moment.That ere brute, he never laid down norrested,jest kep slowly moving on, as ifhe was a Lunnon street-boy, with abobby at his heels. Through creeks and

rivers and swamps he led that poorfellow. His boots got chuck full o' coldwater, and when the sun went down itfriz into solid hice; and that misfortnitman he felt his legswhich was his life,you see, ma'amgradially dyin' underhim. Yet he was a well-plucked one, ifever there was such a party on thisairth. He told me he had took fivemortial hours to come the last mile, thehorse walkin' slowly afore him, andguiding him like. And how do youthink he did it, with two pillars of hicefor legs? Why he lifted up just one legand then the other with both his hands,and put them afore him, and took hissteps that way."

Here honest Ned, his eyes glistening,and his ugly little face glowing withemotion through its coating ofsunburn, paused, as if he did not liketo go on.

I was more touched and interested thanI could avoid showing, and cried, "Oh,do tell me, Palmer, what became of thepoor fellow! Did he die?"

Ned cleared his throat, and moved soas to get between me and the light fromthe door, as he said huskily, "He camevery nigh to it, ma'am. I never did seteyes on such a decent patient chap asthat man was. I did the very wust thingI could a' done, the town doctors told

me, for I brought him into the hut,instead o' keeping him outdoors andrubbing his poor black legs with snow.'Stead o' that, I wrapped him up warmin my own blankets, after I had chippedhis boots and the hice off of 'em, and Imade up a roarin' fire. Good Lord, howthe poor fellow groaned when hebegun to get warm! I gave him apannikin full o' hot tea, with a drop o'grog in it, and that seemed to make himawful bad. At last he said, with thesweat from sheer agony pouring downhis face, "Look here, matey: couldn'tyou hump me out in the snow again?for it aint nigh so bad to bear it cold asit is to bear it hot." Not a bad word didhe say, ma'am, and he tried not to give

in more nor he could help; but he wasclean druv wild with the hanguish inhis legs.

"Presently I remembers, quite suddenlike, that a bush doctor, name ofTomkins, was likely to be round bySimmons, cos' o' his missus. So I goton my 'oss in a minnit, and I rides offand fetches him, for sure enough hewas there; and though Simmons' missiswasn't to say over her troubles, shespoke up from behind the curtain ofred blanket she had put up in her tidylittle hut, and bade old Tomkins gowith me. May God bless her and hersfor that same, say I! Well, ma'am, whenTomkins come back with me and saw

the poor fellow (he was fair shoutin'with the pain in his legs by then), hesaid nothin' could be done. "They'llmortify by morrow mornin'," says he,"and then he'll die easy." So with thathe goes back with the first light nextday, to Simmons. Sure enough, thepoor fellow did get a bit easier next day,and I felt clear mad to think he wasgoin' to die before my very eyes. "Notif I can help it!" I cries, quite savagelike. But he only smiled a patient smile,and said, "God's will be done, mate. Heknows best, and I aint in any pain tospeak of, now."

"By and bye I hears a rumbling and acreaking, and cracking of whips; and

when I looks out, what do I see but thebullock-dray from Simmons' comingup the flat. It was the only thing onwheels within forty mile, and Simmonshad brought it his own self to see if wecouldn't manage to get the poor fellowdown to the nighest town. I won'tmake my yarn no longer than I canhelp, ma'am, so I'll only mention thatwe made a lot o' the strongest muttonbroth you ever tasted; we slung ahammock of red blankets in the dray,and we got the poor fellow down byevening to a gentleman's station. Therethey made us kindly welcome, did allthey could for him, and transhipped thehammock into a pair-horse dray, whichwent quicker and was easier. We got on

as fast as we could every step of theway, and by midnight that poor fellowwas tucked into a clean bed in thehospital at Christchurch, with both hislegs neatly cut off just above the knee,for there wasn't a minute to lose."

I was almost afraid to inquire how thesufferer fared, for Ned's eyes were fairlyswimming with unshed tears; but hesmiled brightly, and said, "The ladiesand gentlemen in the town, they set upa subscribetion, and bought the poorchap a first-rate pair o' wooden legs,and he could even manage to rideabout after a bit; and instead o'wandering about looking for country,or gold, or what not, he settled down as

a carrier, and throve and did well. AndI was thinking, ma'am, as how I'd liketo return thanks for that poor fellow'swonderful recovery, for I've never had achance of going to Church since, andits nigh upon two years ago that ithappened."

"So you shall, Ned: so you shall!" wesaid with one voice. And so at our firstChurch gathering at our dear littleantipodean home, F, who acted as ourminister, paused in the beautifulThanksgiving Service, after he had readsolemnly and slowly the simple words,"Especially for Thy late merciesvouchsafed to ," and Ned Palmerchimed in with an "Amen,"misplaced,

indeed, but none the less hearty, anddelightful to hear.

Chapter X: Swaggers.

Dr. Johnson did not know thesomewhat vulgar word which headsthis paper. At least he did not know itas a noun, but gives "swagger: v.n., tobluster, bully, brag;" but the SlangDictionary admits it as a word,springing indeed from the thieves'vocabulary: "one who carries a swag."Neither of these books however givethe least idea of the true meaning ofthe expression, which is as fully

recognised as an honest word in bothAustralia and New Zealand as any othercombination of letters in the Englishlanguage. A swagger is the veryantithesis then of a swaggerer, for,whereas, the one is full of pretensionand abounds in unjust claims on ournotice, the swagger is humility andcivility itself. He knows, poor wearytramp, that on the favourableimpression he makes upon the "boss,"depends his night's lodging and food,as well as a job of work in the future.We will leave then the ideal swaggererto some other biographer who maydraw glowing word-pictures of him inall his jay's splendour, and we willconfine ourselves to describing the real

swagger, clad in flannel shirt, moleskintrowsers, and what were once thickboots, but might now be used as sieves.

Nothing astonished me so much in myNew Zealand Station Life as thesevisitors. Even Sir Roger de Coverleyhimself would have looked withdistrust upon most of our swagger-guests, and yet I never heard of aninstance in our part of the countrywhere the unhesitating, ungrudginghospitality extended by the richsquatters to their poorer compatriotswas ever abused. I say "in our part,"because unfortunately, wherever gold isdiscovered, either in quartz or riverbed,the good old primitive customs and

ways die out of themselves in a fewweeks, and each mammon-seeker lookswith distrust on a stranger. Only fifty orsixty miles from us, as the crow mightfly across the snowy range, where animmense Bush clothes the banks of theHokitika river right down to its sand-filled mouth on the West Coast, thegreat gold diggings broke out seven oreight years ago, and changed the face ofsociety in that district in a few days.There a swagger meant a man whomight rob or murder you in your sleepafter you had fed and lodged him;orunder the most favourablecircumstances supposing him to be a"milder mannered man,"a "fossicker,"who would not hesitate to "jump your

claim," or hang about when you areprospecting, to watch how much of thecolour you found, and then go offstealthily to return next day at the headof a "rush" of a thousand diggers.

Even before the famous Maungatapumurders in 1866, swaggers were lookedupon with distrust on the West Coast,and after that date hardly any onetravelled in those parts without carryinga small revolver in his breast-pocket.Nothing is more tantalising than anallusion to a circumstance which is notwell-known; and as I feel certain thatvery few of my readers have ever heardof what may be called the first greatcrime committed in the Middle Island,

a brief account of that terrible tragedymay not be out of place. Gold ofcourse was at the bottom of it, but thecanvas-bags full of the glittering flakeswere red with blood by the time theyreached the bank at Nelson. Thediggings on the West Coast were onlytwo years old at that date, and althoughit was not uncommon for prospectingparties cutting their way, axe in hand,through the thick bush, to come uponskeletons of men in lonely places, still itmight be taken for granted that thesewere the remains of early explorers ortravellers who had got lost and starvedto death within the green tangled wallsof this impenetrable forest. The sceneryof that part of the Middle Island is far

more beautiful than in the agriculturalor pastoral districts. Giant Alps clothedhalf up their steep sides with evergreenpines,whose dark forms end abruptlywhere snow and ice begin,stand outagainst a pure sky of more than Italianblue, and only when a cleared saddle isreached can the traveller look downover the wooded hills and vallies rollingaway inland before him, or turn hiseyes sea-ward to the bold coast with itsmany rivers, whose wide mouths foamright out to where the great Pacificwaves are heaving under the brightwinter sun.

Such, and yet still more fair must havebeen the prospect on which Burgess,

Kelly, Levy, and Sullivan's eyes restedone June morning in the mid-winter of1866. They were, one and all, originallyLondon thieves, and had beentransported years before to the earlypenal settlements of Australia. Fromthence they had managed, by fair meansand foul, to work their way to otherplaces, and had latterly been living inthe Middle Island, earning what theycould by horse-breaking and divers oddjobs. But your true convict hates workwith a curiously deadly hatred, andthese four men agreed to go and lookround them at the new West Coastdiggings. They found, however, thatthere, as elsewhere, it would benecessary to work hard, so in disgust at

seeing the nuggets and dust whichrewarded the toil of more industriousmen, they left Hokitika and reachedNelson on their way to Picton, thechief town of the adjoining provinceof Marlborough. Most of the goldfound its way under a strongly armedescort to the banks in both these towns,but it was well-known that fortunatediggers occasionally travelled together,unarmed, and laden with "dust." Sosafe had been the roads hitherto, thatthe commonest precautions were nottaken, nor the least secrecy observedabout travellers' movements.

It was therefore no mystery that fourunarmed diggers, carrying a

considerable number of ounces ofgold-dust with them, were going tostart from the Canvas-town diggingsfor Nelson on a certain day, and themen I have mentioned set out to meetthem. One part of their long journeyled them over the Maungatapu range bya saddle, which in its lowest part is2,700 feet above the sea-level. The nightbefore the murder, the victims and theirassassins camped out with only tenmiles between them. So lonely anddeserted was the rough mountain track,that the appearance of a poor old mannamed Battle alarmed Burgess and hisgang dreadfully, and they immediatelymurdered him, in order that he shouldnot report having passed them on the

road. Between the commission of thisact of precaution and the arrival of thelittle band of travellers, no one else wasseen. Burgess appears to have shownsome of the qualities of a goodgeneral; for he selected a spot where theonly path wound along a steep side-cutting, less than six feet wide, with anunbroken forest on the upper, and amass of tangled bush on the lower side.As the doomed men approached themurderers sprang out, and eachthrusting a revolver close to their faces,called on them "to hold up theirhands." This is an old bushrangerchallenge, and is meant to ensureperfect quiescence on the part of thevictim. The travellers mechanically

complied, and in this way were instantlyseparated, led to different spots, andruthlessly shot dead.

It was all over in a moment: Burgessand his men flung the bodies downamong the tangled bush, and returnedto Nelson rejoicing exceedingly over thesimple and easy means by which theyhad possessed themselves of severalhundred pounds. Of course theycalculated on the usual supineindifference to other people's affairs,which prevails in busy gold-seekingcommunities; but in this instance thepublic seemed to be suddenly seized bya violent and inconvenient curiosity tofind out what had become of the four

men who were known to have startedfrom Canvas-town two or three daysbefore. No one ever dreamed of amurder having been committed, noteven when another "swagger" reachedNelson and stated that he had followedthe diggers on the road, only a mile orso behind, had suddenly lost sight ofthem at the spot I have mentioned, andhad never been able to overtake them.Instead of leaving the now excited littletown, or keeping quiet, Burgess, Kelly,Levy, and Sullivan, may truly be said tohave become "swaggerers;" for theyloitered about the place, ostentatiouslydisplaying their bags of gold dust.Unsuspicious as the Nelson peoplewere, they acted upon a sort of

instinct,that instinct within us whichanswers so mysteriously to the cry ofblood from the earth,and arrested thesefour men. Still, the matter might haveended there for lack of a clue, if oneof the party, Sullivan, had not suddenlyturned informer, and led the horrifiedtown's-people to the jungle whichconcealed the bodies. Here my dreadfulstory may end; for we need not followthe course of the trial, which resultedin the complete conviction of the threeother men. I have only dwelt on sohorrible a theme in order to make myreaders understand how natural it wasthat I should feel nervous, when itbecame apparent to my understandingthat the custom of the country

demanded that you should ask noquestions, but simply tell any travellerswho claimed your hospitality wherethey were to sleep, and send them inlarge supplies of mutton, flour, and tea.

On one occasion it chanced that F, ourstalwart cadet Mr. A , and the man whodid odd jobs about the place, were allon the point of setting out upon someexpedition, when a party of fourswaggers made their appearance just atsundown. No true swagger everappears earlier, lest he might be politelyrequested to "move on" to the nextstation; whereas if he times his arrivalexactly when "the shades of night arefalling fast," no boss could be hard-

hearted enough to point to mist-covered hills and valleys, which are anet-work of deep creeks and swamps,and desire the wayfarer to go onfurther. Once, and only once, did Iknow of such a thing being done; but Iwill not say more about thatunfortunate at this moment, for I wantto claim the pity of all my lady readersfor the very unprotected position I amtrying to depict. F could notunderstand my nervousness, and didnot reassure me by saying, as hemounted his horse, "I've told them tosleep in the stable. I am pretty sure theyare run-away sailors, they seem sofootsore. Good-bye! don't expect meuntil you see me!"

Now I was a very new chum in thosedays, and had just heard of theMaungatapu murders. These guests ofmine looked most disreputable, andwere all powerful young men. I do notbelieve there was a single lock or boltor bar on any door in the whole of thelittle wooden house: the large plate-chest stood outside in the verandah,and my dressing-case could have beencarried off through the ever-openbedroom window by an enterprisingthief of ten years old. As for my twomaids,the only human beings withinreach,they were as perfectly useless onany emergency as if they had been waxdolls. One of them had the habit of

fainting if anything happened, and theother used to tend her until she revived,when they both sat still and shrieked.Their nerves had once been tested by acarpenter, who was employed about thehouse, and cut his hand badly; onanother occasion by the kitchenchimney which took fire; and that wasthe way they behaved each time. So itwas useless to look upon their presenceas any safeguard; indeed one of themspeedily detected a fancied likeness toBurgess in one of the poor swaggers,and shrieked every time she saw him.

We were indeed three "lone, 'lornwomen," all through that weary night. Icould not close my eyes; but laid awake

listening to the weka's shrill call, or themelancholy cry of the bitterns down inthe swamp. With the morning lightcame hope and courage; and I must sayI felt ashamed of my suspicions whenmy cook came to announce that the"swaggers was just agoin' off, andwishful to say good-bye. They've beenand washed up the tin plates andpannikins and spoons as clean as cleancan be; and the one I thought favouredBurgess so much, mum, he's been anddraw'd water from the well, all that weshall want to-day; and they're very civil,well-spoken chaps, if you please,mum!" F was right in his surmise, Ifancy; for there were plenty of tattooedpictures of anchors and ships on the

brawny bare arms of my departingguests. They seemed muchdisappointed to find there was no workto be had on our station; but departed,with many thanks and blessings, "overthe hills and far away."

Latterly, with increasing civilization andcorresponding social economy, therehave been many attempts made by new-fangled managers of runs, more thanby the run-holders themselves, toinduce these swaggers to work for theirtucker,to use pure colonial phraseology.Several devices have been tried, such astaking away their swags (i.e., their redblankets rolled tightly into a sort ofpack, which they carry on their backs,

and derive their name from), andlocking them up until they hadchopped a small quantity of wood, orperformed some other trifling domesticduty. But the swagger will be led,though not driven, and what he oftendid of his own accord for the sake of anod or a smile of thanks from mypretty maid-servants, he would not dofor the hardest words which ever cameout of a boss's mouth. There are alsostrict rules of honesty observed amongthese men, and if one swagger were topurloin the smallest article from astation which had fed and shelteredhim, every other swagger in all thecountry side would immediatelybecome an amateur detective to make

the thief give up his spoil. A pair ofold boots was once missing from aneighbouring station, and suspicion fellupon a swagger. Justice was perhapssomewhat tardy in this instance, as itrested entirely in the hands of everytramp who passed that way; but at theend of some months the boots werefound at home, and the innocence ofthe swaggers, individually andcollectively, triumphantly established.

The only instance of harshness to aswagger which came under my noticeduring three years residence in NewZealand, is the one I have alluded toabove, and contains so much dramaticinterest in its details, that it may not be

out of place here.

Although I have naturally dwelt inthese papers more upon our brightsunny weather, our clear, bracing winterdays, and our balmy spring and autumnevenings, let no intending travellerthink that he will not meet with badweather at the Antipodes! I can onlyrepeat what I have said with pen andvoice a hundred times before. NewZealand possesses a very capricious anddisagreeable climate: disagreeable fromits constant high winds: but it isperhaps the most singularly andremarkably healthy place in the world.This must surely arise from the verygales which I found so trying to my

temper, for damp is a word withoutmeaning; as for mildew or miasma, thegeneration who are growing up therewill not know the meaning of thewords; and in spite of a warm, brightday often turning at five minuteswarning into a snowy or wet afternoon,colds and coughs are almost unknown.People who go out there with delicatelungs recover in the most surprisingmanner; surprising, because one expectsthe sudden changes of temperature, theunavoidable exposure to rain and evensnow, to kill instead of curing invalids.But the practice is very unlike thetheory in this case, and people thrivewhere they ought to die.

During my first winter in Canterburywe had only one week of really badweather, but I felt at that time as if Ihad never realized before what badweather meant. A true "sou'-wester"was blowing from the first to thesecond Monday in that July, withoutone moment's lull. The bitter, furiousblast swept down the mountain gorges,driving sheets of blinding rain in adense wall before it. Now and then therain turned into large snow-flakes, orthe wind rose into such a hurricane thatthe falling water appeared to beflashing over the drenched earthwithout actually touching it. Indoorswe could hardly hear ourselves speakfor the noise of the wind and rain

against the shingle roof. It became aservice of danger, almost resembling aforlorn hope, to go out and drag inlogs of wet wood, or draw water fromthe well,for, alas, there were noconvenient taps or snug coal-holes inour newly-erected little wooden house.We husbanded every scrap of mutton,in very different fashion to our usualreckless consumption, theconsumption of a household whichhas no butcher's bill to pay; for weknew not when the shepherd might beable to fight his way through the storm,with half a sheep packed before him,on sturdy little "Judy's" back. Thecreeks rose and poured over their banksin angry yellow floods. Every morning

casualties in the poultry yard had to bereported, and that week cost me almostas many fowls and ducks as my greatchristening party did. The first thingevery morning when I opened my eyesI used to jump up and look out of thedifferent windows with eager curiosity,to see if there were any signs of a breakin the weather, for I was quiteunaccustomed to be pent up like abesieged prisoner for so manysucceeding days. We did not boast ofshutters in those regions, and evenblinds were a luxury which were notwasted in the little hall. Consequently,when my unsatisfactory wanderingsabout the silent housefor no one elsewas up led me that dreadful stormy

morning into the narrow passage calledthe back-hall, I easily saw through itsglass-door what seemed to me one ofthe most pathetic sights my eyes hadever rested upon.

Just outside the verandah, which is theinvariable addition to New Zealandhouses, stood, bareheaded, a tall, gauntfigure, whose rain-sodden garmentsclung closely to its tottering limbs. Amore dismal morning could not well beimagined: the early dawn struggling tomake itself apparent through adownpour of sleet and rain, thehowling wind (which one could almostsee as it drove the vapour wall beforeit), and the profound solitude and

silence of all except the raging storm.

At first I thought I must be dreaming,so silent and hopeless stood that weirdfigure. My next impulse, withoutstaying to consider my dishevelled hairand loose wrapper, was to open thedoor and beckon the poor man withinthe shelter of the verandah. When onceI had got him there I did not exactlyknow what to do with my guest, forneither fire nor food could be procuredquite so early. He crouched like a straydog down on the dripping mat outsidethe door, and murmured someunintelligible words. In this dilemma Ihastened to wake up poor F, whofound it difficult to understand why I

wanted him to get up at daylight duringa "sou'-wester." But I entreated him togo to the hall door, whilst I flew off toget my lazy maids out of their warmbeds. With all their faults, they did notneed much rousing on that occasion. Isuppose I used very forcible words toconvey the misery of the objectstanding outside, for I know that Marywas in floods of tears, and hadfastened her gown on over her night-gear, whilst I was still speaking; and thecook had tumbled out of bed, and waskneeling before the kitchen fire withher eyes shut, kindling a blaze,apparently, in her sleep.

As soon as things were in this forward

state, I returned to the verandah, andfound our swagger guest drawing avery long breath after a good nip ofpure whisky which F had promptlyadministered to him. "I'm fair clemmedwi' cold and wet," the swagger said, stillbundled up in his comparativelysheltered corner. "I've been out on thehills the whole night, and I amdeadbeat. Might I stop here for a bit?"He asked this very doubtfully, for it isquite against swagger etiquette todemand shelter in the morning. For allanswer he was taken by the shoulder,and helped up. I never shall forget thepoor tramp's deprecating face, as helooked back at me, whilst he was beingled through the pretty little dining-

room, with its bright carpet, on whichhis clay-clogged boots and drippinggarments left a muddy, as well as awatery track. "All right," I said, withcolonial brevity; and so we escorted ourstrange guest through the house intothe kitchen, where the ever-ready kettleand gridiron were busy preparing teaand chops over a blazing fire. Ofcourse the maids screamed when theysaw us, and I do not wonder at theirdoing so, for neither F nor I lookedvery respectable, with huddled ondressing-gowns and towzled hair;whilst our foot-sore, drenched guestsubsided into a chair by the door,covered his wretched pinched face withtwo bony hands, and burst into tears. I

certainly never expected to see aswagger cry, and F declared the sightwas quite as new to him as to me.However, the poor man's tears andhelplessness gave fresh energy to mymaids' treacherous nerves, and theyeven suggested dry clothes. Our good-natured cadet, who at this momentappeared on the scene, was only toohappy to find some outlet for hissuperfluous benevolence, and hastenedoff, to return in a moment or two withan old flannel shirt, dry and whole, inspite of its faded stripes, a pair ofmoleskin trousers, and a huge pair ofcanvas cricketing shoes. It was no timefor ceremony, so we women retreatedfor a few minutes into the store-room,

whilst F and Mr. A made the swagger'stoilette, getting so interested in theirtask as even to part his dripping hairout of his eyes. He had no swag, poorfellow, having lost his roll of redblankets in one of the treacherous bog-holes across the range.

That man was exactly like a lost,starving dog. He ate an enormousbreakfast, curled himself upon someempty flour-sacks in a dry corner ofthe kitchen, and slept till dinner time;then another sleep until the supperhour, and so on, the round of he clock.All this time he never spoke, though wewere dying to hear how he had comeinto such a plight. The "sou'-wester"

still raged furiously out of doorswithout a moment's cessation, and wewere obliged to have recourse to thetins of meat kept in the store-room forsuch an emergency. The shepherd toldus afterwards he had ventured out tolook for some wethers, his own supplybeing exhausted, but the whole mobhad hidden themselves so cleverly thatneither man nor dog could discovertheir place of shelter. On the Mondaynight, exactly a week after the outbreakof bad weather; the skies showed signsof having exhausted themselves, andnature began to wear a sulky air, as ifher temper were but slowly recoveringherself. The learned in such matters,however, took a cheerful view of

affairs, and declared the worst to beover,"for this bout,"as they cautiouslyadded.

Whether it was the three days of rest,warmth, and good food whichunlocked the swagger's heart, or not, Ido not pretend to decide; but thatevening, over a pipe in the kitchen, heconfided to Mr. A that he had beenworking his way down to the sea-coastfrom a station where he had beenemployed, very far back in the hillranges. The "sou'-wester" hadovertaken him about twenty miles fromus, but only five from another station,where he had applied towards theevening for shelter, being even then

drenched with rain, and worn out bystruggling through such a tremendousstorm. There, for some reason which Iconfess did not seem very clear, he hadbeen refused the unvarying hospitalityextended in New Zealand to alltravellers, rich or poor, squatter orswagger, and had been directed to takea short cut across the hills to ourstation, which he was assured couldeasily be reached in an hour or twomore. The track, a difficult one enoughto strike in summer weather, became,indeed, impossible to discover amidrushing torrents and driving wind andrain; besides which, as the poor fellowrepeated more than once during hisstory, "I was fair done up when I set

out, for I'd been travelling all day." Mr.A told us what the man had beensaying, before we all went to bed,adding, "He seems an odd, surly kindof creature, for although he declares heis going away the first thing to-morrow,if the rain be over, I noticed he neversaid a word approaching to thanks."

The rain was indeed over next morning,and a flood of brilliant sunshine awokeme "bright and early," as the countrypeople say. It seemed impossible tostop in bed, so I jumped up, thrust myfeet into slippers, and my arms into awarm dressing-gown, and sallied forth,opening window after window, so as tolet the sunshine into rooms which not

even a week's steady down-pour couldrender damp. What a morning it was,and for mid-winter too! No haze, orfog, or vapour on all the green hills,whose well-washed sides wereglistening in a bright glow of sunlight.For the first time, too, since the badweather had set in, was to be heard theincessant bleat which is music to theears of a New Zealand sheep-farmer.White, moving, calling patches on thehillsides told that the sheep werereturning to their favourite pastures,and a mob of horses could be descriedquietly feeding on the sunny flat.

But I had no eyes for beauties ofmountain or sky. I could do nothing

but gaze on the strange figure of thesilent swagger, who knelt yes, positivelyknelt, on the still wet and shiningshingle which formed an apology for agravel path up to the back-door of thelittle wooden homestead. Hisappearance was very different to what ithad been three days before. Now hisclothes were dry and clean andmended,my Irish maids doing; blesstheir warm hearts! He had cobbled uphis boots himself, and his felt hat,which had quite recovered from itsdrenching, lay at his side. The perfectrest and warmth and good food hadfilled up his hollow cheeks, but still hiscountenance was a curious one; andnever, until my dying day, can I forget

the rapture of entreaty on that man'supturned face. It brings the tears intomy own eyes now to recollect itsbeseeching expression. I do not think Iever saw prayer before or since. He didnot perceive me, for I had hiddenbehind a sheltering curtain, to listen tohis strange, earnest petitions; so hecould not know that anybody in thehouse was stirring, for he knelt at theback, and all my fussings had takenplace in the front, and he could not,therefore, have been doing anything foreffect.

There, exactly where he had crouched awretched, way-worn tramp in pouringrain, he knelt now with the flood of

sunshine streaming down on hisuplifted face, whilst he prayed for thewelfare and happiness, individually andcollectively, of every living creaturewithin the house. Then he stood upand lifted his hat from the ground; butbefore he replaced it on his head, heturned, with a gesture which wouldhave made the fortune of any orator,agesture of mingled love and farewell,and solemnly blessed the roof-treewhich had sheltered him in his hour ofneed. I could not help being struck bythe extraordinarily good language inwhich he expressed his fervent desires,and his whole bearing seemed quitedifferent to that of the silent, half-starved man we had kept in the kitchen

these last three days. I watched himturn and go, noiselessly closing thegarden gate after him, and shall Iconfess it?my heart has always felt lightwhenever I think of that swagger'sblessing. When we all met at breakfast Ihad to take his part, and tell of thescene I had witnessed; for everybodywas inclined to blame him for havingstolen away, scarcely without sayinggood-bye, or expressing a word ofthanks for the kindness he hadreceived. But I knew better.

From the sublime to the ridiculous weall know the step is but short, especiallyin the human mind; and to my tendermood succeeds the recollection of an

absurd panic we once suffered from,about swaggers. Exaggerated storieshad reached us, brought by timid fatmen on horseback, with bulky pocket-books, who came to buy our wethersfor the Hokitika market, of "stickingup" having broken out on the westland. I fear my expressions are oftenunintelligible to an English reader, butin this instance I will explain. "Stickingup" is merely a concise colonialrendering of "Your money or yourlife," and was originally employed byAustralian bushrangers, those terriblefreebooters whose ranks used to bealways recruited from escaped convicts.Fortunately we had no community ofthat class, only a few prisoners kept in a

little ricketty wooden house inChristchurch, from which anenterprising baby might easily haveescaped. I dare say as we get morecivilized out there, we shall buildourselves handsome prisons andpenitentiaries; but in those early days astory was current of a certain jailorwho let all his captives out on somefestal occasion, using the tremendousthreat, that whoever had not returnedby eight o'clock should be "locked out!"

But to return to that particular winterevening. We had been telling each otherstories which we had heard or read ofbushranging exploits, until we were allas nervous as possible. Ghosts, or even

burglar stories, are nothing to thehorror of a true bushranger story, andF had made himself particularly ghastlyand disagreeable by giving a minuteaccount of an adventure which hadbeen told to him by one of thesurvivors.

We listened, with the wind howlingoutside, to F's horrid second-handstory, of how one fine day up country,eight or ten men,station hands,were"stuck up" by one solitary bushranger,armed to the teeth. He tied them upone by one, and seated them all on abench in the sun, and deliberately firedat and wounded the youngest of theparty; then, seized with compunction,

he unbound one of the captives, andstood over him, revolver in hand, whilsthe saddled and mounted a horse, to gofor a doctor to set the poor boy'sbroken leg. Before the messenger hadgone "a league, a league, but barelytwa',"the freebooter recollected that hemight bring somebody else back withhim besides the doctor, and flinginghimself across his horse, rode after theaffrighted man, and coolly shot himdead. I really don't know how the storyended: I believe everybody perished;but at this juncture I declared it to beimpossible to sit up any longer to listento such tragedies, and went to bed.

Exactly at midnight,the proper hour for

ghosts; burglars, and bushrangers, andsuch "small deer" to be about,everybody was awakenedsimultaneously by a loud irregularknocking, which sounded with hollowreverberations all through the woodenhouse. "Bushrangers!" we all thought,every one of us; for although burglarsmay not usually knock at hall-doors inEngland, it is by no means uncommonfor their bolder brethren to do so at theother end of the world. It is such acomfort to me now, looking back onthat scene to remember that ourstalwart cadet was as frightened asanybody. He stood six feet one in hisstockings, and was a match for any twoin the country side, and yet, I am happy

to think, he was as bad as any one. Asfor me, to say that my heart became likewater and my knees like soft wax, is toexpress in mild words my state ofabject terror. There was no need toinquire what the maids thought, forsmothered shrieks, louder and louder aseach peal of knocks vibrated throughthe little house, proclaimed sufficientlytheir sentiments on the subject.

Dear me, how ridiculous it all musthave been! In one corner of the ceilingof our bedroom was a little trap-doorwhich opened into an attic adjoiningthat where the big cadet slept. Nowwhilst F was hurriedly taking down hisdouble-barrelled gun from its bracket

just below this aperture, and I held thecandlestick with so shaky a hand thatthe extinguisher clattered like a castanet,this door was slowly lifted up, and alarge white face, with dishevelledstubbly hair and wide-open blue eyes,looked down through the cobwebs,saying in a husky whisper, "Could youlet me have a rifle, or any thing?" Thiswas our gallant cadet, who had no ideaof presenting himself at a disadvantagebefore the foe. I had desperately seizeda revolver, but F declared that if Ipersisted in carrying it I certainlyshould go first, as he did not wish to beshot in the back.

We held a hurried council of war,Mr. A

assisting through the trap door, and themaids breathing suggestions throughthe partition-planks,but the difficultyconsisted in determining at which doorthe knocking was going on. Some saidone, and some another (for there weremany modes of egress from the tinydwelling); but at last F cried decidedly,"We must try them all in succession,"and shouldering his gun, with therevolver sticking in the girdle of hisdressing-gown, sallied valiantly forth. Idon't know what became of Mr. A : Ibelieve he took up a position with therifle pointing downwards; the maidsretreated beneath their blankets, and I(too frightened to stay behind)followed closely, armed with an Indian

boar-spear. F flung the hall door wideopen, and called out, "Who's there?"but no one answered. The silence wasintense, and so was the cold; thereforewe returned speedily indoors toconsult. "It must be at the back door," Iurged; adding, "that is the short cutdown the valley, where bushrangerswould be most likely to come.""Bushrangers, you silly child!" laughedF. "It's most likely a belated swagger, orelse somebody who is playing us atrick." However as he spoke asuccession of fierce and loud knocksresounded through the whole house."It must be at the kitchen door," F said."Come along, and stand well behindme when I open the door."

But we never opened the door; for onour way through the kitchen, with itshigh-pitched and unceiled roof,a verycavern for echoes,we discovered thesource of the noise, and of our fright.Within a large wooden packing-case laya poor little lamb, and its dying throeshad wakened us all up, as it kickedexpiring kicks violently against the sideof the box. It was my doing bringing itindoors, for I never could find it in myheart to leave a lamb out on the hills ifwe came across a dead ewe with herbaby bleating desolately and runninground her body. F always said, "Youcannot rear a merino lamb indoors; thepoor little thing will only die all the

same in a day or two;" and then I amsorry to say he added in an unfeelingmanner, "They are not worth muchnow," as if that could make anydifference! I had brought this, as I hadbrought scores of others, home in myarms from a long distance off; fed itout of a baby's bottle, rubbed it dry,and put it to sleep in a warm bed ofhay at the bottom of this very box.They had all died quietly, after a day ortwo, in spite of my devotion andnursing, but this little foundling kickedherself out of the world with as muchnoise as would have sufficed tosummon a garrison to surrender. It isall very well to laugh at it now, but wewere, five valiant souls in all, as

thoroughly frightened at the time as wecould well be.

The only real harm a swagger did mewas to carry off one of my bestmaidservants as his wife, but as he had300 pounds in the bank atChristchurch, and was only travellingabout looking for work, and they havelived in great peace and prosperity eversince, I suppose I ought not tocomplain. This swagger was employedin deepening our well, and Mary wasalways going to see how he was gettingon, so he used to make love to her,looking up from the bottom of a deepshaft, and shouting compliments to herfrom a depth of sixty feet. What really

won her Irish heart, though, was hiscalmly putting a rival, a shepherd, into awater-butt. She could not resist that, sothey were married, and are doing well.

Let no one despise swaggers. They aremerely travelling workmen, and wouldpay for their lodging if it was thecustom to do so. I am told that evennow they are fast becoming things ofthe past; for one could not "swagger"by railroad, and most of our beautifulhappy vallies will soon have a line ofrails laid down throughout its greenand peaceful length.

Chapter X: Changing servants.

To the eyes of an English housewifethe title of this chapter must appear avery bad joke indeed, and theamusement what the immortal Mrs.Poyser would call "a poor tale." Far be itfrom me to make light of the misery ofa tolerably good servant coming to youafter three months' service, just as youwere beginning to feel settled andcomfortable, and announcing with asmile that she was going to be married;or, with a flood of tears, that she foundit "lonesome." Either of these twocontingencies was pretty sure to arise atleast four times a year on a station.

At first I determined to do all I couldto make their new home so attractive tomy two handmaidens that they wouldnot wish to leave it directly. In one ofWilkie Collins' books an upholsterer isrepresented as saying that if you wantto domesticate a woman, you shouldsurround her with bird's-eye maple andchintz. That must have been exactly myidea, for the two rooms which Iprepared for my maidservants weresmall, indeed, yet exquisitely pretty. Ofcourse I should not have been sofoolish as to buy any of theunnecessary and dainty fittings withwhich they were decorated, but as allthe furniture and belongings of anEnglish house, a good deal larger than

our station home, had been taken outto it, there were sundry toilet tables, etc.,whose destination would have been aloft over the stable, if I had not usedthem for my maids.

I had seen and chosen two veryrespectable young women inChristchurch, one as a cook, and theother as a housemaid. The cook,Euphemia by name, was a tall, fat,flabby woman, with a pastycomplexion, but a nice expression offace, and better manners than usual.She turned out to be very goodnatured, perfectly ignorant thoughwilling to learn, and was much admiredby the neighbouring cockatoos, or small

farmers. Lois the housemaid, was thesmallest and skimpiest and mostangular girl I ever beheld. At first Iregarded her with deep compassion,imagining that she was about fifteenyears of age, and had been cruelly ill-treated and starved. How she divinedwhat was passing in my mind I cannottell, but during our first interview shesuddenly fired up, and informed methat she was twenty-two years old, thatshe was the seventh child of a seventhchild, and therefore absolutely certainto achieve some wonderful piece ofgood luck; and furthermore, that shehad been much admired in her ownpart of the country, and was universallyallowed to be "the flower of the

province." This statement, deliveredwith great volubility and defiantjerkiness of manner, rather took mybreath away; but it was a case of"Hobson's choice" just then aboutservants, and as I was assured she was arespectable girl, I closed with her terms(25 pounds a year and all found) on thespot. The fat pale cook was to get 35pounds. Now-a-days I hear that wagesare somewhat lower, but the sums Ihave named were the average figures ofsix or seven years ago, especially "up-country."

Here I feel impelled to repeat thesubstance of what I have statedelsewhere,that these rough, queer

servants were, as a general rule,perfectly honest, and of irreproachablemorals, besides working, in their owncurious fashion, desperately hard. Ourfamily was an exceptionally small one,and the "place" was considered "light,you bet," but even then it seemed to meas if both my domestics worked veryhard. In the first place there was thewashing; two days severe work, underdifficulties which they thought nothingof. All the clothes had to be taken to aboiler fixed in the side of a hill, for theconvenience of the creek, and washedand rinsed under a blazing sun (for ofcourse it never was attempted on a wetday) and amid clouds of sand-flies.Not until evening was this really hard

day's work over, and the variousgarments fluttering in the breeze up avalley behind the house. The chanceswere strongly in favour of atremendous nor'-wester coming downthis said valley during the night, and inthat case there would not be a sign nextmorning of any of the clothes. Heavythings, such as sheets or table cloths,might be safely looked for under lee ofthe nearest gorse hedge, but it would beimpossible even to guess where thelighter and more diaphanous articleshad been whisked to. A weekafterwards the shepherds used to bringin stray cuffs and collars, and upon oneoccasion "Judy," the calf, wasdiscovered in a paddock hard by,

breakfasting off my best pockethandkerchiefs with an excellentappetite. Of course everything wasdirty, and needed to be washed overagain. We had a mangle, which greatlysimplified matters on the second day,but it used not to be uncommon onback-country stations to get up the finethings with a flat stone, heated in thewood ashes, for an iron. After thewashing operations had been broughtto a more or less successful ending,there came the yeast making and thebaking, followed by the brewing ofsugar beer, preserves had to be made,bacon cured, all sorts of things to bedone, besides the daily duties ofscrubbing and cleaning, and cooking at

all hours for stray visitors or"swaggers."

But I am overcome with contrition atperceiving into what a digression I havewandered; having strayed from mymaids' rooms to their duties. Theyarrived as usual on a dray late in theevening, tired and wearied enough,poor souls. In those early days I hadnot yet plucked up courage to try myhand in the kitchen, and our meals hadbeen left to the charge of F, who,whatever he may be in other relationsof life, is a vile cook; and our good-natured cadet Mr. U , who wasexceedingly willing, but profoundlyignorant of the elements of cookery.

For fear of being tempted into anotherdigression, I will briefly state thatduring that week I lived in a chronicstate of hunger and heartburn, andsought forgetfulness from repeatedattacks of indigestion, by decoratingmy servants' rooms. They opened intoeach other, and it would have been hardto find two prettier little nests. Eachhad its shining brass bedstead withchintz hangings, its muslin-drapedtoilette table, and its daintily curtainedwindow, besides a pretty carpet. I canremember now the sort of dazed lookwith which Euphemia regarded a roomsuch as she had never seen; whilst Loisconsidered it to be an instalment of hergood luck, and proceeded to

contemplate her sharp and elfishcountenance in her looking-glass,pronouncing it as her opinion that shewanted more colour. That she certainlydid, and she might have added, moreflesh and youthfulness, while she wasabout it. However, they were greatlydelighted, and Euphemia who was of agrateful and affectionate disposition,actually thanked me, for having withmy own hands arranged such prettyrooms for them.

This was a very good beginning. Theywere both hard-working, civil girls, andgot on very well together, leaving meplenty of leisure to attend to thequantities of necessary arrangements

which have to be made when you aresettling yourself for good, fifty milesfrom a shop, and on a spot where noother human being has ever livedbefore. F congratulated myself inprivate on my exceptional good luck,and attributed it partly to my havingfollowed the Upholsterer's advice inthat book of Mr. Wilkie Collins. But asit turned out, F was dwelling in a fool'sparadise. In vain had it been pointedout to me that a certain stalwart northcountryman, whose shyness could onlybe equalled by his appetite, had been amost regular attendant for some weekspast at our Sunday evening services,accepting the offer of tea in thekitchen, afterwards, with great alacrity. I

scouted these insinuations, appealing tothe general sense of the public as towhether Moffatt had ever been knownto refuse a meal anywhere, or under anycircumstances, and declaring that, if hewas "courting," it was being done insolemn silence, for never a soundfiltered through the thin woodenplanks between the kitchen and thedining room, except the clatter of avigorously plied knife and fork, forMoffatt's teas always included ashoulder of mutton.

But I was wrong and others were right.Early in October, our second springmonth, I chanced to get up betimes onedelicious, calm morning, a morning

when it seemed a new and exquisitepleasure to open each window insuccession, and fill one's lungs with adeep, deep breath of that heavenlyatmosphere, at once so fresh and sopure.

Quiet as the little homestead lay, nestledamong the hills, there were too manymorning noises stirring among theanimals for any one to feel lonely ordull, I should have thought. From adistance came a regular, monotonous,lowing sound. That was "Hetty," thepretty little yellow Alderney,announcing from the swamps that sheand her two female friends were quiteready to be milked. Their calves

answered them dutifully from theEnglish grass paddock, and betweenthe two I could see Mr. U 's tall figurestalking down the flat with his cattledog at his heels, and hear his merrywhistle shrilling through the silent air.Then all the ducks and fowls about theplace were inquiring, in noisy cackle,how long it would be before breakfastwas ready, whilst "Helen's" whinneyingmade me turn my head to see her, witha mob of horses at her heels, comingover the nearest ridge on the chance ofa stray carrot or two going begging. Allthe chained-up dogs were pulling at thestaples of their fastenings, andentreating by short, joyous barks, to beallowed just one good frisk and roll in

the sparkling dewy grass around. Buteven I, universal spoiler of animals thatI am, was obliged to harden my heartagainst their noisy appeals; for quiteclose to the stable, on the nearest hill-side, an immense mob of sheep andyoung lambs were feeding. That steepincline had been burnt six weeksbefore, and was now as green as theclover field at its base, affording adelicious pasturage to these nursingmothers and their frisky infants. I thinkI see and hear it all now. The movingwhite patches on the hill-side, theincessant calling and answering, theracing and chasing among the curlylittle merino lambs, and above all thefair earth the clear vault of an almost

cloudless sky bent itself in a deep bluedome. Just over the eastern hills thefirst long lances of the sun lay in brightshafts of silver sheen on the dew-ladentussocks, and that peculiar morningfragrance rose up from the moistground, which is as much the rewardof the early riser as the early worm is ofthe bird.

Was it a morning for low spirits or sobsand sighs? Surely not; and yet as Iturned the handle of the kitchen doorthose melancholy sounds struck my ear.I had intended to make my entrancewith a propitiatory smile, suitable tosuch a glorious morning, proceed topay my damsels a graceful compliment

on their somewhat unusual early rising,and wind up with a request for a cupof tea. But all these friendly purposeswent out of my head when I beheldEuphemia seated on the rude woodensettle, with its chopped tussockmattrass, which had been covered witha bright cotton damask, and was nowcalled respectfully, "the kitchen sofa."Her arm was round Lois's waist, andshe had drawn that young lady's shockhead of red curls down on hercapacious bosom. Both were crying asif their hearts would break, and startledas I felt to see these floods of tears, itstruck me how incongruous theirattitude looked against the backgroundof the large window through which all

nature looked so smiling and sparkling.The kettle was singing on the fire,everything seemed bright and snug andcomfortable indoors. "What in theworld has happened?" I gasped, reallyfrightened.

"Nothing, mem: its only them sheep,"sobbed Euphemia, "calling like. Theyalways makes me cry. Your tea 'll beready directly, mem" (this last with adeep sigh.)

"Is it possible you are crying aboutthat?" I inquired. "Yes, mem, yes," saidEuphemia, in heart-broken accents,clasping Lois, who was positivelyhowling, closer to her sympathetic

heart. "Its terrible to hear 'em. Theykeeps calling and answering each other,and that makes us think of our homeand friends." Now both these womenhad starved as factory "hands" all theirlives, and I used to feel much moreinclined to cry when they told me, allunconscious of the pathos, stories oftheir baby work and hardships.Certainly they had never seen a sheepuntil they came to New Zealand, and asthey had particularly mentioned thesilence which used to reign supreme atthe manufactory during work hours, Icould not trace the connection betweena dingy, smoky, factory, and a brightspring morning in this delightful valley."What nonsense!" I cried, half laughing

and half angry. "You can't be inearnest. Why you must both be ill: letme give you each a good dose ofmedicine." I said this encouragingly, forthere was nothing in the worldEuphemia liked so much as goodsubstantial physic, and the only thing Iever needed to keep locked up from herwas the medicine drawer.

Euphemia seemed touched andgrateful, and her face brightened updirectly, but Lois looked up with herfrightful little face more ugly thanusual, as she said, spitefully, "Physicwon't make them nasty sheep hold theirtongues. I'm sure this isn't the place forme to find my luck, so I'd rather go, if

you please, mem. I've prospected-upevery one o' them gullies and neverseen the colour yet, so it ain't any goodmy stopping."

This was quite a fresh light thrownupon the purpose of Lois's long lonelyrambles. She used to be off and away,over the hills whenever she hadfinished her daily work, and Iencouraged her rambles, thinking thefresh air and exercise must do her aworld of good. Never had I guessedthat the sordid little puss was turningover every stone in the creek in hersearch for the shining flakes.

"Why did you think you should find

gold here?" I asked.

"Because they do say it lies in all thesemountain streams," she answeredsullenly; "and I'm always dreaming ofnuggets. Not that a girl with my faceand figure wants 'dust' to set her off,however. But if its all the same to you,mem, I'd rather leave when Euphemiadoes."

"Are you going, then?" I inquired,turning reproachfully to my pale-facedcook, who actually coloured a little asshe answered, "Well, mem, you seeMoffatt says he's got his windowframes in now, and he'll glass them thevery first chance, and I think it'll be

more company for me on Saddler'sFlat. So if you'll please to send medown in the dray, I should be obliged."

Here was a pretty upset, and I wentabout my poultry-feeding with a heavyheart. How was I to get fresh servants,and above all, what was I to do forcooking during the week they wereaway? These questions fortunatelysettled themselves in rather anunexpected manner. I heard of a verynice willing girl who was particularlyanxious to come up as housemaid, tomy part of the world, on condition thatI should also engage as cook her sister,who was leaving a place on theopposite side of a range of high hills

to the south. I shall only briefly say thatall inquiries about these damsels provedsatisfactory, and I could see Euphemiaand Lois depart, with tolerableequanimity. The former wept, andbegged for a box of Cockles' pills; butLois tossed her elfish head, and gaveme to understand that she had neverbeen properly admired or appreciatedwhilst in my service.

Chapter XII: Culinary troubles.

I want to lodge a formal complaintagainst all cookery books. They are notthe least use in the world, until you

know how to cook! and then you cando without them. Somebody ought towrite a cookery book which would tellan unhappy beginner whether the waterin which she proposes to put herpotatoes is to be hot or cold; how longsuch water is to boil; how she is toknow whether the potatoes are doneenough; how to dry them after theyhave boiled, and similar things, whichmake all the difference in the world.

To speak like Mr. Brooke for amoment. "Rice now: I have dabbled inthat a good deal myself, and found itwouldn't do at all."

Of course in time, and after many

failures, I did learn to boil a potatowhich would not disgrace me, and tobake bread, besides in time attaining topuddings and cakes, of which I don'tmind confessing I was modestly proud.It used to be a study, I am told, towatch my face when a cake had turnedout as it ought. Gratified vanity at thelavish encomiums bestowed on it, andhorrified dismay at the rapidity withwhich a good sized cake disappeareddown the throats of the company,warred together in the most artlessfashion. The reflection would arise thatit was almost a pity it should be eatenup so very fast; yet was it not a finething to be able to make such a cake!and oh, would the next be equally

good?

One lesson I leaned in my NewZealand kitchen,and that was not to betoo hard on the point of breakages; forno one knows, unless from personalexperience, how true was the Irishcook's apology for breaking a dish,when she said that it let go of herhand. I declare that I used, at last, toregard my plates and dishes, cups andsaucers, yea, even the pudding basons,not as so much china and delf, but astroublesome imps, possessed with aninsane desire to dash themselves madlyon the kitchen floor upon the leastprovocation. Every woman knows whata slippery thing to hold is a baby in its

tub. I am in a position to pronouncethat wet plates and dishes are far moredifficult to keep hold of. They have away of leaping out of your fingers,which must be felt to be believed. Aftermy first week in my kitchen I used towonder, not at the breakages, but atanything remaining unbroken.

My maids had a very ingenious methodof disposing of the fragments of theirpottery misfortunes. At the back of thehouse an open patch of ground,thickly covered with an under-growthof native grass, and the usual largeproportion of sheltering tussocksstretched away to the foot of thenearest hill. This was burned every

second year or so, and when the firehad passed away the sight it revealedwas certainly very curious. Beneath eachtussock had lain concealed a small heapof broken china, which must have beenplaced there in the dead of the night.The delinquents had evidently been atthe pains to perfect their work ofdestruction by reducing the chinaarticles in question, to the smallestimaginable fragments, for fear of aprotruding corner betraying the clevercache; and the contrast afforded to theblackened ground on which they lay, bythe gay patches of tiny fragmentshuddled together, was droll indeed.That was the moment for recognisingthe remains of a favourite jug or plate,

or even a beloved tea-cup. There theywere all laid in neat little heaps, and thebest of it was that the existing cookalways declared loudly herastonishment at the base ingenuity ofsuch conduct, although I could not failto recognise many a plate or dish whichhad disappeared from the land of theliving during her reign.

All housekeepers will sympathise withmy feelings at seeing an amateurscullion, who had distinguishedhimself greatly in the Balaklava charge,but who appeared to have no idea thatboiling water would scald hisfingers,drop the top plate of a pilewhich he had placed in a tub before

him. In spite of my entreaties to beallowed to "wash-up" myself, hegallantly declared that he could do itbeautifully, and that the great thing wasto have the water very hot. Inpursuance of this theory he poured thecontents of a kettle of boiling waterover his plates, plunged his hand in,and dropped the top plate, with ashriek of dismay, on those beneath it.Out of consideration for that well-meaning emigrant's feelings, I abstainfrom publishing the list of the killedand wounded, briefly stating that hemight almost as well have fired a shotamong my poor plates. A perfectfountain of water and chips and bitsof china flew up into the air, and I

really believe that hardly one plateremained uncracked. So much for one'sfriends. I must candidly state thatalthough the servants broke a gooddeal, we destroyed twice as muchamongst us during the week whichmust needs elapse between theirdeparture and, the arrival of the newones.

Shall I ever forget the guilty pallorwhich overspread the bronzed andbearded countenance of one of myguests, who particularly wished to dustthe drawing-room ornaments, when onhearing a slight crash I came into theroom and found him picking up theremains of a china shepherdess?

Considering everything, I kept mytemper remarkably well, merelyobserving that he had better go into theverandah and sit down with a book andhis pipe, and send Joey in to help me.Joey was a little black monkey fromPanama, who had to be provided withbroken bits of delf or china in orderthat he might amuse himself bybreaking them ingeniously into smallerfragments.

But the real object of this chapter wasto relate some of my own privatemisfortunes in the cooking line. Once,when Alice S was staying with me andwe had no servants, she and Iundertook to bake a very infantine and

unweaned pig. It was all properlyarranged for us, and, making up a goodfire, we proceeded to cook the littlemonster.

Hours passed by; all the rest of thedinner got itself properly cooked at theright time, but the pig presented exactlythe same appearance at dewy eve as ithad done in the early morn. We lookedrather crest-fallen at its pale conditionwhen one o'clock struck, but I saidcheerfully, "Oh, I daresay it will beready by supper!" But it was not: not abit of it. Of course we searched inthose delusive cookery books, but theyonly told us what sauces to serve with aroasted pig, or how to garnish it,

entering minutely into a disquisitionupon whether a lemon or an orangehad better be stuck into its mouth. Wewanted to know how to cook it, andwhy it would not get itself baked.About an hour before supper-time Igrew desperate at the anticipation ofthe "chaff" Alice and I would certainlyhave to undergo if this detestableanimal could not be produced in asufficiently cooked state by evening. Wetook it out of the oven andcontemplated it with silence anddismay. Fair as ever did that pig appear,and as if it had no present intention ofbeing cooked at all. A sudden ideacame into our heads at the samemoment, but it was Alice who first

whispered, "Let us cut off its head.""Yes," I cried; "I am sure that preventsits roasting or baking, or whatever it is."So we got out the big carving knife andcut off the piggy's head. Far be it fromme to offer any solution of the theorywhy the head should have interferedwith the baking process, but all I knowis, that, like the old woman in thenursery song, everything began to goright, and we got our supper that night.

Has anybody ever reflected on howdifficult it must be to get a chimneyswept without ever a sweep or even abrush? Luckily our chimneys wereshort and wide, and we used a gooddeal of wood; so in three years the

kitchen chimney only needed to becleansed twice. The first time it wascleared of soot by the simple processof being set on fire, but as a light nor'-wester was blowing, the risk to thewooden roof became very great andcould only be met by spreading wetblankets over the shingles. We had avery narrow escape of losing our littlewooden house, and it was fortunate ithappened just at the men's dinner hourwhen there was plenty of help close athand. However great my satisfaction atfeeling that at last my chimney had beenthoroughly swept, there was evidentlytoo much risk about the performanceto admit of its being repeated, so abouta year afterwards I asked an "old chum"

what I was to do with my chimney."Sweep it with a furze-bush, to besure," she replied. I mentioned thisprimitive receipt at home, and the ideawas carried out a day or two later byone man mounting on the roof of thehouse whilst another remained in thekitchen; the individual on the roofthrew down a rope to the one below,who fastened a large furze-bush in themiddle, they each held an end of thisrope, and so pulled it up and down thechimney until the man below was asblack as any veritable sweep, and had tobetake himself, clothes and all, to aneighbouring creek. As for the kitchen,its state cannot be better described thanin my Irish cook's words, who cried,

"Did mortial man ever see sich aridiklous mess? Arrah, why couldn't yelet it be thin?" But for all that she setbravely to work and got everythingclean and nice once more, merelystipulating that the next time we weregoing to sweep chimney we should lether know beforehand, that she mightgo somewhere "right away."

I feel, however, that in all thesereminiscences I am straying widelyfrom the point which was before mymind when I began this chapter, andthat is the delusiveness of a cookerybook. No book which I have ever seentells you, for instance, how to boil riceproperly. They all insist that the grains

must be white and dry and separate,but they omit to describe the process bywhich these results can be attained.They tell you what you are to do withyour rice after it is boiled, but not howto boil it. The fact is, I suppose, that thepeople who write such books began soearly to be cooks themselves, that theyforget there ever was a time when suchsimple things were unknown to them.

Even when I had, after many failures,mastered the art of boiling rice, andalso of making an excellent curry,forwhich accomplishment I was indebtedto the practical teaching of aneighbour,there used still to bemisfortunes in store for me. One of

these caused me such a bitterdisappointment that I have never quiteforgotten it. This was the manner of it.We were without servants. My readersmust not suppose that such was ourchronic condition, but when you cometo change your servants three or fourtimes a year, and have to "do" foryourself each time during the weekwhich must elapse before the arrival ofnew ones, there is an ample margin forevery possible domestic misadventure.If any doubt me, let them try forthemselves.

On this special occasion, which provedto be nearly the last, my mind was easy,for the simple reason that I was now

independent of cookery books. I hadpuzzled out all the elementary parts ofthe science for myself, and had nomisgivings on the subject of potatoesor even peas. So confident was I, andvain, that I volunteered to make a curryfor breakfast. Such a savoury curry as itwas, and it turned out to be all that theheart of a hungry man could desire; sodid the rice: I really felt proud of thatrice; each grain kept itself duly apartfrom its fellow, and was as soft andwhite and plump as possible.Everything went well, and I had plentyof assistants to carry in the substantialbreakfast as fast as it was ready: thecoffee, toast, all the other things hadgone in; even the curry had been borne

off amid many compliments, and nowit only remained for me to dish up therice.

Imagine the scene. The bright prettykitchen, with its large window throughwhich you could see the green hillsaround dotted with sheep; the creekchattering along just outside, whilstclose to the back door loitered a crowdof fowls and ducks on the chance offate sending them something extra toeat. Beneath the large window, and justin front of it, stood a large deal table,and it used to be my custom to transferthe contents of the saucepans to thedishes at that convenient place. Well, Iemptied the rice into its dish, and gazed

fondly at it for a moment: any cookmight have been proud of thatbeautiful heap of snow-white grains. Ihad boiled a great quantity, more thannecessary it seemed, for although thedish was piled up almost as high as itwould hold, some rice yet remained inthe saucepan.

Oh, that I had been content to leave itthere! But no: with a certain spasmodicfrugality which has often been mybane, I shook the saucepan vehemently,in order to dislodge some more of itscontents into my already full dish. As Idid so, my treacherous wrist, strainedby the weight of the saucepan, gaveway, and with the rapidity of a

conjurer's trick I found the great blacksaucepan seated,yes, that is the onlyword for it,seated in the midst of myheap of rice, which was now coveredby fine black powder from its sootyoutside. All the rice was utterly andcompletely spoiled. I don't believe thatfive clean grains were left in the dishThere was nothing for it but to leave itto get cold and then throw it all out forthe fowls, who don't mind riz au noir itseems. Although I feel more than halfashamed to confess it, I am by nomeans sure I did not retire into thestore-room and shed a tear over the fateof that rice. Everybody else laughed,but I was dreadfully mortified andvexed.

Chapter XIII: Amateur Servants.

I flattered myself on a certain occasionthat I had made some very artfularrangements to provide the familywith something to eat during theservants' absence. I had been lamentingthe week of experiments in food whichwould be sure to ensue so soon as thedray should leave, in the hearing of agallant young ex-dragoon, who hadcome out to New Zealand to try andsee if one could gratify tastes, requiring,say a thousand a year to provide for, onan income of 120 pounds. He was just

finding out that it was quite as difficultto manage this in the Southern as in theNorthern Hemisphere, but his heartycheery manner, and enormous stock ofhope, kept him up for some time.

"I'll come and cook for you," he cried."I can cook like a bird. But I can't washup. No, no: it burns too much. If youcan get somebody to wash up, I'll cook.And just look here: it would be verynice if we could have some music afterdinner. You've got a piano, haven't you?That's right. Well, now, don't you askthat pretty Miss A , who has just comeout from England, to come and stopwith you, and then we could have somemusic?"

"Where did you learn to cook?" Iinquired, suspiciously; for Fhad alsoassured me he could cook, and this hadupset my confidence.

"On the west coast; to be sure! AskVere, and Williams and Taylor, andeverybody, if they ever tasted such piesas I used to make them." Mycountenance must have still lookedrather doubtful, because I wellremember sundry verbal testimonialsof capability being produced; and as Iwas still very ignorant of the rudimentsof the science of cookery, I shrankfrom assuming the whole responsibilityof the family meals. So the household

was arranged in this way:CaptainGeorge, head cook; Mr. U , scullery-maid; Miss A , housemaid; myself, lady-superintendent; Mr. Forsyth (a youngnaval officer), butler. On the principleof giving honour to whom honour isdue, this gallant lieutenant deservesspecial mention for the way he cleanedglass. He did not pay much attention tohis silver, but his glass would havepassed muster at a club. The onlydrawback was the immense time hetook over each glass, and the way hefollowed either Miss A or me all aboutthe house, holding a tumbler in onehand, and a long, clean glass-cloth inthe other, calling upon us to admire thepolish of the crystal. To clean two

tumblers would be a good day's workfor him. From Monday to Saturday(when the dray returned), this state ofthings went on. Of course I had takenthe precaution of having a good supplyof bread made beforehand, besidescakes and biscuits, tarts and pies;everything to save trouble. But it wasnot of much use, for, alleging that theywere working so hard, the young men,F at their head, though I was alwaystelling him he was married and oughtto know better, set to work and ate upeverything immediately, as completelyas if they had been locusts. And then,they were all so dreadfully wild andunmanageable! Mine was by far thehardest task of all, the keeping them in

any sort of order. For instance, CaptainGeorge declared one day, that if therewas one thing he did better thananother, it was to make jam.Consequently a fatigue party wasordered out to gather strawberries, and,after more than half had been eaten onthe way to the house, a stewpan wasfilled. I had to do most of theskimming, as Captain George wantedto practice a duet with Miss A . I may aswell mention here that we never hadany opportunity of seeing how the jamkept, because the smell pervaded thewhole house to such an extent, that,declaring they felt like schoolboysagain, the gentlemen fell on my halfdozen pots of preserves in a body,

carried them off, and ate them all upthen and there, announcing afterwards,there had just been a pot a-piece.

It was really a dreadful time, althoughwe got well cooked plats, for CaptainGeorge wasted quite as much as heused. The pigs fed sumptuously thatweek on his failures, in sauces, minces;puddings, and what not. He hadinsisted on our making him a paper capand a linen apron, or rather a dozenlinen aprons, for he was perpetuallyblackening his apron and casting itaside. Then, he used suddenly to ceaseto take any interest in his occupation,and, seating himself sideways on thekitchen dresser, begin to whistle

through a whole opera, or repeat pagesof poetry. I tried the experiment ofbanishing Miss A from the kitchenduring cooking hours, but a few barsplayed on the piano were quite enoughto distract my cook from his work. Myonly quiet time was the afternoon,when about four o'clock, my amateurservants all went out for a ride, and leftme in peace for a couple of hours. Ihad enough to do during that shorttime to tidy up; to collect the scatteredbooks and music, and prepare the tea-supper, for which they came back intearing spirits, and frantically hungry,between seven and eight o'clock. Afterthis meal had been cleared away, andMr. U and I had washed up (the others

declaring they were too tired to stir), weall used to adjourn to the verandah. Ithappened to be an exceptionally stillweek, no dry, hot nor'-westers, norcold, wet sou'-westers, and it wasperfectly delicious to sit out in theverandah and rest, after the labours ofthe day, in our cane easy-chairs. Thebalmy air was so soft and fresh, and theintense silence all around so profound.Unfortunately there was a full moon. Isay "unfortunately," because the floodof pale light suggested to thesedreadful young men the feasibility ofhaving what they called a "servant'sball." In vain I declared that thehousekeeper was never expected todance. "Oh, yes!" laughed Captain

George. "I've often danced with ahousekeeper, and very jolly it was too.Come along! F, make her dance." And Iwas forced to gallopade up and downthat verandah till I felt half dead withfatigue. The boards had a tremendousspring, and the verandah (built by F, bythe way), was very wide and roomy, soit made an excellent ball-room. As forthe trifling difficulty about music, thatwas supplied by Captain George andMr. U whistling in turn, time being keptby clapping the top and bottom of mysilver butter dish together, cymbal-wise.Oh, dear! It takes my breath away noweven to think of those evenings! I seeAlice A flitting about in her white dressand fern-leaf wreath, dancing like the

slender sylph she really was, but nevercan I forget the odd effect of thegentlemen's feet! No one had theirdress boots up at the station, and asAlice and I firmly declined to dancewith anybody who wore "Cookham"boots (great heavy things with nails inthe soles), they had no other courseopen to them except to wear their smartslippers. There were slippers of purplevelvet, embroidered with gold; othersof blue kid, delicately traced in crimsonlines; foxes heads stared at us instartling perspective from a scarletground; or black jim-crow figuresdisported themselves on orange tent-stitch. Then these slippers were all moreor less of an easy fit, and had a way of

flying out on the lawn suddenly,startling my dear dog Nettle out of hisfirst sleep.

Ah, well! that may be an absurd bit ofone's life to look back upon, but itsdays were bright and innocent enough.Health was so perfect that the meresensation of being alive becamehappiness, and all the noise of theeager, bustling, pushing world, seemedshut away by those steep hills whichfolded our quiet valley in their greenarms. People have often said to mesince, "Surely you would not like tohave lived there for ever?" Perhaps not.I can only say that three years of thatcalm, idyllic life, held no weary hour for

me, and I am quite sure that quiet timewas a great blessing to me in manyways. First of all, in health, for a personmust be in a very bad way indeed forNew Zealand air not to do them aworld of good; next, in teaching me,amid a great deal of fun and laughter,sundry useful accomplishments, noteasily learned in our luxuriouscivilization; and, lastly, those few yearsof seclusion from the turmoil of lifebrought leisure to think out one's ownthoughts, and to sift them from otherpeoples' ideas. Under suchcircumstances, it is hard if "theunregarded river of our life," asMatthew Arnold so finely call it be notperceived, for one then

" Becomes aware of his life's flow Andbears its winding murmur, and he seesThe meadows where it glides, the sun,the breeze; And there arrives a lull inthe hot race, Wherein he doth for everchase That flying and elusive shadow,rest."

One good effect of my sufferings witha house full of unruly volunteers, wasthat during the brief stay (only twomonths), of my next cook, I set towork assiduously to learn as manykitchen mysteries as she could teachme, and so became independent ofCaptain George or F, or any otheramateur, good, bad, or indifferent.

Nothing could be more extraordinarythan the way in which the twoaffectionate sisters, mentioned [earlier]and who succeeded Euphemia andLois, quarrelled. They were very unlikeeach other in appearance, and onefruitful source of bickering arose fromtheir respective styles of beauty. Notonly did they wrangle and rave at eachother all the day long, during everymoment of their spare time, but afterthey had gone to bed, we could hearthem quite plainly calling out to eachother from their different rooms. If Ibegged them to be quiet, there might besilence for a moment, but it wouldshortly be broken by Maria, calling out,

"I say, Dinah, don't you go for to weargreen, my girl. I only tell you friendly,but you're a deal too yellow for that. Itsuits me, 'cause I'm so fresh and rosy,but you never will have my 'plexion, notif you live to be eighty. Good night. Ithought I'd just mention it while Iremembered." This used to aggravateDinah dreadfully, and she wouldretaliate by repeating somecomplimentary speech of Old Ben's, orLong Tom's, the stockman, and thenthere would be no peace for an hour.

Their successors were Clarissa andEunice. Eunice wept sore for a wholemonth, over her sweeping and cleaning.To this day I have not the dimmest idea

why. She gave me warning, amid floodsof tears, directly she arrived, though Icould not make out any other tangiblecomplaint than that "the dray hadjolted as never was;" and to Clarissa, Igave warning the first day I came intothe kitchen.

She received me seated on the kitchentable, swinging her legs, which did notnearly touch the floor. She had carefullyarranged her position so as to turn herback towards me, and she went onpicking her teeth with a hair-pin. Istood aghast at this specimen ofcolonial manners, which was the moreastonishing as I knew the girl had livedin the service of a gentleman's family in

the North of England for some timebefore she sailed.

"Dear me, Clarissa," I cried, "is that theway you behaved at Colonel St.John's?"

Clarissa looked at me very coolly overher shoulder (I must mention she was avery pretty girl, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked, but with such a temper!) and,giving her plump shoulders a littleshrug, said, "No, in course not: they wasgentlefolks, they was."

I confess I felt rather nettled at this, andyet it was difficult to be angry with agirl who looked like a grown up and

very pretty baby. I restrained myfeelings and said, "Well, I should likeyou to behave here as you did there.Suppose you get off the table andcome and look what we can find in thestore room."

"I have looked round," she declared:"there 'aint much to be seen." Mypatience began to run short, and I saidvery firmly, "You must get off the tabledirectly, Clarissa, and stand and speakproperly; or I shall send you down toChristchurch again." I suppose that wasexactly what the damsel wished, for shemade no movement; whereat I said ingreat wrath, "Very well, then you shallleave at the end of a month." And so

she did, having bullied everybody outof their lives during that time.

Whilst we are on the subject ofmanners, it may not be out of place torelate a little episode of my early days"up country." I think I have alluded [in"Station Life in New Zealand"] to ourbook club; but I don't know that it hasbeen explained that I used to changethe books on Sunday afternoon, afterour little evening service. It would havebeen impossible to induce the men tocome from an immense distance twice aweek, and it was therefore necessarythat they should be able to get a freshbook after service. Nothing could havebeen better than the behaviour of my

little congregation: they made it a pointof giving no trouble whatever withtheir horses or dogs, and they were soafraid of being supposed to come forwhat they could get, that I had somedifficulty in inducing those whotravelled from a distance to have a cupof tea in the kitchen before theymounted, to set off on their longsolitary ride homewards. They were alsoexceedingly quiet and well-behaved; forif even a dozen men or more werestanding outside in fine weather, orwaiting within the kitchen if it werewet or windy, not a sound could beheard. If they spoke to each other, itwas in the lowest whisper, and theywould no more have thought of

lighting their pipes anywhere near thehouse than they would of flying.

This innate tact and true gentlemanlyfeeling which struck me so much in thelabouring man as he appears in NewZealand, made the lapse of goodmanners, to which I am coming, all themore remarkable. Of course they nevertouched their hats to me: they wouldmake me a bow or take their hats off,but they never touched them. I haveoften seen a hand raised involuntarilyto the soft felt hat, which every onewears there, but the mechanical actionwould be arrested by the recollectionof the first article of the old colonialcreed, "Jack is as good as his master." I

never minded this in the least, and gotso completely out of the habit ofexpecting any salutations, that it seemedquite odd to me to receive them againon my return. No, what I objected towas, that when I used to go into mykitchen, about ten minutes or so afterthe service had been concluded, withthe list of club books in my hand, not asingle man rose from his seat. Theyseemed to make it a point to sit downsomewhere; on a table or window seatif all the chairs were occupied, but at allevents not to be found standing. Theywould bend their heads and blush, andglance shyly at each other forencouragement as I came in, but noone got up, or took his hat off. This

went on for a few weeks, until I feltsure that this curious behaviour did notspring from forgetfulness, orinattention. When I mentioned mygrievance in the drawing-room to thegentlemen, I only got laughed at for mypains, and I was asked what else Iexpected? To this question used to beadded sundry anecdotes of earliercolonial life, intended to reconcile meto the manners of these later days. Iremember particularly a legend of aman cook, who was said to havewalked into the sitting-room of thestation where the master was practisingtunes on an accordion, and exclaimed,"Now, look here, boss, if you don'tleave off that there noise, which

perwents me gettin' a wink o' sleep, I'llclear out o' this, sharp, to-morrowmornin'. So now yer know," and withthat remark he returned to his bunk.

At last I was goaded to declare I feltsure that the men only behaved in thatway from crass ignorance, and that ifthey knew how much my feelings werehurt, they would alter their mannersdirectly. This opinion was received withsuch incredulity that I felt roused todeclare I should try the experiment nextSunday afternoon. The only warningwhich at all daunted me was theassurance that I should affront mycongregation and scare them away. Itwas the dread of this which made my

heart beat so fast, and my hands turnso cold as I opened the kitchen-doorthe next Sunday afternoon. There wereexactly the same attitudes, every bodyperfectly civil and respectful, but everybody seated. Luckily my courage rose atthe right moment, and I came forwardas usual with a smile, and said, "Lookhere, my men, there is one little thing Iwant to ask you. Do you know that it isnot the custom anywhere, in anycivilized country, for gentlemen toremain seated and covered when a ladycomes into the room? If I were to gointo a room in England, where thePrince of Wales, or any of the finestgentlemen of the land were sitting, justas you are now, they would all get up,

the Prince first, most likely, and theywould certainly take off their hats!Now why can't you all do the same,here?"

The effect of my little speech wasmagical. Pepper glanced at McQuhair,Moffatt crimsoned and nudgedMcKenzie, Wiry Ben slipped off thewindow-seat and shyed his hat acrossthe kitchen, whilst Long Tom, thebullock-driver, "thanked me kindly formentioning of it;" and every body gotup directly and took their hats off. I feltimmensely proud of my success, andhastened the moment of my return tothe drawing room, where I announcedmy triumph. I repeated my little speech

as concisely as possible; but, alas, it wasnot nearly so well received as it hadbeen in the kitchen! "Have you evergone to see a London club?" oneperson inquired. "Ah: I thought not! Idon't know about the Prince, becausehe always does do the prettiest things atthe right moment, but I doubt verymuch about all the others. I fear youhave made a very wild assertion to getyour own way." I need hardly say Isulked at that incredulous individualfor many days but he always stuckfirmly to his own opinion. However,my men never required another hint.They came just as regularly as usual tochurch, and we all lived happily everafter.

I feel that my chapter should end here;but any record of my New Zealandservants would be incomplete withoutmention of my "bearded cook." Everybody thinks, when I say this, that I amgoing to tell them about a man, but it isnothing of the sort. Isabella Lyon, inspite of her pronounced beard, was avery fine woman; exceedingly good-humoured looking and fresh-coloured,with most amiable prepossessingmanners. She had not long arrived, andhad been at once snapped up for anhotel, but she applied for my place,saying she wished for quiet and acountry life. Could any thing be morepropitious? I thought, like Lois, that my

luck, so long in turning, wasimproving, and that at last I was tohave a cook who knew her business.And so she did, thoroughly anddelightfully. For one brief fortnight welived on dainties. Never could I havebelieved that such a variety of dishescould have been produced out ofmutton. In fact we seemed to haveeverything at table except the stapledish. Unlike the cook who actually sentme in a roast shoulder of mutton forbreakfast one morning, Isabella pridedherself on eliminating the monotonousanimal from her bills of fare. Certainlyshe was rather heavy on the sauces, etc.,and I was trying to pluck up courage toremonstrate, as it would not be easy or

cheap to replace them before a certaintime of year. And then she was soclean, so smiling, and so good-tempered. She seemed to treat us all asif we were a parcel of children forwhom she was never weary ofpreparing surprises. As for me, I feltmiserable if any shepherd or well-to-dohandsome young bachelor cockatoocame near the place, dreading lest thewretch should have designs on mycook's heart and hand. I rejoiced in herbeard, and would not have had herwithout it for worlds, as I selfishlyhoped it might stand in hermatrimonial path.

This Arcadian state of kitchen affairs

went on for exactly a fortnight. Oneevening, at the end of that time, we hadbeen out riding, and returned as usualvery hungry. "What are we going tohave for supper?" inquired F. I toldhim what had been ordered; but whenthat meal made its appearance, lo, therewas not a single dish which I hadnamed! The things were not exactlynasty, but they were queer. For instance,pears are not usually stewed in gravy;but they were by no means bad, and wetook it for granted it was somethingquite new. The housemaid, Sarah,looked very nervous and scared, andglanced at me from time to time with avery wistful look; but I was sodelightfully tired and sleepyone never

seemed to get beyond the pleasant stageof those sensationsthat I did not askany questions.

Next morning, when we came out tobreakfast, imagine my astonishment atseeing a tureen of half cold soup onthe table, and nothing else! I couldhardly believe my eyes, and hastened tothe kitchen to explain that this wasrather too much of a novelty in thegastronomic line. If I live to be ahundred years old, I shall never forgetthe sightat once terrible andabsurd which met my eyes. Before thekitchen fire stood Isabella, havingevidently slept in her clothes all night.She looked wretched and bloated, and

quite curiously dirty, as black as if shehad been up the chimney; and even Icould see that, early as was the hour,she was hopelessly drunk. Betweenboth of her nerveless, black hands, sheheld a poker, with which she struck,from time to time, a feeble blow on apiled-up heap of plates, which shepersisted in considering a lump of coal.The fire was nearly out, but shehastened to assure me that if she couldonly break this lump of coal it wouldsoon burn up. Need I say that I rescuedmy plates at once, and marched thebearded one off to her own apartment.

Oh, how dimmed its dainty freshnesshad become since even yesterday! Sarah

was summoned, and confessed that shehad known last night that "Hisabella"had gone on the "burst," havingbought, for some fabulous sum, abottle of rum from a passing swagger.It was all very dreadful, and worst of allwas the scene of tears and penitence Ihad to endure when the rum wasfinished. The dray, however, relieved meof the incubus of her presence; andthat was the only instance ofdrunkenness I came across among mydomestic changes and chances.

Chapter XIV: Our pets.

One of the first things which struck mewhen I came to know a little moreabout the feelings and ways of myneighbours in the Malvern Hills, wasthe good understanding which existedbetween man and beast. I am afraid Imust except the poor sheep, for I neverheard them spoken of with affection,nor do I consider that they were theobjects of any special humanity evenon their owners' parts. This must surelyarise from their enormous numbers."How can you be fond of thousandsof anything?" said a shepherd once tome, in answer to some sentimentalinquiry of mine respecting his feelingstowards his flock. That is the fact.There were too many sheep in our

"happy Arcadia" for any body to valueor pet them. On a large scale they werelooked after carefully. Water, andsheltered feed, and undisturbedcamping grounds, all these good thingswere provided for them, and in returnthey were expected to yield a largepercentage of lambs and a good "clip."Even the touching patience of the pooranimals beneath the shears, or amid thedust and noise of the yards, wasgenerally despised as stupidity.

Far different is the feeling of the NewZealander, whether he be squatter orcockatoo, towards his horse and hisdog. They are the faithful friends, andoften the only companions of the

lonely man. Of course there will soonbe no "lonely men" anywhere, but afew years ago there were plenty ofunwilling Robinson Crusoes in theMiddle Island; and whenever I cameupon one of these pastoral hermits, Iwas sure to find a dog or a horse, a cat,or even a hen, established as "mate" tosome poor solitary, from whom allhuman companionship was shut out bymountain, rock, or river.

"Are you not very lonely here?" wasoften my first instinctive question, as Ihave dismounted at the door of ashepherd's hut in the back country, andlistened to the eternal roar of the riverwhich formed his boundary, or the still

more oppressive silence which seemedto have reigned ever since the creation.

"Well, mum, it aint very lively; but I'vegot Topsy (producing a black kittenfrom his pocket), and there's the dogs,and I shall have some fowls next year,p'raps."

But my object in beginning this chapterwas not to enter into a disquisition onother people's pets, with which after allone can have but a distantacquaintance, but to introduce some ofmy own especial favourites to thosekind and sympathetic readers who takepleasure in hearing of my ownsomewhat solitary existence in that

distant land. I am quite ready toacknowledge that I never thoroughlycomprehended the individuality ofanimals, even of fowls and ducks, untilI lived up at the Station. Perhaps, liketheir masters, they really get to possessmore independence of character underthose free and easy skies; for wherewould you meet with such a worldlyand selfish cat as "Sandy," or sofastidious and intelligent a smoothterrier as "Rose"? Sandy was an oldbachelor of a sleek appearance, red incolour, but with a good deal of whiteshirt-front and wristbands, as to theget-up of which he was mostparticular. It was easy to imagine Sandysitting in a club window; and I am sure

he had a slight tendency to gout andreading French novels. Sandy'sselfishness was quite open and above-board. He liked you very much untilsomebody else came whom he likedbetter, and then he would desert hisoldest friend without hesitation. I don'tsuppose the wildest young colley-pupever dreamed of chasing or worryingSandy, who would not have stirredfrom his warm corner by the fire forSnarleyow himself. Every now and thenSandy must have felt alarmed about hishealth or his figure, for he ate less, andwalked gravely and sulkily up anddown the verandah for hours, but assoon as he considered himself out ofdanger, he relapsed into all his self-

indulgent ways. No one ventured tooffer Sandy anything but the choicestmeats, and he was wont to sit up andbeg like a dog for a savoury tit-bit. Buthe would revenge himself on youafterwards for the humiliation, youmight be sure.

What always appeared to me so odd,was that in spite of his known andunblushing selfishness, Sandy used tobe a great favourite, and we all viedwith each other for the honour of hisnotice. Now why was this? Ifboundless time and space were at ourdisposal, we might go deeply into thequestion and work it out, but as thedimensions of this volume are not

elastic, the impending social essay shallbe postponed, and we will confineourselves to a brief description ofSandy's outer cat. He was of a purebreed, far removed from the long-legged, lanky race of ordinary station-cats, who from time to timedisappeared into the bush andcontracted alliances with the still moredegraded specimens of their class whohad long been wild among the scrub.No: Sandy came of "pur sang," andheld his small square head erect, with ahaughty carriage as beseemed hisancestry. His fur was really beautiful, asort of tortoiseshell red, the lighterstripes repeating exactly the differentgolden tints of a fashionable chignon.

In early youth, though it is difficult toimagine Sandy ever a playful kitten, histail had been curtailed to the length ofthree inches, and this short, flexiblestump gave an air of great decision toSandy's movements. But his chiefpeculiarity, and I must add, attraction,in my opinion, was the perfume of hissleek coat. When Sandy condescendedto take his evening doze on my linseylap, I never smelt anything so strangeand so agreeable as the odour of hisfur, specially that on the top of hishead. It was like the most delicatemusk, but without any of the sicklysmell common to that scent. I believeSandy knew of this personal peculiarity,and felt proud of it.

A far more unselfish and agreeablepersonage was Rose, the white terrier,whose name often finds a loving placein these pages. She and Sandy dwelttogether in peace and amity, althoughthe little doggie never could have feltany affection for her selfish companion.Rose's nerves were of a delicate andhigh-strung order, and there wasnothing she hated so much asuproarious noise. Every now and thenit chanced that during a few days ofwet or windy weather, our little househad been filled by passing guests:gentlemen who had called in to ask forsupper and a bed, intending to go onnext day. In a country where inns or

accommodation-houses are fifty milesapart, this is a common incident, and itsometimes happens that the resourcesof station hospitality are taxed to theutmost in this way. I have known ourown little wooden box to be so closelypacked, that besides a guest on eachsofa in the drawing-room, there wouldbe another on a sort of portable couchin the dining-room. This was after thespare room had been filled to theutmost. A delicate "new chum," whorequired to be pampered, had retired torest on the hard kitchen sofa describedelsewhere; whilst a couple of sturdytravellers were sleeping soundly in thesaddle room. After that, there could benothing for the last comer except a

shake-down in red blankets.

It always happened I observed thateverybody arrived together. For weekswe would be alone. I lived once foreight months without seeing a lady; andthen, some fine evening, half a dozenacquaintances would "turn up,"therereally is no other word for it. Well, onthese occasions, when, instead ofdeparting next morning, ourimpromptu guests have sometimesbeen forced to wait until such time asthe rain or the wind should cease; theirpent-up animal spirits became oftentoo much for them, and they would feelan irresistible impulse to get rid ofsome of their superfluous health and

strength by violent exercise. I set myface at once against "athletic sports" or"feats of strength" being performed inmy little drawing-room, although theywere always very anxious to secure mefor the solitary spectator; and I forgetwho hit upon the happy thought ofturning the empty wool-shed into atemporary gymnasium. There thesewild boysfor, in spite of stalwart framesand bushy beards, the SouthernColonist's heart keeps very fresh andyoungused to adjourn, and hop andleap, wrestle and box, fence and spar, totheir active young limbs' content. Theyseemed very happy, and loud were thejoyous shouts and peals of laughterover the failures; but after seeing the

performance once or twice, I generallybecame tired and bored, and used toslip away to the house and my quietcorner by the fire. Rose considered ither duty to remain at her master's heelsas long as possible, but after a time shetoo would creep back to silence andwarmth, though she never deserted herpost until the noise grew altogether toomuch for her nerves; and then, with adespairing whimper, sometimesswelling to a howl, poor little Rosewould tuck her tail between her legs,and dash out, through the storm, toseek shelter and quiet with me.

Whenever Rose appeared thus suddenlyin my quiet retreat, I felt sure some

greater uproar than usual was going ondown at the wool-shed, and, more thanonce, on inquiry, I found Rose's nervesmust have been tried to the utmostbefore she turned and fled.

As for the intelligence of sheep-dogs, avolume could be written on the factsconcerning them, and a still moreentertaining book on the fictions, for aNew Zealand shepherd will alwaysconsider it a point of honour to cap hisneighbour's anecdote of his dog'ssagacity, by a yet stronger proof ofcanine intelligence. I shall only, brieflyallude to one dog, whose history willprobably be placed in the colonialarchives,a colley, who knows his

master's brand; and who will, when thesheep get boxed, that is mixed together,pick out; with unfailing accuracy, all thebleating members of his own flockfrom amid the confused, terrified mass.As for the patience of a good dog incrossing sheep over a river, I havewitnessed that myself, and been forcedto draw conclusions very much infavour of the dog over the humanbeings who were directing theoperation. Some dogs again, who areperfectly helpless with sheep, areunrivalled with cattle, and I have stoodon the edge of a swamp more thanonce, and seen a dog go after a coupleof milch cows, and fetch them out of aherd of bullocks, returning for the

second "milky mother" after the firsthad been brought right up within reachof the stockman's lash.

Then among my horse friends was acertain Suffolk "Punch," who had beenchristened the "Artful Dodger," fromhis trick of counterfeiting lameness themoment he was put in the shafts of adray. That is to say if the dray wasloaded; so long as it was empty, or theload was light, the "Dodger" steppedout gaily, but if he found the dray at allheavy, he affected to fall dead lame. Theold strain of staunch blood was toostrong in his veins to allow him torefuse or jib, or stand still. Oh, no! The"Dodger" arranged a compromise with

his conscience, and though he pulledmanfully, he resorted to this lazysubterfuge. More than once with a"new chum" it had succeeded toperfection, and the "Dodger" foundhimself back again in his stable with arack of hay before him, whilst hisdeluded owner or driver was runningall over the place to find a substitute inthe shafts. If I had not seen it myself, Icould not have believed it. In order toinduce the "Dodger" to act his partthoroughly, a drayman was appointedwhom the horse had never seen, andtherefore imagined could be easilyimposed upon. The moment the signalwas given to start, the "Dodger," after aglance round, which plainly said, "I

wonder if I may try it upon you," tooka step forward and almost fell down, sodesperate was his lameness. The driver,who was well instructed in his part, ranround, and lifted up one sturdy bay legafter the other, with every appearanceof the deepest concern. Thisencouraged the "Dodger," who uttereda groan, but still seemed determined todo his best, and limped and stumbled ayard or two further on. I confess itseemed impossible to believe the horseto be quite sound, and if it haddepended on me, the "Dodger" wouldinstantly have been unharnessed andput back in his stable. But the momenthad come to unmask him. His masterstepped forward, and pulling first one

cunning ear, on the alert for everyword, and then the other; cried, "Itwont do, sir! step out directly, and don'tlet us have any nonsense." The"Dodger" groaned again, this time fromhis heart probably, shook himself, and,leaning well forward in his big collar,stepped out without a murmur. Thelameness had disappeared by magic, norwas there even the slightest return of ituntil he saw a new driver, andconsidered it safe to try his oft-successful "dodge" once more.

Very different was "Star," poor, wilful,beauty, whose name and fate will longbe remembered among the green hills,where her short life was passed. Born

and bred on the station, she was thepride and joy of her owner's heart.Slender without being weedy, compactwithout clumsiness, her small head wellset on her graceful neck, and her finelegs, with their sinews like steel, sheattracted the envy of all theneighbouring squatters. "What will youtake for that little grey filly when she isbroken?" was a constant question."She's not for sale," her owner used toanswer. "I'll break her myself, and makeher as gentle as a dog, and she'll do formy wife when I get one." But thisproved a castle in the air, so far as Starwas concerned. The wife was not somythical. In due time she appeared inthat sheltered valley, and, standing at

the head of a mound marked by a stakewhereon a star was rudely carved, heardthe story of the poor creature's fate.From the first week of her life, Star (so-called from a black, five-pointed markon her forehead), showed signs ofpossessing a strange wild nature. Unlikeher sire or dam, she evidently had aviolent temper,and not to put too fine apoint on it,was as vicious a grey mare asever flung up her heels in a NewZealand valley.

When her second birthday was passed,Star's education commenced. Theprocess called "gentling," was acomplete misnomer for the series ofbuck jumps, of bites and kicks, with

which the young lady received theslightest attempt to touch her. She hada horrible habit also of shrieking, reallyalmost like a human being in a franticrage; she would rush at you with a wildscream of fury, and after striking at youwith her front hoofs, would wheelround like lightning, and dash her hindlegs in your face. The stoutest stockmandeclined to have anything whatever todo with Star; the most experiencedbreaker "declined her, with thanks;"generally adding a long bill for repairsof rack and manger, and breakingtackle, and not unfrequently a hospitalreport of maimed and woundedstablemen. Amateur horsemen ofcelebrity arrived at the station to look at

the beautiful fiend, and departed,saying they would rather not haveanything to say to her. At last, she wasgiven over in despair, to lead her ownfree life, never having endured theindignity of bit or bridle for more thantwo minutes.

Months passed away, and Star and hertantrums had been nearly forgotten,when one mild winter evening thestockman came in to reportthat,wonder of wonders,Star wasstanding meekly outside, whinnying,and as "quiet as a dog." Her masterwent out to find the man's report exact:Star walked straight up to him, andrubbed her soft nose confidingly

against his sleeve. The mysteryexplained itself at a glance: she was onthe point of having her first foal, and,with some strange and pathetic instinct,she bethought herself of the kindhands whose caresses she had so oftenrejected, and came straight to them forhelp and succour. Her shy and touchingadvances were warmly responded to,and in a few minutes the poor beastwas safely housed in the warm shedwhich then represented the present rowof neat stables long since on that veryspot. A warm mash was eagerlyswallowed, and the good-heartedstockman volunteered to remain upuntil all should be happily over; but hiscourage failed him at the sight of her

horrible sufferings, and in the earlydawn he came to rouse up his master,and beg him to come and see ifanything more could be done. There layStar, all her fierce spirit quenched, withan appealing look in her large blackeyes, which seemed positively human intheir capacity for expressing suffering.It was many hours before a dead foalwas born, and there is no doubt that ifshe had been out on the bleak hills, thepoor exhausted young mother musthave perished from weakness. Sheappeared to understand thoroughly themotive of all that was being done forher, and submitted with patience to allthe remedies. Gradually, but slowly, herstrength returned; and, alas, her evil

nature, tamed by anguish, returned also!Day by day she became shyer of eventhe hand which had fed and succouredher; and, as this is a true chronicle, itmust be stated that the very first useMrs. Star made of her convalescencewas, to kick her nurse on the leg, breakher halter into fragments, and gallopoff to the hills with a loud neigh ofdefiance. Whenever the topic offeminine ingratitude came on the carpetat that station, this, which Star haddone, used always to be told as aninstance in point.

Two years later, exactly the same thinghappened again. The dreaded hour ofsuffering found the wayward beauty

once more under the roof which hadsheltered her in her former time oftrial, and once more she rested her headin penitence and appeal against herowner's shoulder. Who could bearmalice in the presence of such dreadfulpain? Not Star's owner, certainly.Besides the home resources, a man onhorseback was sent off to fetch afamous veterinary who chanced to bestaying at a neighbouring station, andthey both returned before Star's worstsufferings began. All that skill andexperience could do was done thatnight; but the morning light found thepoor little grey mare dying fromexhaustion, with another dead foallying by her side. She only lived a few

hours later, in spite of stimulants andthe utmost care, and died gently andpeacefully, with those human handswhose lightest touch she had soflouted, ministering tenderly to hergreat needs. The stockman had becomeso fond of the wayward beauty, in spiteof her ingratitude, that the only solacehe could find for his regret at her earlydeath, lay in digging a deep grave forher, and carving the emblem of herpretty name on the rude stake whichstill marks the spot.

No account of station pets would becomplete without a brief allusion to mynumerous and unsuccessful attempts torear merino lambs in the house. It never

was of any use advising me to leave thepoor little creatures out on the bleakhill-side, if, in the course of my ramblesafter ferns or creepers, I came upon adead ewe with her half-starved babyrunning round and round her. Howcould I turn my back on the littleorphan, who, instead of bounding offup the steep hill, used to runconfidingly up to me, and poke itsblack muzzle into my hand, as if itwould say, "Here is a friend at last"?And then merino lambs are so muchprettier than any I have seen inEngland. Their snow-white wool is astightly screwed up in small curls as anyAstracan fleece, and from being of somuch more active a race, they are

smaller and more compact than Englishlambs, and not so awkward and leggy.A merino lamb of a couple of hoursold is far better fitted to take care ofitself up a mountain than a civilizedand helpless lamb of a month old,besides these latter being so weak aboutthe knees always. I only mention this,not out of any desire to "blow" aboutour sheep, but because I want toaccount for my tender-heartedness onthe subject of desolate orphans. Theewes scarcely ever died of disease,unless by a rare chance it happened tobe a very old lady whose constitutiongave way at last before a severe winter.We oftenest found that the deadmother was a fine fat young ewe; who

had slipped up on a hill-side and couldnot recover herself, but had died ofexhaustion and fatigue from her violentefforts to kick herself up again. If wechanced to be in time to rescue her bythe simple process of setting her on herlegs again, it would be all right, butsometimes the poor creature had beencold and stiff for hours before wefound her, and her lamb had bleateditself hoarse and hungry, and was astame as a pet dog. Now who could turnaway from a little helpless thing likethat, who positively leaped into yourarms and cuddled itself up in delight,sucking vigorously away at your glove,or anything handy? Not I, forone,though I might as well have left it

alone, so far as its ultimate fate wasconcerned; but I always hoped forbetter luck next time, and carried it offin my arms.

The first thing to be do be on arrival athome, was to give the starving littlecreature a good meal out of a tea-pot,and the next, to put it to sleep in a boxof hay in a warm corner of the kitchen.What always seemed to me soextraordinary, was that the lambs, oneand all, preserved the most cheerfuldemeanour, ate and drank and sleptwell,and yet died within a month. Somelingered until quite four weeks hadpassed, others succumbed to mytreatment in a week. I varied their food,

mixing oatmeal with the milk; some Ifed often, others seldom; to some Igave sugar in the milk, others had newmilk. There was abundance of grassjust outside the house for them to eat,if they could. Some did mumble feeblyat it, I remember, but the mortalitycontinued uninterrupted. It must havebeen very ridiculous to a visitor, to seemy dear little snowy pets going downon their front knees before me, andwagging their long tails furiously themoment the tea-pot was brought out.They were far too sensible to do this ifmy hands were empty. Gentle,affectionate little creatures, they used tobe wonderfully well-behaved, thoughnow and then they would wander

through the verandah, and so into mybedroom, where the drapery of mydressing-table afforded them endlessamusement and occupation. Theygnawed and sucked all my "daisy"fringe, until the first thing that had tobe done when a lamb arrived at thehouse, was to take off muslins andfringes from that, the only trimmedtable in the house.

Often and often, of a cold night (forwe must remember that New Zealandlambing used always to come off inwinter), we would all become suddenlyaware of a strong smell of burningpervading the whole house; which, onbeing traced to its source, was often

found to proceed from the rosette ofwool on the forehead of a chilly lamb.The creature drew nearer and nearer tothe genial warmth of the kitchen fire,until at last it used to lean its browpensively against the red hot bars.Hence arose the powerful odourgradually filling the whole of the littlewooden house. Of course I used torush to the rescue, and draw mybewildered pet away from the fatalwarmth, but not until it had usuallysinged the wool off down to the bone,and there was often a bad burn on itsforehead as well. But still, in spite ofstupidity and an insatiable appetite, Ialways grieved very sincerely for eachof my orphan lambs as it in turn sank

into its early grave. I used to be welllaughed at for attaching any sentimentto an animal which had sunk sodisgracefully low in the money-marketas a New Zealand lamb, but theabundant supply of my little pets nevermade it easier for me to lose theparticular one which I had set my hearton rearing. It certainly did afford mesome comfort to hear that merinolambs had always been difficult, if notimpossible to bring up, like so many"pups," by hand; and among all thestatistics I carefully collected, I couldonly find one well-authenticatedinstance of a foundling having beenreared indoors. My informant tried tocomfort me by tales of the tyranny that

stout and tame sheep exercised over thehousehold which had sheltered it, but Ifear that the stories of its delightfulimpudence only made me moreanxious to succeed in my own baby-farming experiments among the lambs.

Chapter XV: A feathered pet.

No record of those dear, distant dayswould be complete without a shortmemoir of "Kitty." She was only a greyDorking hen, but no heroine in fact orfiction, no Lady Rachel Russell orFleurange, ever exceeded Kitty inunswerving devotion to a beloved

object, or rather objects.

To see Kitty was to admire her, at leastas I saw her one beautiful springevening in a grassy paddock on thebanks of the Horarata. We had riddenover there to visit our kind and friendlyneighbours, the C 's; we had enjoyed adelicious cup of tea in the passion-flower-covered verandah, which lookedon the whole range, from East to West,of the glorious Southern Alps, theirshining white summits sharply cutagainst our own peculiarly beautifulsky; we had strolled round thecharming, unformal garden, on eithersloping side of a wide creek, and hadadmired, with just a tinge of envy, the

fruits and flowers, the standard appleand rose trees, the tangle of fern andcreepers, the wealth of the old and newworlds heaped together in floralprofusion; we had done all this, I say,and very pleasant we had found it.Now we were trying to say goodbye:not so easy a task, let me tell you, whenthere are so many temptations to linger,and when you are greatly pressed tostay. The last device of our hospitablehostess to keep us consisted in offeringto show me her poultry-yard. Now Iwas a young beginner in that linemyself, and tormented my ducks andfowls to death by my incessant care: atleast that is the conclusion I havearrived at since; but at that time, I

considered it as necessary to look afterthem as if they had been so manychildren. The consequence was,as Ipathetically complained to Mrs. C , thatmy hens sat furiously for a week, andthen took to lingering outside, whereperpetual feeding was going on, untiltheir eggs grew cold; that my ducksneglected their offspring and allowedthe rats to decimate them, and thatevery variety of epidemic andmisfortune assailed in turns myunhappy poultry yard. Kind Mrs. C listened as gravely as she could, hintingvery gently, that perhaps I took toomuch trouble about them; then, fearingleast she might have wounded myfeelings, she hastened to suggest that I

should try the introduction of adifferent breed.

As a preliminary step to thisreformation, she offered to bestowupon me one of her best Dorkinghens. It was too tempting an offer to berefused, and I forthwith bestowed myaffections on a beautiful grey pullet,whose dignified carriage and speckledexterior bespoke her high lineage."That's Kitty," said Mrs. C . "I am soglad you fancy her; she is one of mynicest young hens. We'll catch her foryou in a moment." I must pause tomention here, that it struck me as beingvery odd in New Zealand the way inwhich every creature has a name,

excepting always the poor sheep. If onesees a cock strutting proudly outside ashepherd's door; you are sure to hear itis either Nelson or Wellington; everyhen has a pet name, and answers to it;so have the ducks and geese,at least, up-country; of course, dogs, horses, cowsand bullocks, each rejoice in the mostinflated appellations, but I don'tremember ever hearing ducks and fowlsanswer to their names in any othercountry.

But this is only by the way. I gratefullyand gladly accepted the transfer of thefair Kitty, and only wondered how Iwas to convey her to her new home,fifteen miles away. Kitty was soon

caught, and carried off into the houseto be packed up for her first ride.Accustomed as I am to ridiculousthings happening to me, still I never feltin so absurd a position as when, havingmounted "Helen," who seemed in aparticularly playful mood after a goodfeed of oats, Kitty was handed to meneatly tied up in a pillow-case with hertufted head protruding from a hole inthe seam at the side. Although veryanxious to carry her home immediately,my heart died within me at the prospectof a long gallop on a skittish mare witha plump Dorking hen tied up in a bagon my lap.

There was no help for it, however, and

I tried to put my bravest face on thematter. The difficulties commenced atthe very point of departure, for it is noteasy to say farewell cordially with yourhands full of reins, whip, and poultry.But it proved comparatively easy goingwhilst we only cantered over the plains.It was not until the first creek had beenreached, that I really perceived what laybefore me. Helen distrusted thecontents of the bag, and kept trying tolook round and see what it contained;and her fears of something uncannymight well have been confirmed whenshe took off at her first flat jump. Kittyscreamed, or shrieked, or whatevername best expresses her discordant andpiercing yells. I more than suspect I

shrieked too, partly at the difficulty ofkeeping both Kitty and Helen in anysort of order, and partly at my owninsecurity. No sooner had Helen landedon the other side, than she fledhomewards as if a tin kettle were tiedto her tail. The speed at which wedashed through the fragrant summer aircompletely took away Kitty's breath,and the poor creature appeared moredead than alive by the time Idismounted, trembling myself in everylimb for her safety as well as my own, atthe garden gate.

However, next morning brought arenewed delight in existence to bothKitty and me, and our night's sleep had

made us forget our agitation and peril.After breakfast I introduced her to thepoultry yard, and she adapted herselfto her new home with a tact and goodhumour most edifying to behold.Months passed away. Kitty had madeherself a nest in a place, the selectionof which did equal honour to her headand heart, and she gladdened my eyesone fine morning by appearing with alovely brood of chicks around her.Who so proud as the young mother?She exhibited them to me, and after Ihad duly admired them, used to carrythem off to a nursery of her own,which she had established among thetussocks just outside the stable door.Mrs. C had impressed upon me that

Kitty could be safely trusted to manageher own affairs. No fear of herdragging her fluffy babies out amongthe wet grass too early in the morning,or losing them among the flax busheson the hill-side. No: Kitty came of arace who were model mothers, and wasto be left to take care of herself andher chickens.

About a week after Kitty had firstshown me her large, small family, afriend of ours arrived unexpectedly tostop the night. Next morning, when hewas going away, he apologised forasking leave to mount at the stables,saying his led horse was so vicious, andthe one he was riding so gay, that it was

quite possible their legs might findthemselves within the verandah, or dosome mischief to the young shrubswhich were the pride and joy of myheart. This gentleman rode beautifully,and I used to like to see the courageand patience with which he alwaysconquered the most unruly horse.

"We will come up to the stable and seeyou mount," I cried, seizing my hat. Ofcourse every one followed my lead, andit was to the sound of mingled jeersand compliments that poor Mr. Tmounted his fiery steed, and seizedhold of the leading rein of his pack-horse. But this animal had no intentionof taking his departure with propriety

or tranquillity: he pranced and shied,flinging out his heels as he wildlydanced round to every point of thecompass, in a circle. Gradually he drewMr. T and his chestnut a dozen yardsaway from the stable, and it was justthen that I perceived poor Kitty sittingclose under a tussock. It chanced to bethe hour for the chickens' siesta, andthey were all folded away beneath herample brooding wings. Perhaps thedanger had come too near to beavoided before I perceived it, but at allevents my loud shriek of warning wastoo late to save the pretty crouchinghead from the flourish of the pack-horse's glancing heels. Swift indeed wasthe blow; for scarcely ten seconds could

have passed between my first glimpseof poor Kitty's bright black eye lookingout, with such mortal terror in itsexpression, from beneath the yellowtuft of grass, and my seeing the horse'sheel lay her head right open. The bravelittle mother never dreamed of savingherself at the cost of her nestlings. Shecrouched as low as possible, and whenthe horse had jumped over her I flewto see if she had escaped. No. There laymy pretty pet, with her wings stilloutspread and her chickens unhurt. Butshe seemed dead: her head had beenactually cut clean open, and I neverexpected that she would have lived amoment. Yet she did. I took her at onceto the well hard by, and bound up her

split head with my pockethandkerchief, keeping it well wettedwith cold water. Later on I put forth allthe surgical art I possessed, and dressedthe wound in the most scientificmanner, nursing poor Kitty tenderly inthe kitchen, and feeding her with myown hands every two hours. She wasfor a long time incapable of feedingherself and; even when all danger wasover, required most careful nursing.However, the end of the story is that,she recovered entirely her bodily health,but her poor little brain remainedclouded for ever. She never took anymore notice of her chickens, who hadto be brought up by hand, and shenever mixed again with the society of

the poultry-yard. At night she roostedapart in the coalshed, and she neverseemed to hear my voice or distinguishme from others, though she wasperfectly tame to everybody. Kitty's endwas very tragical. She grew exceedinglyfat, and at last, one time when we wereall snowed up and could not afford tobe sentimental, my cook laid hold ofpoor Kitty, who was moping in herusual corner, and converted her into asavoury stew without telling me, until Ihad actually dined off her. I was veryangry; but Eliza only repeated by wayof consolation, "She had no wits, onlyflesh, consequently she was better inmy stew-pot nor anywhere else, mum,if you'll only look at it calm like." But it

was very hard to be made to eat one'spatient, especially when I was so proudof the way her poor head had healed.

If anybody wanted to teaze me, theysuggested that I had omitted to replacemy dear Kitty's brains before closingthat cruel wound in her skull.

Chapter XVI: Doctoring without adiploma.

So many reminiscences come crowdinginto my mind,some grave and othersgay,as I sit down to write these finalchapters, that I hardly know where to

begin.

The most clamorous of the fast-thronging memories, the one whichpushes its way most vividly to thefront, is of a little amateur doctoring ofmine; and as my patient luckily did notdie of my remedies, I need not fear thatI shall be asked for my diploma.

Shearing was just over; over only thatvery evening in fact. We had beenleading a sort of uncomfortable picniclife at the home station for more thanten days, and had returned to our ownpretty little home up the valley, late onSaturday night, in time for the supper-dinner I have so often described. It was

my doing, that fortnight's picnic at thehome station, and I may as wellcandidly confess it was a mistake;although, made, like most mistakes inlife, with good intentions. Our partnerhad gone to England, our manager hadjust left us to set up sheep-farming onhis own account, and all theresponsibility of shearing a good manythousand sheep devolved on F. Andnot only the shearing; the flock had tobe carefully draughted, the ewes,wethers, and hoggets, to be branded,ear-marked, and turned out on theirseveral ranges; the wethers for homeconsumption, which consisted of agood-sized flock of many hundredsheep, turned into the home-

paddock,an enclosure of some five orsix hundred acres,and various otherminute details to be seen to; the woolto be sent down to Christchurch, andthe stores brought up by the returndrays.

My motives for the plan I formed forus to go over, bag and baggage, to thehome station, the evening before theshearing began, and live there till it wasover, were varied. We will put the mostunselfish first, for the sake ofappearances. I knew it would be veryhard work for poor F all that time, andI thought it would add to his fatigue ifhe had to go backwards and forwardsto his own house every day, getting up

at five in the morning and returninglate at night, besides having nocomfortable meals. The next motivewas that I wanted very much to see thewhole process of shearing, and all therest of it, myself; and as it turned out,though I little dreamed of it at the time,this proved to be my only chance.Every body tried to dissuade me fromcarrying out the scheme, by urging thatI should be very uncomfortable; but Idid not care in the least for that, andinsisted on being allowed at all eventsto see how I liked it.

Accordingly one evening we set forth:such a ridiculous cavalcade. I wouldnot hear of riding, for it was only a

short two miles walk; and as we did notstart until after our last meal, the sunhad dipped behind Flag-pole's tallpeak, and nearly the whole of ourhappy valley lay in deep, cool shadow.Besides which, it looked more like thereal thing to walk, and that was half thebattle with me. The "real thing" in thiscase, though I did not stop to explain itto myself, must have meant emigrants,Mormons, soldiers on the march, whatyou will; any thing which expresses allone's belongings being packed into alittle cart, with a huge tin bath securedon the top of all. Such a miscellaneousassortment of dry goods as that cartheld! A couple of mattresses (for mycourage failed me at the idea of

sleeping on chopped tussocks for afortnight), a couple of folding-up arm-chairs, though, as it turned out, onewould have been enough, for poor Fnever sat down from the time he got upuntil he went to bed again; a largehamper of provisions, some books, ourclothes, and various little matters whichwere indispensable if one had to live inan empty house for a fortnight. I hadsent my two maids over one morning afew days before, with pails and mopsand brushes, and they had given thecouple of rooms which we were toinhabit, a thorough good cleaning andscouring, so my mind was easy on thatpoint. It would not have answered, formany reasons, to have encumbered

ourselves with these damsels duringour stay at the home station. In the firstplace, there was really noaccommodation for them; in the next, itwould have entailed more luggage thanthe little cart could hold; and, finally,we should have been obliged to leavethem behind at the last moment: foronly the evening before we started, acouple of friends arrived, in true NewZealand fashion, from Christchurch, topay us a month's visit. It was too late toalter our plans then, so we told them to,make themselves thoroughly at home,and took our departure next day in theway I have alluded to.

We had plenty of escort as far as the

first swamp. When that treacherous andwell-known spot had been reached,everybody suddenly remembered thatthey had forgotten something or theother which obliged them to returndirectly, so our farewells had to beexchanged from the centre of a flaxbush. The cart meanwhile was nearlyout of sight, so wide a detour had itsdriver been forced to make in order tofind a place sound enough to bear itsweight. But we caught it up again afterwe had happily crossed the quagmirewhich used always to be my bug-bear,and in due time we made ourappearance, in the gloaming, at the tinyhouse belonging to the home station.Early as was the hour, not later than

half-past eight, the place lay silent andstill under the balmy summer haze. Allthe shearers were fast asleep in themen's hut, whilst every available nookand corner was filled with the sparehands; the musterers, branders, yard-keepers, and many others, whose dutieswere less-defined. Far down the flat wecould dimly discern a white patch,thefleecy outlines of the large mobdestined to fill the skillions at day-breakto-morrow morning; and, although wecould not see them distinctly, close by,watchful and vigilant all through thatand many subsequent summer nights,Pepper and his two beautiful colleyskept watch and ward over the sheep.

Writing in the heavy atmosphere of thisvast London world, I look back uponthat, and such evenings as that, with adesperate craving to breathe once morehe delicious air unsoiled by humanlungs, and stirred into fresh fragranceby every summer sigh of those distantNew Zealand valleys. No wonderpeople were always well in such a pure,clear, light atmosphere. I try to feelagain in fancy the exquisite enjoymentof merely drawing a deep breath, thethrilling sensation of health andstrength it sent tingling down to yourfinger ends. No fleck or film of vapouror miasma could be seen or smelt,though the day had been burning hot,and, as I have said, there were plenty of

creeks and swamps hard by. Damp isunknown in those valleys, and wemight have lingered bareheaded evenafter the heavy dew began to fall,without risk of cold, or fever, or anyother ailment. But we could not affordto linger a moment out of doors thatlovely tempting evening. F and thedriver of the cart, who had someimportant part to take in the morrow'sproceedings (I forget exactly what),soon tossed out my little stores, whichlooked very insignificant as they lay in aheap in the verandah, and departed tosee that all was in train for next day'swork. I had no time to enjoy theevening's soft beauty: the beds had tobe made; clothes to be unpacked and

hung up; stores must be arranged onthe shelves in the sitting-room,for thehouse only consisted of two smallrooms in front, with a wide verandah,and a sort of lean-to at the back, whichwas divided into a small kitchen andstore-room. This last was empty. Iconfess I thought rather regretfully ofmy pretty, comfortable, English-lookingbed-room at the other house, with itscurtains and carpet, its wardrobes andlooking-glasses, when I found myselfsurveying the scene of my completedlabours. Two station bunks,i.e., woodenbed-frames of the simplest and rudestconstruction, with a sacking bottom,acouple of empty boxes, one for adressing-table and the other for a wash-

stand, a tin basin and a bucket of water,being the paraphernalia of the latter,whilst some nails behind the doorserved to hang our clothes on, suchwas my station bedroom and all myown doing too! Certainly it lookeduncomfortable enough to satisfy anyone, but I would not have complainedof it for the world, lest I might havebeen ordered home directly.

Hard as was my bed that night, I sleptsoundly, and it appeared only fiveminutes before I heard a tremendousnoise outside the verandah. Thebleating of hundreds of sheepannounced that the mob were slowlyadvancing, before a perfect army of

men and dogs, up to the sheep yards.What a din they all made! F was wideawake, and up in a moment. I, anxiousto show why I had insisted on comingover, got up too, and made my way intothe little kitchen, where I found acharming surprise awaiting me in theshape of some faggots of neatly-stacked wood, cut into exactly, the rightlengths for the American stove; andalso a heap of dry Menuka bushes,which make the best touchwood forlighting fires in the whole world. Thetiny kitchen and stove were bothscrupulously clean, and so were mythree saucepans and kettle. This hadbeen, of course, my maids' doing, butthe fuel was a delicate little attention on

Pepper's part. How he blushed andgrinned with delight when I thankedhim before all his mates! This wasindeed station-life made easy! It did nottake two minutes to light my fire, and infive more I had a delicious cup of teaand some bread-and-butter all ready forF. It was nearly cold, however, by thetime I could catch him and make himdrink it. Of course, being a man,instead of saying, "Thank you," oranything of that sort, he merelyremarked, "What nonsense!" butequally of course, he was very glad toget it, and ate and drank it all up,returning instantly to his shed.

After this little episode, I set to work to

unpack a little, and make the sitting-room look the least bit more home-like;then I laid the cloth for breakfast, putout the pie and potted meat, etc. (nowords can say how heartily tired of pieswe both were before the week wasover), and arranged everything forbreakfast. Then I waylaid one of thenumerous stray "hands" which hangabout a station at shearing time, andgot him to fetch me a couple ofbuckets of water as far as the verandah.These I conveyed myself into the littlesleeping-room, and finished my toiletteat my leisure: tidying it all upafterwards. I wonder if any one has anyidea what hot work it is making a bed?So hot, in fact, that I resolved in future

to be wise enough to finish all thesedomestic occupations before I had mybath. The worst of getting up so earlyproved to be that by nine o'clock I wasvery tired, and had nothing else to dofor the remainder of the long, noisyday. As for the meals, they werewretchedly unsociable; for F only camein to snatch a mouthful or two,standing, and it was of little use tryingto make things comfortable for him. Imust confess here, what I would notacknowledge at the time, that I found ita very long and dull visit. My husbandnever had time to speak to me, andwhen he did, it was only about sheep. Igrew weary of living on cold meat, forit was really too hot to cook; and my

servants used to send me over, everysecond day, cold fowls or pies; besides,one seemed to live in a whirl andconfusion of dust, and bleating, andbarking. After the day's work was fairlyover, F used to rush in, seize a big bath-towel, cry "I am off for a bathe in thecreek," and only return in time forsupper and bed. The weather was allthat a sheep-farmer could desire. Bright,sunny, and clear, one lovely summer dayfollowed another; hot, almost totropical warmth, without any risk orfear of sun-stroke or head-ache, and adelicious lightness in the atmosphere allthe time, which merged into a coolbracing air the moment the sun hadslowly travelled behind the high hills to

the westward.

But all these details, though necessaryto make you understand what I hadbeen doing, are not the story itself, soto that we will hurry on. The shearingwas over; Saturday evening had come,as welcome to poor imprisoned me asto any one, and the great work of theNew Zealand year had been mostsuccessfully accomplished. F was insuch good humour that he evendeigned to admit that his own comforthad been somewhat increased by myliving at the home station, so I felt quiterewarded for my many dreary hours.The shearers had been paid, and wereeven then picking their way over the

hills in little groups of two and three;some, I grieve to say, bound for thenearest accommodation-house orwayside inn, and others for the nextstation, across the river, where theskillions were full, and waiting for themto begin on Monday morning. Onlyhalf-a-dozen people, instead of thirty,were left at our place, and there wouldnot even have been so many if it hadnot been thought well to keep a fewthere until the bale-loft was empty.Generally it was arranged for the wool-drays to follow each other every twodays with a load down to Christchurch;for the greatest risk a sheep-farmer runsis from his shed taking fire whilst it isfull of bales of wool. This had

happened often enough in the colony,and even in our neighbourhood, tomake us more and more careful everyyear; and, as I have said, amongst ourprecautions, was that of keeping aslittle wool as possible in the shed. Mostflock-owners waited until the shearingshould be quite over before they cartedthe wool away; but in that case, a sparkfrom a pipe, a match carelessly droppedin a tussock outside, when a nor'-westerwas blowing,and the slight woodenbuilding would be blazing like a torch,and your year's income vanishing in thesmoke!

Even at the last moment, when the carthad already started homewards, with

the tin bath balanced once more on thetop of the mattresses and boxes; whenthe house was empty, and I was waiting,my hat and jacket on, and flax-stick inhand, eager to set out, a doubt aroseabout the expediency of our returnhome. Some accidental delay hadprevented the dray from arriving intime to start for Christchurch with thelast load, and between two and threehundred pounds worth of wool stillremained in the shed,packed andlabelled indeed, but neither insured norprotected from the risk of fire in anyway. F was very loath to leave themthere; but, yielding to my entreaties, hecalled Pepper, the head shepherd, andsolemnly gave the wool-shed and its

contents over into his charge, withmany and many a caution about fire.Pepper was as trustworthy and steady ashepherd as any in the colony, andpromised to "keep his weather-eyeopen," as he phrased it, in nauticalslang picked up from some run-awaysailor.

All the way home F said from time totime, anxiously, "I wish the shed wasempty;" but I cheered him up, and toldhim he was over-tired and unreasonablynervous, and so forth, but with a greatlonging myself for Monday morning tocome, and for the dray to take its loadand start. I need not dwell on howdelicious it was to return home, where

everything seemed so comfortable andnice, and the bed felt especially soft andwelcome to tired limbs. Early were ourhours, you may be sure, and we sleptthe sleep of the hard-worked untilbetween two and three o'clock the nextmorning. Then we were roused up bysome one knocking loudly against ourwide-open latticed window.

I was the first to hear the noise, andcried, "Who's there? what is it?" all in abreath.

"The wool-shed on fire," murmured F,in a tone of agonized conviction.

"It's you that's wanted, please mum,

this moment, over at the home station!"I heard Pepper say, in impatient tones.

"It's the wool-shed," repeated F, morethan half asleep, and with only roomfor that one idea in his dreamy mind.

"Nonsense!" I cried, jumping out ofbed. "I should not be wanted if thewool-shed were on fire. Don't you hearPepper say he wants me?"

"All right, then," said F, actually turningover and proposing to go to sleepagain. But there was no more sleep foreither of us that night. Whilst I hastilyput on my riding-habit, Pepper told me,through the window; an incoherent tale

of some one being at the point ofdeath, and wanting me to cure him, andthe master to bring over pen and ink, tomake a will, and dying speeches andcold shivers, all mixed up together in atangle of words. F took some minutesto understand that it was Fenwick, agigantic Yorkshireman, who had beenseized with what Pepper would call the"choleraics," and who, in spite ofhaving swallowed all the mustard andrum and "pain-killer" left on thepremises, grew worse and worse everymoment. "He's dying, safe enough,"concluded Pepper, "but he's mainanxious to see you, mum, and themaster; and he wants a Bible brought toswear him, and he's powerful uneasy to

make his will." I knew quite as little ofmedicine as my husband did of law,but of course we decided instantly thatwe ought both to go and see whatcould be done in any way to relieveeither the body or mind of the sufferer.

We said to each other while we werehastily dressing, "How shall we evercatch the horses? They have all beenturned out, of course, as no onethought they would be wanted untilMonday; and who knows where theyhave gone to?miles away, perhaps; andit's pitch dark." Judge, then, of ourdelighted surprise, when, on going outinto the verandah, preparatory tostarting off to look for our steeds, we

found them standing at the gate, readysaddled and bridled. It seemed likemagic, but the good fairies in this casehad been the two guests to whom Ihave alluded as having arrived just aswe were starting for our picnic life.They were both "old chums," andunderstood the situation instantly.Whilst we were questioning Pepper(you can hear every word all over aNew Zealand house), they had jumpedup, huddled on their clothes, and goneover the brow of the hill to look forthe horses. By great good fortune thewhole mob was found quietly campingin the sheltered valley full of sweetgrass, on its further side. To walk up tomy pretty bay mare Helen, and lay hold

of her mane, and then, vaulting on herback, ride the rest of the mob back intothe stockyard, was, even in the deepdarkness of a midsummer night, nodifficult task for eyes so practised tocatching horses under all circumstances.So here was one obstacle suddenlysmoothed, and as I hastily collected myfew simple remedies, consisting chieflyof flannel, chlorodyne, and brandy, Icould only trust and pray that poorFenwick's case might not be sodesperate as Pepper represented it.

To our impatience, the difficult track,with its swamps and holes, its creeks tobe jumped, and morasses to beavoided, seemed long indeed; but to

judge from the continued profounddarkness,that inky blackness of the skywhich is the immediate forerunner ofdaylight,the dawn could not be far off.How well I remember the whole scene!F tied his white handkerchief on hisarm, that Helen and I might have afaint speck of light by which to guideourselves. Pepper rode close to me,pouring into my ears dismal predictionsof Fenwick's end; whilst I, amid all myanxiety, could only think of the dangersof the track, and whether, in the pitchydarkness, we should ever get to thehome station. The dew fell so heavilythat more than once I thought it mustbe raining, but those were only wind-clouds brooding in the great dark vault

above us. More welcome than eversounded the bark of the dogs, whichtold us we had reached the end of ourstumbling ride; and the moment theirtongues woke up the silence, a lanternshowed a ray of light to guide us to thehut door.

I jumped off my horse instantly, andwent in. At first I thought my patientwas dead, for he lay, rigid and grey, inhis bunk. At a glance I perceived thatnothing could really be done to helphim whilst he was lying on a high shelf,almost out of my reach, in a small hutfilled with bewildered men, who keptoffering him from time to time a "pull"at a particularly good pipe, having

previously poured all the grog theycould muster down his throat, or ratherover his pillow (his saddle performedthat duty by night), for he had beenunable to swallow for some hours. Iremembered that there were thebedsteads we had used at the house,and also some firewood still left in thekitchen. Explaining to Pepper how hewas to wrap poor Fenwick in everyavailable blanket in the place, and carryhim across the open space into theparlour, I hastily ran on before, gotsome one to help me to drag one ofthe light frames into the sitting-room,laced it before the fireplace, and thenmade up a good blazing fire on theopen hearth. By the time the dry wood

was crackling and sparkling out itscheery welcome, my patient arrived,and was laid down, blankets and all, onthe rude little bedstead, before theblaze. By its fitful and uncertain light Iproceeded to examine the enormousframe stretched so helplessly before me,feeling half afraid to touch him at all. Fwas very trying as an assistant, for helooked on without making anysuggestions, and only said from time totime, "Take care: the man is dead." Tomy inexperienced eyes he indeedseemed past all human help. His skinwas icy cold, and as wet as if he hadbeen lying out in the dew. No flutter ofpulse, nor sign of breath, could mytrembling efforts discover; but I fancied

there was the least little sign ofpulsation about his heart. Of course Ihad not the vaguest notion of whatwas the matter with the man, for allPepper could tell me was that"Fenwick's been powerful bad, youbet." This does not sound a minutediagnosis to go on, and the onlyremedies which presented themselvesto my mind were those I had studied asbeing useful for the recovery ofdrowned persons. So to work I set, asif the poor fellow had just been fishedout of the creek; and whenever any onewanted to teaze me afterwards theywould declare I had insisted onFenwick's being held up by his heels.But of course that was all nonsense.

What I did really do was this, and adoctor in Christchurch, whom Iafterwards consulted as to mytreatment, assured me, laughingly, that itwas "capital."

I made Pepper and another man bothrub the cold clammy body, as hard asthey could with mustard and hotflannel. I got some bottles filled withhot water (for it did not take fiveminutes to boil the kettle) and placed tohis icy-cold feet and under his arms,then I mixed a little very strong and hotbrandy and water, to which I added afew drops of chlorodyne, and gave hima teaspoonful every five minutes. Forthe first half-hour there was no sign of

life to be detected, and the samehorrible bluish pallor made poorFenwick's really handsome face lookghastly in the flickering light. My twoassistants were getting exhausted, andPepper had more than once murmured,with the recollection of the pastfortnight's work strong upon him,"Spell, oh!" or else "Shears!" [Note: theshearer's demand for a few minutesrest] whilst his companion inquiredpathetically, "What was the use offlaying a dead man?" To these hints Ipaid no attention, though my dampriding habit was steaming from the heatof the fire and I felt dreadfully tired;for certainly there seemed to my eyes ahealthier tinge stealing over the rigid

features, and it could not be my fancywhich detected a stronger effort toswallow the last spoonful of brandy.

I need not go into the details of myjumbled-up remedies; probably Ishould bring upon myself seriousremonstrances from the Royal HumaneSociety, if my treatment of thatunhappy man were made public. It isenough to say that I "exhibited"mustard by the pound and brandy bythe quart, that I roasted him first onone side and then on the other, that histrue skin was rubbed off, that Ichlorodyned him until he slept fornearly a week, and that when he finallyrecovered he declared he felt "as if he'd

been dead:" "And no wonder," asPepper always remarked. The only clueI could get to the cause of his illnesswas a shy confession, about a weekafterwards, that he had eaten a fewmushrooms. Fenwick's idea of a few ofanything was generally a liberal notion.I questioned him narrowly as to whathe had had for supper the night he wastaken ill, and this was his bill of fare:

"Well, you see, mum, I wasn't rightlyhungry: it must have been them gripsescoming on. So I only had a shoulder(of mutton, bien entendu; when Fenwickhad really a good appetite he regardedanything less than a whole leg of asheep as an insult) that night, half-a-

dozen slap jacks, and a trifle ofmushrooms." "How big were themushrooms?" I asked. "Oh, they wasrather fine ones, mum, I won't deny:they might have been the bigness of aplate." Now even supposing them tohave been perfectly wholesome, a fewdozen mushrooms of that size, eatenhalf raw with a whole shoulder ofmutton, are quite enough to myignorant mind to account for so severea fit of the "choleraics."

Chapter XVII: Odds and ends.

My nerves had hardly recovered the

shock of having the care of such ahuge patient thrust on me; for, seriouslyspeaking, Fenwick took a good deal ofnursing and attention before he gotwell again, when we had another nightalarm. Our beautiful summer weatherwas breaking up; high nor'-westers hadblown down the gorges for days, andnow a cold wet gale was coming up inheavy banks of fleecy clouds from thesou'-west. Everything looked cold andwretched out of doors, but the sheep-farmers were thankful and pleased.Their "mobs" could find excellentshelter for themselves, for it takes verybad weather to hurt a Merino sheep,and the creeks had been running ratherlow. "We shall have a splendid autumn

after this is over," said all the squattersgleefully, "with lots of feed: there'sTyler's creek coming down beautifully."

So I was fain to be content, though myfowls looked draggled and wretched,and my pet patch of mignonettebecame a miniature desert, its fragrancebeing all blown and rain-beaten away.Good fires of lignite and wood madethe house cheery, and we went to bed,hoping for fine weather next day. In themiddle of the night everyone wasawakened by a tremendous, echoingnoise outside, whilst the frail woodenhouse vibrated perceptibly. It could notbe caused by the wind: for, althoughthe rain kept pouring steadily down, the

furious sou'-west gusts had long agobeen beaten into a sullen silence by thedescending torrents. For a moment, andhalf-awake, an old tropicalreminiscence floated through my sleepy,startled mind: "Can it be anearthquake?" I dreamily wondered. But,no earthquake of my acquaintance wasever yet so resounding and noisy, for allits crumbling horror: yet, the house wascertainly shaking. "What is it? What areyou doing?" rang in shouts through thelittle dwelling, as its dwellers camethronging, one after another, to ourdoor. Frightened as I was, I canperfectly remember how indignant Ifelt, when it became clear to my mindthat they all thought we were making

such an uproar. How could we do it, ifeven we had wished to get out of ourwarm beds, and create a disturbance onsuch a wild night.

"Good gracious! the house is comingdown," I cried, as a fresh shudder ranthrough the slight framework of, ourlittle wooden home. "Pray go out, andsee what is the matter." Thus urged, Fopened a casement on the shelteredside,if any side could be said to besheltered in such weather,andcautiously put his head out. I peeredover his shoulder, and never can Iforget the ridiculous sight which metour eyes. There, dripping and forlorn,huddled together under the wide roof

of our summer parlour, as theverandah used to be often called, thewhole mob of horses had gatheredthemselves. The garden gate chanced tohave been left open, and, evidentlyunder old Jack's' guidance, they had allwalked into the verandah, wandereddisconsolately up and down itsboarded floor, and after partaking of aslight refreshment in the shape of mybest creepers, had proceeded to makethemselves at home by rubbing theirwet sides against the pillars and thewooden sides of the house itself.

No wonder the noise had aroused usall. Ironshod hoofs clattering up anddown a boarded verandah is riot a

silent performance; and Jack was socool and impudent about it, positivelyrefusing to stir from the shelteredcorner by the silver-pheasants' aviary,which he had chosen for himself. Theother horses evidently felt they wereintruders, and were glad enough, on theflapping of a handkerchief, to hurryout of their impromptu stables, makingthe best of their way through thenarrow garden gate, and so out uponthe bleak hills again. But Jack's conductwas very trying; he found himselfperfectly comfortable, and evidentlyintended to remain so; neither forwishing nor coaxing, for fair words norfoul, would he stir. It seemed so horridto have to dress and go out in such a

downpour of rain, that we weaklydeliberated on the expediency of lettingthe cunning old stock-horse remain;but fortunately, at that moment hebegan to scratch his ear with his hindfoot, waking up a thousand echoesagainst the side of the house as he didso, and making the pictures dance againon the canvas and paper walls. "Thiswill never do," cried we all, desperately:"he sure must be taken to the stable orhe'll come back again." That was exactlywhat Jack meant and wanted: so to thestable he went, under poor shiveringMr. U 's guidance, and the old roguespent a dry, warm night under its roof.

It was the more absurd Jack pretending

to be afraid of a wet night, when hehad walked many and many a wearymile over the rough mountain passestowards the West-Coast, with a heavypack on his back and in all sorts ofweather. A tradition existed in ourneighbourhood that Jack had oncebeen met crossing the Amuri Downswith a small barrel-organ, an Americancooking stove, and a sow with a litterof young ones, all packed on his back,"and stepping out bravely under themall," as my informant added. But Icannot vouch for the truth of the itemsof this load. Jack's fame as a stock-horse, as well as a pack-horse, stoodhigh in the Malvern Hills, but hisconduct in the shafts was eccentric, to

say the least of it. He could not bear tobe guided by his driver, and was alwayssquinting over his blinkers in the mostridiculous manner. If he perceived amob of cattle or horses on a distantflat, he would set off to have a look atthem and determine whether they werestrangers or friends, dragging the gigafter him "over bank, bush, and scaur."

Once when we were in great despair fora cart-horse, Jack was elected to thepost, but long before we had come tothe journey's end we regretted ourchoice. It was during the first summerof my life in the Malvern Hills, andwhilst the nor'-westers were still steadilysetting their breezy faces against such a

new fangled idea as a lawn. I hadwearied of sowing grass seed at, aguinea a bag, long before thoseextremely rude zephyrs got tired ofblowing it all out of the ground. Therewas my beautiful set of croquet, freshfrom Jacques, lying idle in its box in theverandah, and there was my charmingfriend, Alice S , longing for a game ofcroquet. When pretty young ladies wishfor anything very much, and the houseis full of gentlemen, it goes hard, butthat they get the desire of theirinnocent hearts. So it was in this case.One fine afternoon Alice wanderedinto the verandah and peeped for thehundredth time into the box. "Whatbeautiful things," she sighed, "and how

hard it is we can't have a game." "Iknow a patch of self-sown grass," sangone of the party, "whereon we mightplay a game." "Where: oh, where?" weasked, in eager chorus. "About twomiles from this, near a desertedshepherd's hut; it is as thick and soft asgreen velvet, and the sheep keep it quiteshort." "Is the ground level?" weinquired. "As flat as this table," was thesatisfactory answer.

Of course we wanted to startimmediately, but how were we to getthe croquet things there, to say nothingof the delightful excuse for tea out ofdoors which immediately presenteditself to my ever-thirsty mind. A dray

was suggested (carriages we had none;there being no roads for them if wehad possessed such vehicles); but alas,and alas! the proper dray and driver andhorse were all away, on an expeditionup a distant gulley getting out somebrush-wood for fires. "There's Jack,"some one said, doubtfully. He hadnever even drawn a dray in his life, sofar as we knew, but at the same time wefelt sure that when once Jackunderstood what was required of him,he would do his best to help us to getto our croquet ground. So we flew offto our different duties. Alice to see thatthe balls, hoops, and mallets were allright in numbers and colours, &c.; I topack a large open basket with the

materials for my favourite form ofdissipation an out-door tea; and thegentlemen to catch Jack and harnesshim into the cart.

Peals of laughter announced the settingforth of the expedition; and nowonder! Inside the dray, which was avery light and crazy old affair, wasseated Alice on an empty flour-sack; byher side I crouched on an old sugarbag, one of my arms keeping tight holdof my beloved tea-basket with itsjingling contents, whilst the other wasdesperately clutching at the side of thedray. On a board across the front threegentlemen were perched, each wantingto drive, exactly like so many small

children in a goat carriage, and likethem, one holding the reins, the otherthe whip, and the third giving goodadvice. In the shafts stood poor shaggyold Jack, looking over his blinkers asmuch as to say, "What do you want meto do now?" Our good humoured andstalwart cadet Mr. U , walkedbackwards, holding out a carrot andcalling Jack to come and eat it.

In this extraordinary fashion weproceeded down the flat for two orthree hundred yards, one carrotsucceeding the other in Jack's jawsrapidly. Mr. U was just beginning to say"Look here: don't you think we oughtto take turns at this?" when Jack caught

sight of a creek right before him. Heonly knew of one way of crossing suchobstacles, and that was to jump them.No one calculated on the sudden rushand high bound into the air with whichhe triumphantly cleared the water;knocking Mr. U over, and scattering histhree drivers like summer leaves on thetrack. As for Alice and me, the insidepassengers, we found the sensation ofjumping a creek in a dray mostunpleasant. All the croquet balls leaptwildly up into the air to fall like awooden hailstorm around us. Themallets and hoops bruised us from ourhead to our feet; and the contents ofmy basket were utterly ruined. Not onlyhad my tea-cups and saucers come

together in one grand smash, but thekettle broke the bottle of cream, whichin its turn absorbed all the sugar. Jacklooked coolly round at us with an airof mild satisfaction, as if he thought hehad done something very clever, whilstour shrieks were rending the air.

What a merry, light-hearted time ofone's life was that! We all had to workhard, and our amusements were sosimple and Arcadian that I oftenwonder if they really did amuse us somuch as we thought they did at themoment. Let all New Zealanders whodoubt this, look into those perhapsclosed chapters of their lives, and asmemory turns over the leaves one by

one, and pictures like the sketches I tryto reproduce in pen and ink, grow intodistinctness out of the dim past, it willindeed "surprise me very much," if theydo not say, as I do,my pleasant taskended,"Ah, those were happy daysindeed!"

THE END