BRIGHTER BRITAIN

 OR

 SETTLER AND MAORI

 IN

 _NORTHERN NEW ZEALAND. _

 BY

 WILLIAM DELISLE HAY, AUTHOR OF "THREE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE, " "THE DOOM OF THE GREAT CITY, " ETC. 

 "Queen of the seas, enlarge thyself! Send thou thy swarms abroad! For in the years to come, -- Where'er thy progeny, Thy language and thy spirit shall be found, -- If-- --in that Austral world long sought, The many-isled Pacific, -- When islands shall have grown, and cities risen In cocoa-groves embower'd; Where'er thy language lives. By whatsoever name the land be call'd, That land is English Still. "

 SOUTHEY. 

 IN TWO VOLUMES. --VOL. I. 

 LONDON:

 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 

 1882. 

 (_All rights reserved. _)

 PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCELES. 

PREFACE. 

This book is descriptive of things as they are in a part of New Zealand, together with some reference to past history. It does not attempt tohandle the colony as a whole, but refers to scenes within the northernhalf of the North Island only. This part of the country, the naturalhome of the kauri pine, is what I here intend to specify under the titleof Northern New Zealand. 

I am not an emigration-tout, a land-salesman, or a tourist. When I wentto New Zealand I went there as an emigrant. Not until a few days beforeI left its shores had I any other idea but that the rest of my life wasdestined to be that of a colonist, and that New Zealand was my fixed andpermanent home. I have, therefore, written from the point of view of asettler. Circumstances, which have nothing to do with this chronicle, caused me to lay down axe and spade, and eventually to become aspoiler of paper instead of a bushman. The materials of this work, gathered together in the previous condition of life, are now put inprint in the other. 

I trust no one of my colonial friends will feel offended, should hethink that he discovers a caricature of himself in these pages. I haveused disguises to veil real identities, occasionally taking liberties asregards time, situation, and personality. I think that no one butthemselves could recognize my characters. 

The substance of one or two chapters of this book has, in part, beenalready placed before the public in papers that I contributed to _TheField_ last year, and is used again here by kind permission of theproprietor of that newspaper. Also, I have made the Kaipara the scene ofseveral tales and sketches, which have appeared in sundry periodicals. 

If, in writing this book, I had any object beyond that of amusing thereader, it has been to give accurate information to young Englishmenbelonging to the middle-classes. From this section of home society aconsiderable number of emigrants go out who had much better stop athome. On the other hand, there are many who do not stir, and who wouldbe much better off in a colony. Perhaps, from the record I am now ableto put before them, some of these young gentlemen will be more able todecide whether they are personally adapted to become colonists inNorthern New Zealand or not. If one unsuitable emigrant is herebydeterred from leaving home, and if one capable colonist is added to thepopulation of "Brighter Britain, " my labour will not have beenaltogether useless. 

For the rest, I throw myself again upon the indulgence of critics, andon that of a public which has already abundantly favoured the efforts Ihave made to please and serve it. 

 THE AUTHOR. 

 LONDON, _June 25th, 1882. _

CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 

 CHAPTER PAGE

 I. A "NEW-CHUM'S" INTRODUCTION 1

 II. AUCKLAND 21

 III. GOING UP COUNTRY 63

 IV. IN THE KAIPARA 93

 V. OUR SHANTY 115

 VI. OUR HOME-LIFE 143

 VII. OUR PIONEER FARM. I. 174

 VIII. OUR PIONEER FARM. II. 196

 IX. OUR SHOW-PLACE 227

 X. OUR NATIVE NEIGHBOURS 253

 XI. OUR SETTLER FRIENDS 285

 XII. A PIG-HUNT 319

BRIGHTER BRITAIN!

CHAPTER I. 

A "NEW-CHUM'S" INTRODUCTION. 

Three months on board ship seems a long while to look forward to, yet itis but a short time to look back upon. Emigrants, being for the mostpart drawn from among dry-land-living populations, are apt to be dauntedby the idea of a long voyage. People would be more ready, perhaps, tocontemplate becoming colonists, were it not for that dreaded crossing ofthe sea which must necessarily be their first step. Their terrors may benatural enough, but they are more fanciful than real; and once overcome, the emigrant smiles at his former self. 

After the first week or two at sea, the most inveterate "land-lubber"begins to feel at home; in another week or two he has become quitenautical, and imagines himself to have been a sailor half his life;while, when the voyage is over and the time come to go ashore, there arefew who leave their floating home without regret. 

As things are managed nowadays, there exists no reason for apprehensionof the voyage on the part of would-be colonists. Emigrants who are takenout "free"--that is, at the expense of the colonial government--as wellas those who pay their own passage, are cared for in most liberal andconsiderate style. The rivalry between the various colonies of Australiahas had this effect among others--that the voyage is made as safe, smooth, and inviting to emigrants as is possible. They are berthed withan ever-increasing attention to their care and comfort, while they areabsolutely pampered and fattened with abundance and variety of the bestfood. 

No one expects to commence life in a new country without undergoing someamount of hardship and difficulty, and when the emigrant gets on shore, and begins to experience the various little annoyances that a "new-chum"must necessarily undergo, he realizes most thoroughly the pleasures andcomforts he has left behind him on board ship; and, very frequently, vainly endeavours to suppress the wish that he was back on board "theold hooker" making the voyage out over again. 

As to _danger_, nothing amuses an old salt more than the bare idea ofthe "perils of the sea. " To him, a railway journey, short or long, appears an infinitely more terrible and risky undertaking than a voyagehalf round the globe; and he will enumerate the various dangers to whicha landsman is exposed as vastly in excess of those which may happen tothe mariner. 

Life on board an emigrant-ship would, it might be thought, be somewhatdull and monotonous. As a matter of fact, it is scarcely ever found tobe so. First of all, the little community of two or three hundredsouls--men, women, and children--contrives to find sufficient fund foramusement in itself, in all the varieties of social intercourse. 

The progress of each day is marked by some fresh events that, insignificant as they may seem when regarded from a distance, do yetbear the strongest interest to all on board. A glimpse at some distantland, the signalling or speaking of other vessels, the appearance ofstrange birds and fish, the passage into different climates, theexcitement of a storm, or the opportunity which a calm gives for generaljunketing; all such incidents are looked upon as a real gain by thevoyagers, while there is always something stirring on board to divertand enliven them. 

All kinds of games are resorted to, many more, in fact, than landsmenhave any idea of; a vast amount of reading is done; there are sure to beone or two on board who know how to spin a yarn with due effect; someare musical, and others can sing. Concerts, lectures, theatricals, anddances are got up; while, as there is generally a due admixture of thesexes, not a little flirting and downright courting is carried on; and, lastly, if there is any quarrelling and bickering, the differences ofthose who engage in it afford much amusement to the rest. 

Altogether, the modern emigrant's existence on board ship is a calm, easy, indolent, well-fed, and cheerful interlude of repose, amid thestorms and worries of the great battle of life. If existence has been tohim hitherto rather hard and thorny than otherwise, he finds the voyageout a pleasant interval of rest and refreshment; and, in any case, itrecruits and prepares him to better commence the new life in the colony, with good spirits and high hopes, with invigorated strength, and renewedhealth in both mind and body. 

Although it might be thought that social equality would necessarilyprevail on board ship, such is by no means the case. Of course there aregreat differences in the social tone of various ships, but, as a rule, "aft" seldom condescends to mix much with "forrard. " Yet there aregenerally many interchanges of courtesy, as between upper, middle, andlower classes; and different messes will sometimes banquet one another. The "cuddy" will, perhaps, get up amateur theatricals or charades, towhich spectacle the whole vessel will be invited; while the "steerage"will return the compliment with a concert, more or less brilliant inperformance. 

Thus, a pleasant interchange of civilities goes on aboard most ships, and serves to help make the time pass away. Differences of rank andstation are supposed to be pretty well levelled down in the colonies. Most of the time-worn prejudices of the old country, it is true, meltaway before the revivifying breath of colonial life, yet sometimes "Mrs. Grundy's" awful features will show themselves, hiding the old foolishface under a new and somewhat strange aspect. 

It would be interesting to note how many of the most prominent andinfluential citizens of a colony came there originally in the humblestpossible way; and how many of the dregs of colonial society--theoccupiers of the lowest rung on the colonial ladder--reached their newhome with all the pomp and circumstance of quarter-deck sublimity, andall the humbug and pretension of real or fancied aristocracy. Is theresult we see--for these contrasts are to be found plentifully in allthe colonies at the Antipodes--what it ought to be, or not? That is thequestion. 

In the colonies, and particularly in the younger and newer among them, aman must perforce be the sole architect of his own fortunes. Industryand energy, enterprise and perseverance pave the pathway to success, andyield a real and lasting benefit to him who holds such endowments. A manmust prove what he _is_, not what he _was_; his antecedents go for butlittle, and his "forbears" for nothing at all. In the Antipodeancolonies of Great Britain is realized, perhaps, the nearest approach totrue freedom; and, in a wide social sense, the closest approximation tothe ideal republic. 

However, we are still on board ship, and, after an easy and not tooeventful voyage of some three months, are looking eagerly out for thefirst sight of the promised land. Bound to Auckland, New Zealand, ourvessel is one of the largest that has yet sailed from Gravesend to thatport; and she carries some three hundred emigrants and passengers onboard. We have grown so accustomed to our good ship, and to our life onboard of her, that we have got a strange feeling that this voyaging willnever end; nor does the idea altogether arouse our discontent. 

We have had one or two births, and, alas! one poor child has been takenfrom our little company. There have, of course, been no weddings onboard, but the prevailing opinion is that several have been arranged totake place as soon as we get on shore. And the time is very near now. 

At last, late one afternoon, as the ship is bowling steadily along witha ten-knot breeze on the port quarter, the deck is hailed from aloft, and the cheery, long-expected, and long-wished-for cry of "land ho!" istaken up by a hundred voices, and rings out across the sea. But there isnothing to be seen for all that; and though more than three hundredpairs of eyes keep anxious ward and watch, darkness falls before analmost imperceptible cloud upon the far horizon is pronouncedoracularly by the mate to be Cape Maria Van Diemen, New Zealand'snorth-western-most promontory. 

One may easily imagine that it is difficult to "turn in" on a night whensuch a fresh excitement fills every mind, but, I suppose, most of us docontrive to get to sleep eventually. With the first break of dawn in themorning there is a stir and commotion all through the ship. Rules areforgotten, and etiquette broken through, as men, women, and childrenrush hastily on deck to take their first look at our future home. 

It is a beautiful summer morning. There is only a slight ripple on thesurface of the water, and not a cloud in the blue sky overhead. Thegentle breeze that just keeps us in motion blows off the land, bearingwith it a subtle perfume of trees and flowers and herbage; howunspeakably grateful to our nostrils none can tell so well as we, whoinhale it with ardour after so many weeks at sea. 

Yonder, a mile or two to starboard, and seeming within a stone's throw, is the land we have come so far to seek. A wall of rock, the northerncliff of New Zealand rises abrupt and imposing from the sea, broken hereand there into groups of pillared, pinnacled islets, nobly irregular inoutline, piled and scarred, indented and projected, uplifted andmagnificent. On the summit of the cliffs, on ledges and terraces, downat the bottom of the rocks, filling every little bay, and sweeping downthe gullies and ravines, is everywhere abundant the wild foliage of theevergreen forest. Glorifying the rich and splendid scene, diversifyingwith numberless effects of light and shadow the whole panorama, shiningupon the glowing sea, touching the topmost crags with sparklinggrandeur, and bathing in beauty the thousand-tinted green of the forest, is the sun, which, on the eastern horizon, is rising clear and brightand steady. And so we gaze rapturously on the wide and beautifulpicture--a picture the remembrance of which will remain with us long:our first sight of the new land of hope and promise. 

Varied are the emotions that take possession of the individuals of ourcompany; but I think there are some among us, more thoughtful orsentimental, perhaps, who, unconsciously to themselves, draw a kind ofinspiration from the noble scene. To such there seems, in those majesticcliffs, sea-swept and forest-crowned, first seen as lighted by therising sun, a nameless sermon preached, a wordless lesson taught, aneverlasting poem sung. And our minds and spirits are calmed, refreshed, and invigorated; while in some dim way we grasp ideas that the silentscene irresistibly conveys to us. Rising within us, as we gaze, comeswith fresh new force the knowledge of the qualities that should be ours:the high-hoping courage, the unshrinking energy, the dauntlessresolution, and the unfailing industry that must animate the colonist, and be the best endowments of an inceptive nation!

Later in the day we round the North Cape, and go sailing on down thecoast, with light and rather baffling winds that eventually bring us toport on the following evening. 

Among our passengers are several old colonists, who are returning from avisit "home. " In the colonies Great Britain is always spoken of as"home, " even by colonial-born people. Talk about the raptures atreturning to "my own, my native land!" that is nothing to the transportsof joy that now infect our colonists. They laugh, they sing, they danceabout the decks, they chatter "sixteen to the dozen, " and display everyeccentricity of unbounded delight and satisfaction. 

Probably a good deal of this is put on for the edification of us newchums, but there is no question that most of it is an expression of realfeeling. All through the voyage these good people have been in greatforce, relating numberless yarns of their past experiences, more or lesstruthful in detail. But now their self-importance is overwhelming andsuperior to all considerations. Every headland, bay, or island that wepass is expatiated upon, and its especial story told, in which, I note, the narrator generally seems to have been the most prominent figurehimself. No one is allowed to remain below, even for meals, scarcely forsleeping; he or she must be up on deck to hear strange-sounding namesapplied to every place we sight. 

Cape Kara-Kara is a name to us and nothing more. Whangaroa Heads, thatguard the harbour of that name, with its settlements and saw-mills, isbut little better, though some few, who have been industriously readingup, remember Whangaroa as the scene of the ghastly massacre of the crewof the _Boyd_, half a century ago. Capes Wiwiki and Brett we have noprevious acquaintance with, though we have heard of the Bay of Islands, over whose wide entrance they are the twin sentinels. And then in slowsuccession we sight the Poor Knights Islands, Bream Head, the Hen andChickens, the Barrier Islands--Great and Little, Cape Colville, RodneyPoint, and the Kawau, Sir George Grey's island home. 

And now, on the afternoon of the second day, we are running closer andcloser to the shore; islands and islets are becoming more numerous, andthe seas are getting narrower. Right ahead a conical mountain top isperceived, Tiri-Tiri is close to, and it is high time the pilot cameaboard. That mountain top is Rangitoto, an extinct volcanic cone upon asmall island that protects the entrance to Auckland Harbour. Presentlywe shall see the similar elevations of Mount Eden and Mount Hobson, thatlook down on Auckland from the mainland. 

Of course, we are all on the _qui vive_ of expectation, looking out forthe first signs of life. Hitherto we have seen nothing to rob us of thenotion that we are a veritable cargo of Columbuses, coming to colonizesome new and virgin land, until now utterly unknown to the rest of theworld. The shores we have passed along have presented to us everypossible variety of savage wilderness, rocks and bush and scrub andfern, but no appearance of settlement at all, not even any signs ofaboriginal life have we descried. 

There is a growing idea getting the better of our common sense--animpression that there has been some sort of mistake somewhere or other. For, how can it be possible that we are just outside the harbour of aconsiderable city, with the shores of mainland and island as far as wecan see, just as wild as Nature made them, wilder than anything most ofus have ever seen before. The utmost recesses of Scotland, or Ireland, or Wales would look quite tame and domesticated contrasted with theserugged solitudes. Not a house nor a hut anywhere, not a trace of thepresence of man, not even--so it chanced--another sail upon the sea!

It is close upon sunset, the foresail is backed, the pilot's signal isflying, and the foghorn sounding, and soon we shall see if there is anylife or not in this weird new land. Presently, comes a shout of "Shipahoy! ahoy!" apparently from the sea, and a little boat emerges from theshadow of the shore and makes its way alongside. 

Of course every one rushes to the side to see the pilot come aboard. Itbeing more than three months since we saw a strange face, we arenaturally consumed with a burning curiosity. It is rather disappointingthough, to have come half round the world only to be met by men likethese. The pilot might be own brother to his fellow-craftsman who tookus down the Channel, and his crew are just the same kind of brawny, bearded, amphibious-looking men that are to be seen any day in anEnglish seaport. We had nourished an insane kind of hope that we shouldhave been boarded by a canoe full of Maoris, in all the savage splendourof tattooing and paint and feathers; but here, instead of all thatromantic fancy, are three or four ordinary "long-shore" boatmen, with apilot who steps on board in the most matter-of-fact manner possible. 

Well, we must make the best we can out of the circumstances; so, whenthe pilot has come out of the captain's cabin, where he has shown hiscertificate and discussed his "nobbler, " when he has formally takencharge of the ship, and we are once more moving through the water, webegin to pester him with the question, "What's the news?"

Now, as we have been between three and four months at sea, isolated fromthe rest of the world, we are naturally all agog to hear what hashappened in our absence. New Zealand's news of the old world is at leasta month old, but then that is considerably in advance of our dates. Thepilot has, therefore, enough to do in answering all the questions thatare levelled at him, and as he is probably pretty well accustomed tosimilar experiences, he is, I fear, in the habit of allowing his fancyto supply any gaps in his actual knowledge of the progress of events;hence we glean many scraps of information that on further inquiry turnout to be more or less imaginative. 

And now that we are entering the harbour of Auckland, it isunfortunately getting too dark to see much. There is not a long gloamingin northern New Zealand--once the sun has dropped below the horizondarkness succeeds very rapidly; so, though we get an indistinct glimpseat some houses on the shore as we sail along, it is quite dark as weround the North Shore and come into Auckland harbour. 

There goes the anchor at last, with a plunge and a rattle! Now the goodship is swinging in the current of the Waitemata, and the voyage, thatat its commencement seemed so long and that now appears to have been soshort, is fairly terminated. Before us, extending to right and left, andup and down, are thousands of lights glittering and twinkling over theshadowy outlines of the city; while into our ears is borne the welcomehum and stir of city life. There is no going ashore until nextmorning--until the health officer and the customs shall have boarded andinspected us. So that night is devoted to the bustle and confusion ofpacking up; and various spoony couples moon about the decks, renewingpromises and vows in expectation of their parting on the morrow. 

When morning comes we make our bow to Auckland. There it lies, thisAntipodean city, looking so white and clean and fair in the morningsunshine, stretching away to right and left, rising in streets andterraces from the shore, cresting the heights with steeples andvilla-roofs, and filling up the valleys below. In the far background isthe heavy brow of Mount Eden, whose extinct crater we shall exploreby-and-by, and whence we shall obtain a splendid view of the entirecity, its suburbs, and the surrounding country. 

From our point of view out in the harbour the city presents a scatteredand uneven appearance, that adds to its generally picturesque aspect. Asa central feature are the long lines of wharves and quays with theirclustering shipping; just beyond these is evidently the densest part ofthe city. Huge and imposing stone buildings stand thickly here, showingthat it is the centre of the business part of Auckland. To right andleft the ground rises abruptly and steeply, and the streets becomeirregular in outline. Nor is the shore a straight and continuous line;these heights on either hand are promontories jutting out into thestream, and hiding deep bays behind them, round which, straggling andirregular, sweeps the city. 

The further our eyes travel from the centre of the picture, the more dowe lose sight of any trace of uniformity in building. Quite close to thebusy parts, so it seems to us, houses stand in their own wide gardens;the streets and roads are lost amid the embowering foliage of trees andshrubs. The house-structures are built on every conceivable plan, up anddown the wooded shores; every builder has evidently been his ownarchitect to a great extent, and there is no lack of elbow-roomhereaway. 

What surprise us most are the evidences of taste and cultivation andgeneral prosperity everywhere in view. Our previous glimpses at theshore of our new country had not prepared us for anything like this. Itis decidedly encouraging to new-comers, who are disturbed somewhat bythe prospect of doing battle with the wilderness, to find a sort ofAnglo-Saxon Naples here in the Southern Sea. 

We had an idea that our arrival would have been quite an event in thislittle place. Nothing of the sort; Aucklanders are too well used to thearrival of emigrant ships. One or two enter the harbour every month, besides other craft; and then the Pacific Mail steamers, large andsplendidly equipped vessels, call here twice a month on their way to andfro between Sydney and San Francisco. 

There are one or two vessels like ours lying out in the stream at thepresent time, others are lying alongside the principal wharf, or itscross-tees, amid a forest of spars belonging to small coasting craft. Plenty of shore boats have come off to us on one errand or another; butit is evident that our arrival has not created that impression upon thecity which we had had a notion that it would have done. 

The morning papers will notice our advent, with a brief account of thevoyage, and will give exceedingly inaccurate lists of our passengers. Only those people who expect friends or cargo by us will take anyspecial interest in us; the evening promenaders on the wharf will glanceat our ship with a brief passing interest; and the current of Aucklandlife will flow on unchanged, regardless of the fact that some threehundred more souls have been absorbed into its population. 

Breakfast this morning is partaken of in the midst of a hurry-skurry ofexcitement, but, for all that, it is an imposing meal, and comprises allsorts of luxuries to which we have long been strangers. Beefsteaks, milk, eggs, fruit, and vegetables, fresh fish just caught over the side, and other fondly-loved delicacies are on the bill of fare. By-and-by, all formalities having been gone through, comes the parting withshipmates and the confusion of landing. 

It is not without a strong feeling of astonishment that we step out ofthe boat that has brought us off, and enter the city. We were totallyunprepared for the scene before us. From the accounts we had read andreceived, we had pictured Auckland to our minds as little better than acollection of log-huts, with here and there, perhaps, a slightly morecomfortable frame-house. And here is the reality. A city that would putto shame many an old English town. A main street--Queen Street--thatmight even compare favourably with many a leading London thoroughfare inall its details. Fine handsome edifices of stone, with elaboratearchitecture and finish; large plate-glass shop-windows, filled with adisplay of wares; gas-lamps, pillar letter-boxes, pavements, awnings, carts, carriages, and cabs; all the necessities, luxuries, andappurtenances of city life, civilized and complete. 

Truly, all this is a wonderful surprise to us. Our preconceived ideas, gathered from various books dating only a few years back, had led ourfancies completely astray. Learning from these sources that, not muchmore than thirty years ago--in 1840, --the first ship-load of Britishemigrants landed in New Zealand; that since then the colony hadstruggled for bare life against many and great difficulties; that it hadhad to wage several desperate wars with the aborigines; had had itsfinancial and legislative troubles; and was still so very very young, wewere naturally prepared to find Auckland a rude, rough, and inchoatesettlement, pitched down in the midst of a wilderness as savage anduncouth as those shores we passed along yesterday. 

We know that a very few years ago, Auckland really was but what we hadfancied it still would be, and so we comprehend now how little thepeople at home actually realize of the conditions of life at theirAntipodes. Moreover, as we pass along the streets of this British city, set down here on the shaggy shores of Britain's under-world, in the veryheart of recent Maori-dom, so remote and far removed from the tracks ofancient civilization, we look around us and are filled with wonder and afeeling akin to awe. This is what colonization means; this is the workof colonists; this is the evidence of energy that may well seem titanic, of industry that appears herculean; this is Progress! The thoughtthrills us through and through. We, too, have made our entry into thenew world; we, too, have crossed the threshold of colonial life; andthus to-day, at the outset of our new life, our minds have opened toreceive the first true lesson of the colonist. 

CHAPTER II. 

AUCKLAND. 

Passing up Queen Street, after landing on the wharf, a party of usnotice--or fancy we notice--a rather singular feature in the Aucklanderswe meet. The men are grave and serious in deportment, and nearly all areprofusely bearded; but one of us draws attention to the fact that allhave strangely aquiline noses. Hebrews they are not--we know, they areof the same nationality as ourselves--so we seek explanation from awhimsical fellow-voyager, himself an old Aucklander. 

"Ah!" says he, "that's a peculiarity of the climate. You'll have longnoses, too, after a year or so. There's an Auckland proverb, that anew-chum never does any good until his nose has grown. You've got tolearn the truth of that pretty soon. "

Following up these remarks, he proceeded to add--

"It's like the proverbial cutting of the wisdom-teeth. After inhalingthis magnificent air of ours for a year or two, your nose will growbigger to receive it; and about the same time you will have spent themoney you brought with you, gone in for hard work, learnt common-sense, and become 'colonized. '"

The reader will understand that a new-chum is, throughout the colonies, regarded as food for mirth. He is treated with good-humoured contemptand kindly patronage. He is looked upon as a legitimate butt, and a sortof grown-up and incapable infant. His doings are watched with interest, to see what new eccentricities he will develop; and shouts of laughterare raised at every fresh tale of some new-chum's inexperienced attemptsand failures. Half the stories that circulate in conversation have anew-chum as the comic man of the piece; and if any unheard ofundertaking is noised about, "Oh, he's a new-chum!" is consideredsufficient explanation. 

However, the new-chum is not supposed to be altogether a fool, since hewill sooner or later develop into the full-blown colonist, and sincesometimes it happens that one of his order will show colonists "a thingor two. " He is one of the recognized characters of colonial society, andas he affords much material that seems infinitely ludicrous to the oldercolonist, so his faults and failings meet with lenient condonation. 

Even the law seems to feel that the new-chum is scarcely a responsiblebeing. At the time I write of, drunkenness was severely legislatedagainst in New Zealand. A man who was merely drunk, without beingactually incapable or riotous, was liable, if any constable saw fit, tobe haled before the magistrate and fined one pound; and, on a subsequentconviction, might be sent to the Stockade (prison), without the optionof a fine at all. The law stood something like that, and was impartiallyadministered by the Auckland Dogberry. However, if an individual werepulled up, charged with even the most excessive tipsiness, includingriot, assault, incapability, or what not, and could show that he was anew-chum, the sacred folly attributed to that state of being was heldsufficient to bear him blameless, and he was always discharged on hispromise not to do it again. I do not know whether this was intended as asort of indulgence to newly-arrived voyagers, or whether, in the eye ofthe law, a new-chum was held to be an irresponsible being, who had notyet arrived at the moral manhood of a New Zealander. Certain it is, itwas fact, and was largely taken advantage of, too. 

In order to bear out one of the received theories regarding new-chums, namely, their utter want of frugality, we, some half-a-dozen young"gentlemen, " who have come out in the cabin, go to put up at one of theleading hotels of the city. We have looked in at some of the minorhotels and houses of accommodation, but are daunted by the rough, rude, navvy-like men, who appear to chiefly frequent them; and we do not careto go to any of the boarding-houses, where parsons, missionaries, andpeople of that class mostly abound, and tincture the very air with asavour of godliness and respectability that is, alas! repugnant to ourscapegrace youth. 

We are young fellows with slender purses but boundless hopes, an immensebelief in ourselves and our golden prospects; but with the vaguestpossible idea of what manual labour, roughing it, and colonial workreally mean. Therefore, we have decided that there is no reason toplunge at once into the middle of things, that we will look about a bit, let ourselves down gently, and taste a little comfort before proceedingfurther. 

Our hotel is a solid, comfortable-looking edifice of stone, standing ona wide street that traverses a high ridge, and commanding a fine view ofthe harbour. It is well furnished throughout in English fashion, resembling any first-class family and commercial hotel of the oldcountry. There is a long bar or saloon occupying the ground floor, witha parlour behind it; there are also a spacious dining-room andbusiness-room. Upstairs there is a billiard-room, smoking-room, ladies'drawing-room, and bedrooms capable of accommodating thirty or fortyguests. Behind the house is a large courtyard, round which are rangedthe bath-rooms, kitchens, offices, and stables; while further back isthe garden, principally used for strictly utilitarian purposes. 

According to colonial custom there is little or no privacy, no privatesitting-rooms, and if a visitor have a bedroom to himself, it is notquite such a sanctum as it would be in Britain. People stopping in thehouse are free to permeate it from kitchen to attic, if so minded. 

There are three common meals--breakfast, luncheon-dinner, anddinner-supper--and any one who is not present at them, or who is hungrybetween times, will have to go without in the interval, and wait tillthe next regular meal-time comes round, unless he dare to invade thekitchen and curry favour with the cook, or goes down to some restaurantin the city. 

Generally speaking, the table is furnished in a style most creditable asto both quantity and quality of the viands. There may not be such a showof plate and glass and ornament as there would be at a London hotel ofsimilar status, but there is a plenteous profusion of varied eatables, fairly cooked and served up, to which profusion the home establishmentis an utter stranger. Fish, fowl, butcher's meat, vegetables, breads andcakes, eggs, cream, and fruit, appear in such abundance that, when everyone is nearly gorged, we wonder what can possibly be done with theoverplus, especially since we are told that this is a city withoutpaupers, as yet. 

Fresh from the crystallized decorum of English manners, we arenecessarily struck by the freedom of intercourse that prevails. Classprejudices have certainly been imported here from Europe, and exist to asmall extent in Auckland society, but there is, withal, a nearerapproach to true liberty, equality, and fraternity, at any rate in themanners and customs of colonists. The hotel servants show no symptoms ofservility, though in civility they are not lacking. Every one isperfectly independent, and considers himself or herself on an equalfooting with every one else, no matter what differences may exist intheir present position--new-chums always excepted--while they ever bearin mind that such differences are only temporary, and may disappear anyday in the chances and changes of life in a new country. 

Our landlord and his wife preside at the meals, and, whoever may ormight be present, comport themselves as a host and hostess entertaininga friendly party. In common with every one else, they take a livelyinterest in our intentions and prospects, and we are bewildered withconflicting advice and suggestions, some real and some jocular. Theymake us feel at home in the house very speedily, and cause us to forgetthat we are paying lodgers. 

Not but what the bill will come up with due regularity, and will have tobe met as promptly. And the mention of it reminds me to state that thetariff is eight shillings per day, inclusive of everything but liquors. This would be moderate enough in all conscience, according to Englishnotions, but it is thought to be a luxurious price here. The minorhotels and boarding-houses in Auckland charge from a pound tothirty-five shillings per week. At present there is nothing higher thanthe price we pay at our hotel. 

Having hinted at the social relations that obtain here, there will seemto be nothing outrageous in the following slight incident thatillustrates them. One morning, soon after our arrival, I get down tobreakfast rather late, after most of the guests have dispersed. Something seems to have creased our landlady's temper, for she greets mewith--

"Look here, young man! I can't have people walking in to breakfast atall hours of the day. If you don't come down at the proper time, you'llhave to go without in future--mind that!"

But at this juncture arrives the waiter, who is kind enough to favour mewith his friendship, bringing with him a dish he has been keeping hot, and, as he slaps it down in front of me, he observes in a tone of mildremonstrance--

"Leave the man alone. I'll look after him. Now just you walk into that, my boy, and see if it won't suit your complaint!"

This is quite colonial style. But fancy an old-country landladyventuring to remonstrate with her boarder in such terms; and imagine thepitiable horror of a precise and formal Englishman, who might findhimself so addressed by a waiter, and in the presence of the latter'smistress, too!

I am particular in styling Auckland a "city, " and not a "town, " for wereI to use the latter term I should expect to earn the undying hostilityof all true Aucklanders. It is a point they are excessively touchy upon, and as the city and its suburbs contains a population of more thantwenty thousand--increasing annually at an almost alarming rate--it wereas well for me to be particular. We take a stroll or two about the cityin company with a colonial friend, who obligingly acts as our cicerone. 

The wharf is naturally the first point of interest to new-comers. Itstretches continuously out into the river from the lower end of QueenStreet, and is over a quarter of a mile in length. It is built of wood, and has several side-piers or "tees, " whereat ships discharge and takein cargo. The scene is always a busy one; and in the evening the wharfis a favourite promenade with citizens. 

Out in the river, lying at anchor, is the good ship that brought ushere, and not far from her are a couple of others, one of which willshortly sail for England. Puffing its way between these vessels is alittle white cock-boat of a steamer, that seems tolerably well crowdedwith men, whose white sun-helmets and yellow silk coats give quite anIndian air to the scene. These persons are probably business men comingover in the ferry-boat from North Shore, where we can see some of theirvillas from the wharf. 

Lying alongside the wharf are one or two vessels of considerabletonnage, loading or discharging cargo, while at their respective tees, whereon are offices and goods-sheds, are several fine steamers ofmoderate size. These ply in various directions, taking passengerschiefly, but also goods. Some go and come between Auckland andGrahamstown, or Coromandel, in the Hauraki Gulf; others go to Tauranga, the Bay of Plenty, Napier, Wellington, and the South Island; one or twogo northward to Mahurangi, Whangarei, the Bay of Islands, Whangaroa, andMongonui. 

The splendid and sumptuously fitted-up Pacific liners that call hereonce a month, on their way between "Frisco, " Hawaii, Fiji, and Sydney, are none of them in the harbour at present; but there, at the extremeend of the wharf, lies _The Hero_, the Sydney packet, and a magnificentsteam-ship is she. All the schooners, cutters, and craft of smalltonnage that fill up the scene, and crowd alongside the wharf and itstees, are coasting or Island traders. 

There is one from the Fijis with cotton, coffee, and fresh tropicalfruits; there is another from the Friendlies with copra and cocoa-nutfibre, which she will shortly transfer to some ship loading for England;and there is the _Magellan Cloud_, fresh from a successful whalingcruise in Antarctic Seas. There is a vessel from Kororareka with coaland manganese, or kauri-gum; there are others from Mahurangi with lime, from Whangarei with fat cattle, from Tauranga with potatoes, fromPoverty Bay with wool, from the Wairoa with butter and cheese, from PortLyttelton with flour, or raw-hides for the Panmure tannery, from Dunedinwith grain or colonial ale, and so on and so on. 

Just off the wharf, and facing the river at either corner of QueenStreet, are two large and handsome hotels, while to right and left onthe river frontage are sundry important commercial edifices. Passing tothe left as we leave the wharf, we come to several extensivetimber-yards, and to a long jetty, used exclusively as a timber-wharf. The immense piles of sawn timber lying here give to us new-chums somenotion of the vast timber-trade of Northern New Zealand, especiallysince we learn that much which goes to the South Island and elsewhere isshipped direct from Whangaroa, Hokianga, the Kaipara, and other ports inthe north. The road along the river front, here, is shortly brought upabruptly at the base of a lofty bluff, whereon is a church and otherbuildings, near the site of old Fort Britomart. 

Retracing our steps, we enter Queen Street, the main street of the city. All the lower portion of it abutting on to the wharf was, we are told, reclaimed from swamp and mud only a very few years ago. The street is afine one, leading straight away from the river, curving imperceptibly tothe right, and gradually ascending for about a mile, until it branchesoff into other streets and roads. Down at the lower end of the streetmost of the buildings are of brick and stone; and some of them are oftolerably fine architecture. There are banks and warehouses andmerchants' stores of all kinds, interspersed with hotels and publicbuildings. Higher up Queen Street, and in the cross-streets, stone andbrick edifices are less numerous, and wooden houses more plentiful. 

The broad, well-paved thoroughfare is crowded at certain times of theday with carriages, cabs, buggies, omnibuses, equestrians, express-carts, waggons, drays, and every species of vehicle. Theside-walks are thronged with passengers, who pass up and down under theawnings that stretch from the houses across the wide pavement. Many ofthe shop-windows would do no discredit to Oxford Street or the Strand, either as respects their size or the goods displayed in them. 

Some distance up Queen Street, and turning a little out of it, is theMarket House, where a very fine show of fruit, vegetables, and othereatables is frequently to be seen; and then there is the United ServiceHotel, at the corner of Wellesley Street, which is a structure thatAucklanders point to with pride, as evidence of their progress in streetarchitecture. At night, when the gas is lit in the streets, the shops, and the saloons, and one mingles with the crowd that throngs them, orpours into the theatre, the Choral Hall, the Mechanics' Institute, theOddfellows' Hall, or other places of amusement, instruction, ordissipation, it is almost possible sometimes to imagine oneself back inthe old country, in the streets of some English town. 

New-chums are able to notice some of the peculiarities of Aucklandstreet-life, wherein it most differs from an old-country town. Thesearise principally from that absence of conventionality, which, certainlyin many external things, is the prerogative of colonists. There is amingling of people who seem on terms of perfect equality, and who yetpresent the most extraordinary difference in appearance. The gentlemanand the roughest of roughs may happen to get together on the same pieceof work, and when their temporary chum-ship ends the one cannot entirelycut the other, such being a course quite inadmissible with colonialviews of life. Only one man _may_ be scouted by any one, and that is theloafer. 

Of course there are good people here who would fain introduce all theclass barriers that exist in the old country; but they cannot do morethan form little cliques and coteries, which are constantly giving wayand being broken down under the amalgamating process of colonization. Where these offer most resistance to the levelling influence is wherethey are cemented by religious denominational spite, which is, unhappily, very prevalent in Auckland. 

This general fusion of all sorts of people together produces a veryamiable and friendly state of things. Etiquette is resolved into simplecourtesy, not very refined, perhaps, but which is sufficient "betweenman and man, " as Micawber would say. Prejudice must not be entertainedagainst any man on account of his birth, connections, education, poverty, or manner of work; he is "a man for a' that, " and entitled tothe same consideration as the more fortunate individual who possesseswhat he lacks. Only if he be a loafer, or dishonest, or otherwisepositively objectionable, will any man find himself under the ban ofcolonial society. And this society is not a mere set of wealthyexclusives banded together against the rest of the world; it comprehendseverybody. 

One sees in the streets abundant evidence of these conditions of socialrelationship. In the first place, costume goes for little or nothing. Men--I am coming to your sex presently, ladies!--men wear just what theyplease at all times and in all places, and without remark from others. One sees men apparelled in all sorts of ways; and it would be impossibleto guess at a man's condition from his coat, hereaway. 

In Queen Street once, I saw a well-dressed and thriving store-keepertouch his hat to a ragged, disreputable-looking individual, who wascarrying a hod full of bricks, where some building operations were goingon. It was a sudden impulse of old habit, I suppose, which had wrungthat very uncolonial salute from the sometime valet to his formermaster, in whose service he had originally come out. I knew of one casewhere master and servant actually came to change places, and I may add, to their mutual advantage eventually. 

A man would not be likely to receive an invitation to the governor'sball unless he had some pretensions to gentility, or was locallyimportant. Yet, I suppose that the recipient of such an invite mightturn up at Government House in a grey jumper and moleskins, if he wereso minded, and would pass unquestioned. In such a case it would only besurmised that Mr. So-and-so was "not doing very well at present. "

Women, as a rule, dress "to death;" and the more gorgeous the toilettethe more likely is it that the wearer is unmarried, and a worker of somesort. The merest Irish slut can earn her ten shillings a week as adomestic, besides being found in everything; and better-class girls getproportionately more; so it is not surprising that they can clothethemselves in fine raiment. But there is no rule to go by--theexpensively dressed woman may be either mistress or maid, and the plaincotton gown may clothe either as well. Only one thing is certain, theAuckland woman of any class will dress as well as she knows how, on herown earnings or her husband's. 

We new-chums observe one or two peculiarities of this kind as we strollabout the city, and they are explained to us by our colonial friend. Some extremely dowdy females we see riding in a barouche are the wifeand daughters of a high official, who is stingy to his woman-kind, sothey say. Two youths we pass are in striking contrast, as they walkalong arm-in-arm. One is got up according to the fullest Auckland ideaof Bond Street foppery, while the other prefers to go about in very"creeshy flannen;" yet the two sit at the same desk in one of the banks, and earn the same salary; and neither they themselves, nor anyone else, seems to notice any peculiarity in the costume of either. 

Then comes along a more remarkable pair still: a "lady" and a "man"apparently, or so they might be described at home. She is dressed in thelatest fashion and with killing effect--muslin, silk, embroidery, chains, bracelets, laces, ribbons, the newest thing in bonnets, and thelast in parasols--and has quite the air of a fine lady. He is a burlyrough, bearded to the eyes, the shapeless remnant of a coarsewide-awake covering a head of hair that has seemingly been long unknownto the barber; his blue flannel shirt, ragged jacket, breeches, and longriding-boots, are all crusted deep with mud, while a stock-whip iscoiled round his shoulders. They walk amicably along together, conversing, though there is something of an air of constraint betweenthem. Our colonial friend nods to the man as they pass; and we ask himwho the strangely assorted couple may be. 

"Oh! he's a well-to-do stock-farmer, " is the reply, "and has just comein with a herd of fat beasts. "

"And the lady?" we ask. 

"The lady! Ha! That's a new dairy-maid and house-servant my friend'sjust engaged. Guess she'll have to leave her fine feathers in Auckland!Precious little good they'd be to her at his place in the bush!"

And now for a sample of the native race, but very sparingly representedin the city at any time. A dignified and portly gentleman is rollingalong, with an air as though the place belonged to him. He is a Maori, as we plainly see; moreover, he is a chief, and is at present a memberof the House of Representatives. There is no trace of the savage abouthim, as he struts along in his patent leather boots, shining broadcloth, snowy shirt-front, massive watch-guard, and glossy silk hat, unless itbe in the richly decorative tattoo that adorns his brown face, and overwhich a gold double-eyeglass has a somewhat incongruous effect

There is another Maori on the curbstone, looking a horribletatterdemalion as he stands there in the scantiest and wretchedest ofEuropean rags, offering peaches and water-melons for sale. Him and hisproffered wares the chief waves off with aristocratic hauteur, until hesuddenly recollects that his humble countryman has a vote at theelections; then he stops, enters into a brief conversation, examines thekitful of fruit through his glasses with supercilious disdain, buteventually purchases a chunk of melon, and goes on his way munching it. 

In the shops the same sense of equality is noticeable. Shopkeepers andtheir assistants are not the cringing, obsequious slaves that we know sowell in England. There is none of that bowing and smirking, superfluous"sir"-ing and "ma'am"-ing, and elaborate deference to customers thatprevails at home. Here we are all freemen and equals; and the Aucklandshopman meets his customer with a shake of the hand, and a pleasanthail-fellow-well-met style of manner. Not but what all the tricks oftrade are fully understood at the Antipodes, and the Aucklander canchaffer and haggle, and drive as hard a bargain as his fellow acrossthe seas; only his way of doing it is different, that is all. 

Auckland possesses a class whose members are akin to the street-arabs ofLondon and elsewhere, but differ from them in many respects. TheAuckland "larrikin" is a growing nuisance, but he is neither so numerousnor so objectionable as yet as his fellow in Melbourne and Sydney. Unlike the street-arab, he is either a school-boy, or earns his livingsomehow, or he is a truant from work of either kind. He probably belongsto some working family, whom he favours with his company only at suchtimes as pleases himself, for he is utterly unmanageable by his parents. He has exuberant spirits and an inordinate love of mischief, which showsitself in manifold ways. He has a sort of organization of his own, andseems to revel in uncurbed liberty of action. Occasionally some wrathfulcitizen executes summary justice upon him, in spite of the fear thatsuch an act may bring down the vengeance of the whole boyish gang; andsometimes the youth finds himself in the police-court, charged with"larrikinism, " an offence that is sure to be severely punished. The"larrikin" easily gets a job, and works by fits and starts when it suitshim, or when he wants money. He lives in the open air, sleepinganywhere, and getting his food no one knows how. He is not altogetherbad--not so frequently thieving and breaking the law, as intent onsimple mischief and practical jokes of the coarsest and roughestsort--still, he is a pest that Aucklanders inveigh heartily against, andwould gladly see extirpated by the strong arm of the law. 

We turn out of Queen Street into Shortland Crescent. At the corner is alarge and handsome block of buildings constructed of brick, and havingan imposing frontage on the Crescent. This contains the GeneralPost-office and the Custom House. Not far distant, on the opposite sideof Queen Street, is the New Zealand Insurance Company's establishment, more generally known as "The Exchange. " It is the finest building in thecity, excepting the Supreme Court, perhaps, and has a tower, and a clockwhich is the Big Ben of Auckland. 

At the corner of Shortland Crescent and Queen Street, and just under thefront of the Post-office, is a kind of rendezvous that serves as a_Petite Bourse_, or Cornhill, to those who go "on 'Change" in Auckland. Here congregate little knots of eager-eyed men--stock-jobbers most ofthem--waiting for news from the Thames gold field, perhaps, or fortelegrams from elsewhere. Ever and anon some report spreads among them, there is an excited flutter, mysterious consultations and references tonote books, and scrip of the "Union Beach, " the "Caledonian, " or the"Golden Crown, " changes hands, and goes "up" or "down, " as the case maybe, while fortunes--in a small way--are made or marred. 

Toiling on up the steep ascent of the Crescent, we come out on a broadroad that runs along the summit of the range, and close to an uglychurch, St. Matthew's, that crowns the bluff looking over the harbour. From various points here there are good views of the city obtainable;and our guide is able to expatiate on most of its beauties andcharacteristics. Down below us is the splendid and extensive harbour, land-locked, and capable of containing the whole British navy. Rightopposite is the North Head, or North Shore, as it is usually termed, onwhose twin volcanic peaks is an Armstrong battery, to defend the harbourentrance in case of need. There is also the signal station on MountVictoria, whence incoming vessels may be sighted outside of Tiri-tiriand the Barrier Islands. There are the villages of Stokes' Point, WestDevonport, and East Devonport beyond, facing the open Pacific, andrenowned for its salubrious sea-breezes. 

Just beneath us is the railway station, whence the line runs across theisthmus, connecting Auckland with Onehunga on the Manukau Harbour, where the West Coast traffic is carried on, and thus placing Auckland, like Corinth, upon two seas. The railway also extends southwards to theWaikato. [1] Onehunga is only some half-dozen miles from the outskirts ofthe city, and the road to it lies between fields and meadows, borderedwith hedgerows, by villa and cottage and homestead, quite in Englishrural style. The road also leads by Ellerslie race-course, and theEllerslie Gardens, the Auckland Rosherville. 

The coastal traffic that is carried on in the Manukau is nearly equal inextent to the similar trade done in the Waitemata, hence the commercialimportance of Auckland can hardly be rivalled by that of any other cityof New Zealand. Dunedin, in the far south, holds a similar status toAuckland in the north, but the cities are too far distant (some eighthundred nautical miles) to become rivals to the detriment of each other. 

Beyond the railway, we look across the inland sweep of Mechanic's Bay tothe rising ground on its further side, crowned by the popular andpicturesque suburb of Parnell. On the river side the streets descend tothe shore; the houses, most of them pretty wooden villas, standing eachin its terraced garden grounds, embowered in rich foliage. On the landside a gully divides Parnell from the Domain. This serves as a publicpark and recreation ground for citizens of Auckland. It is a tract oforiginal forest or bush, through whose bosky glades winding walks havebeen cut, leading up and down range and gully, furnished with seats andarbours and artificial accessories. Conjoined to the Domain are thegardens of the Acclimatization Society, which are beautiful andinteresting on account of their botanical and zoological contents. 

Rising at some distance behind the Domain, we catch a glimpse of MountHobson, upon whose sides nestles the suburb of the same name. To theright of it lies the Great South Road, whereon is the village ofNewmarket, and beyond it again the scattered suburb of Epsom, and thatgem of lovely hamlets, Remuera. 

Our eyes, slowly travelling round to take in all these points, are nowturned directly away from the harbour. Before us stretches a long roadnamed Symonds Street, leading past the Supreme Court--a brick and stonebuilding of considerable architectural pretension--past the widecemetery, and allowing beyond a sight of the hospital in the valleybelow, on till the large suburb of Newton--hardly disconnected at allfrom the city proper--is reached. 

In this direction is situated Government House, a large mansion of wood, standing in park-like grounds, where the English oak, the Americanmaple, the Australian blue-gum, the semi-tropical palm, and the NewZealand kauri mingle their foliage together. Some distance further, andto the left of the road, rises Mount Eden. On one side of it is thegaol, a group of buildings surrounded by a wall and palisades, andsituated in a scoria quarry. Among the spurs and declivities of themount are many villas of the wealthier citizens, standing in welllaid-out grounds, and making a very pleasing picture. 

We now look right across the densest part of the city, from our firststandpoint near St. Matthew's Church. Below is Queen Street, with theroofs of the various buildings already noticed in it. Beyond it there isa corresponding high ground to that on which we are, and behind thatagain is Freeman's Bay. On the crest of the eminence is St. Paul's"cathedral"--so styled; the principal Anglican church of the city. Inthe distance the breezy suburb of Ponsonby is pointed out to us, occupying high ground, from which is visible the winding valley of theWaitemata, stretching away up into the hills. Here and there can beseen the spires or belfries of numerous churches and chapels, forAuckland is an eminently religious city, and has temples and tabernaclesfor almost every Christian creed. 

Our companion dilates upon the institutions of the city, which arehighly creditable to so young a community, and are in advance of thoseof many European towns of equal population, that can trace back theirhistory considerably further than Auckland's thirty-and-odd years. Inmatters ecclesiastical and educational the young city is indeed wellendowed. There are two bishops, Roman and Anglican, a Presbytery, andgoverning bodies of other denominations. There is a College and GrammarSchool of the New Zealand University, common schools in the city, private schools of all sorts and sects, a training school and ship atKohimarama, an establishment for young clergymen, and convent schools. There are asylums, orphanages, and refuges. 

There are institutes and halls belonging to all kinds of societies:Young Men's Christian Association, Mechanics, Good Templars, Freemasons, Orangemen, Oddfellows, Foresters, etc. There is the Auckland Instituteand Museum, the Acclimatization Society, Agricultural Society, Benevolent Societies, etc. There are Cricketing, Rowing, and YachtingClubs. There is a mayor and City Council, with Harbour Board, HighwayBoard, Domain Board, and Improvement Commissions. There is the SupremeCourt, the District Court, the Resident Magistrate's Court, and thePolice Court. There are public and circulating libraries, two dailymorning newspapers, an evening newspaper, two weekly newspapers, twoweekly journals of fiction, and two monthly religious periodicals. 

The city is lighted by gas supplied by a private company; and thewater-supply is under municipal control. It returns three members to theHouse of Representatives, while Parnell and Newton each return one. Somuch and more does our cicerone favour us with, until he has, as hethinks, convinced us that Auckland is really the finest place ofresidence in the world. 

We now pass down into the city again, taking a new route past theNorthern Club, a lofty and unsightly building, whose members arenotoriously hospitable, and much given to whist and euchre. Downhill ashort distance, and we come to the Albert Barracks, where newly-arrivedimmigrants are housed, and where most of our sometime shipmates now are. They are comfortably quartered here for the present, but no incitementis held out to them to remain long, and every inducement is given themto get an engagement and quit as soon as may be. It seldom happens thatthere is any difficulty in this; usually, indeed, there is a rush toengage the new-comers, so much are servants and labourers, mechanics andartizans in request. 

There have been times when would-be employers would go off inshore-boats to the immigrant ship in the harbour, and though not allowedon board, would make efforts to hire domestics and labourers at the sideof the vessel. Again, when the government immigrants were landed, andwere marched up from the wharf to the barracks, a mob of employers wouldescort the procession, endeavouring to hire helps, and with such successthat sometimes the barracks were hardly needed at all. But such scenesare becoming rarer now, though there must continue, for many years tocome, to be a run upon certain classes of immigrants, notably singlegirls for house-servants. [2]

Turning into the barrack-yard, round which are the various buildingswhere the immigrants are temporarily housed, we find an animated scenebefore us. Here are assembled most of our immigrant shipmates, some fewof whom have already got engagements and gone off. A considerable partyof settlers and agents are now busily at work trying to hire the peoplethey severally want; while the poor bewildered immigrants findthemselves treated as though they were goods in an auction-room, andscarcely know whether they are standing on their heads or their heels. 

It so happens that there is just now a great demand for agricultural anddomestics, so that settlers are actually bidding against each other forthe individuals they want to engage. Our ship-load was no special bodyof people, but a motley collection of men, women, and children from allparts of the old country. Among them are natives of Kent and ofCornwall, of Yorkshire and of Wales, of Inverness and of Galway. 

Here are a couple of brothers whom we made special friends with on thevoyage, young hardy Scots; let us see how they get on. We find them at apremium, surrounded by a little crowd of farmers from the Waikato, whoeach and all seem intent on hiring them. The lads do not wish to part ifthey can help it; and so, as to get one means to get both, the farmersare all the hotter in their pursuit of them. For these young men arejust the right sort that are most wanted, having the thews and sinewsand power of endurance so necessary for a rough life; having experienceof sheep and cattle and agricultural work from their earliest infancy;having, in fact, all the qualities most essential and useful to thepioneer farmer. They come of the right race, too, as all the worldknows--colonists especially--for honesty, sobriety, and patientindustry. 

What a change for them--from the inclement sky, the hostile winter, therugged battle for life they have left behind them with their nativeGrampians, to this bright clime of everlasting summer, of strangefertility, to these sunshiny isles of beauty and plenty! Well, well, itis not a land of indolence either; the work demanded here is stern andhard and rough; but what a reward may be reaped in the end from earnestand unshrinking toil! No wonder if, in a year or two's time, our friendsyonder will write to the dear ones they left at home, in the Perthshireglen, such an account as shall bear witness that they, at least, havefound on earth the Peasant's Paradise!

There is hot and excited bargaining going on in the group of which thebrothers form the centre. They are a little dazed, and do not venture tospeak; but they are canny for all that, and bide their time. Amid thebabel of voices that surrounds us on all sides, we catch a fewutterances as follows:--

"Five shillings a day, and your tucker!"

"Five and threepence, lads!"

"He'll give you nothing but salt pork; try me at the same wage!"

"And you'll have to live on potatoes and pumpkins with him!"

"Five and six, and as much mutton as you want!"

"Too much, perhaps, and braxy at that!"

"Come, a cottage to yourselves, rations, and five and six a day!"

"Cottage! A tumble-down wharè is what he means!"

"Fresh meat every day with me, boys--beef, mutton, and pork!"

"Yes; and he'll want you to work twelve hours!"

"Better engage with me at five and nine; I'll lodge you well, and feedyou first chop!"

And so on and so on, until at last the brothers pluck up determination, and make choice of an employer. So our Caledonian friends begin togather together their traps and make preparations to accompany theircomplaisant and well-satisfied boss to his farm on the banks of theWaikato. And an indescribable joy is in their hearts, for they are toreceive six shillings and sixpence a day, and to be provided withcomfortable lodging and lavish "tucker" withal; and though, no doubt, they will prove worthy of that high wage to their employer, yet whatmarvellous wealth it is, compared to the most they could have earned hadthey remained to toil upon the braes of Albyn!

Of course, very few of the other immigrants get such a wage as that. Thetwo young Scots are the picked men of the crowd. Five shillings a dayand "all found" is the ordinary wage for an agricultural, and thoughsome are worth more, new-chums are generally held to be worth a gooddeal less for their first year. The distich--

 "Eight hours' sleep and eight hours' play, Eight hours' work and eight bob a day, "

has been, and is, verified literally over and over again in New Zealand;but the "eight bob a day" cannot be called an ordinary wage. A man mustbe worth his salt and something over to get it, and will not do sounless labour is scarce and in much demand. Those who contract, or dowork by the piece, often make as much and more if they are first-rateworkers; and that kind of engagement is preferred by both employers andemployés, as a rule. 

All sorts of skilled labourers get high wages. Carpenters andblacksmiths will get ten and twelve shillings a day with their keep;and when they have saved a little money, and can go on the job bythemselves, they may earn an advance on that. 

I have already noticed the great demand that there is for femalehouse-servants, and the high wages they can get. Girls cannot be reliedon to stop in a situation very long, as they are sure to receivenumerous matrimonial offers; hence there is a perpetual seeking afternew domestics. Marriage is an institution that turns out uncommonly wellhere. There is no such thing as a descent to pauperism for those whowill work. By little and little the working couple thrive and prosper, and as their family--New Zealand families run large, by theway--multiplies and grows up round them, they are able to enjoy thecomforts of a competence they could never have attained at home. Somesettlers, who originally came out, man and wife, as governmentimmigrants drawn from the peasant class, are now wealthy proprietors ofbroad acres, flocks, and herds; and are able to send their sons tocollege and their daughters to finishing-schools; the whilom humbleservant girl now riding in her carriage, and wearing silk and satin ifshe list. Such are the rewards that may tempt the peasant here. Difficulties there are in plenty, but they lessen year by year; whilecomfort and competence are certain in the end, and wealth even ispossible to the industrious. 

Occasionally it happens that among a body of immigrants are one or twowho are decidedly unsuitable. There is an example among our particularship-load. Here is a woman, purblind, decrepit, looking sixty years oldat least, and, by some incomprehensible series of mistakes, she hasfound her way out here as a "single girl!" What was the Agent-General inLondon about, and what could the Dispatching Officer have been thinkingof, when they let this ancient cripple pass them? Yet here she is, a"single girl" in immigrant parlance; and work she must get somehow andsomewhere, for there are no poorhouses or paupers here as yet. But evenshe, useless to all seeming as she is, and unable to bear her part inthe energetic industry of a new country, will find her billet. Agood-natured farmer takes her off, judging that she may earn her keep inhis kitchen, and if not--well! he is prosperous, and should be generoustoo. And so old granny toddles away amid the friendly laughter of thecrowd, satisfied enough to find there is a niche even for her in ourCanaan. 

The great question that of late years has been continually asked of oldcolonials in England is, what are the prospects afforded by New Zealandto men of the middle classes? The answer is usually unfavourable, simply because many colonials cannot disassociate the idea of agentleman adventurer from that of a scapegrace or ne'er-do-well. Secondly, they look at the questioner's present condition; and nevertake into consideration the power he may have of adapting himself tototally different circumstances. I think this view admits ofconsiderable enlargement, and my experience has led me to believe thatmany a man, who struggles through life in the old country in someexacting and ill-paid sedentary occupation, might have been benefited byemigration. The colonies have been inundated with ruined spendthrifts, gamblers, drunkards, idle good-for-nothings, who have been induced toemigrate in the belief that that alone was a panacea for their moraldiseases. Very very few of them have reformed or done any good, so thatcolonists are naturally prejudiced against their class, and look upongentleman-new-chums with great suspicion. Again, some go out who are toodelicate or sensitive to stand the roughnesses they are bound toundergo, and these break down in their apprenticeship the first year ortwo, and, if they can, go home again to speak evil of the colony everafterwards. 

One thing is certain, the educated man has the advantage over theuneducated, and his abler mind will sooner or later be of use to him, although his physique may be weaker than the other's. Thegently-nurtured individual finds the preliminary trials of colonial lifevery hard indeed--he is heavily handicapped at the start--but there isno reason why he may not do well after a time. Gentlemen-immigrantsusually think they may find work of a congenial sort, such as clerking, assisting in a store, or some occupation of the kind in the city. Thatis a mistake; while yet they are new-chums there is but one thing forthem to do--to go away into the bush and labour with their hands. Ofnew-chums, only artisans are absorbed into the city population as arule; all others have to look to manual labour of some kind, andgenerally up-country, for a means of subsistence. All the clerks, counter-jumpers, secretaries, and so on, are either old colonials, orcolonists' sons. Very rare is it for a gentleman new-chum to find aberth of that sort, perhaps he may after he has become "colonized, " butat first he will have to go straight away and fell bush, chop firewood, drive cattle, or tend pigs. About the best advice I ever heard given tomiddle-class men, who thought of emigrating to New Zealand, was couchedin some such terms as these. 

"What are your prospects here? If you have any, stop where you are. Butif you have no particular profession, nothing better before you thanlaborious quill-driving and the like, at eighty pounds a year, and smallprobability of ever rising so high as two hundred, however many yearsyou stick to the desk, or the yard-measure, then you may think ofemigrating. If you are strong and able-bodied, somewhere between sixteenand twenty-six years of age--for over twenty-six men are generally tooold to emigrate, I think--I say, emigrate by all means, for you willhave a better chance of leading a healthy, happy, and fairly comfortablelife. But you must throw all ideas of gentility to the winds, banish thethought of refinement, and prepare for a rough, hard struggle, and itmay be a long one, too. You may please yourselves with the prospect ofcompetence, comfort, and even luxury in the distance, but you must lookat it through a lengthy vista of real hard work, difficulty, and bodilyhardship. Success, in a greater or lesser degree, _always_ followspatient industry at the Antipodes; it can scarcely be said to do so inBritain. 

"Now, _Il n'y a que le premier pas qui coûte_, and the worst time youwill have is at the first; also, it is only for the start that you needadvice, after you become 'colonized' you can look out for yourselves. Ifyou have any particular acquaintance with a useful trade, so much thebetter; if you have not, and can do so, learn one before yougo--carpentry, boat-building, blacksmithing, tinkering, cobbling; itwill help you through wonderfully. It doesn't matter twopence _how_ yougo out, whether saloon, intermediate, or steerage, so far as your futureprospects are concerned. If you can compass the means, go saloon--theextra comfort on a long voyage is well worth the extra price; besides, you might have some returning colonist as fellow-voyager, whosefriendship would prove useful. When you land, bank any money you mayhave brought with you--whether it be ten pounds or ten thousand, I saythe same--and resolve not to touch it, however you may be tempted, fortwo years at least. Then go about freely, get into the bush away fromthe city, make friends with every one everywhere, and let it be knownthat you are in search of work. Very soon you will hear of something orother. Take the job, the first that comes in your way, and stick to ittill something better turns up. Don't be afraid of it whatever it is;don't imagine anything will hurt you or lower your dignity in theslightest so long as it is honest. Even if they make you astreet-scavenger, remember that is better than loafing. In one year, ortwo, or three, you will be perfectly at home in the new life, and ableto see, according to your abilities, the path that offers you the bestprospect of the greatest success. During your new-chum days ofapprenticeship you must consider yourself as a common peasant, like themen you will probably have to associate with; don't be disconcerted atthat, just work on, and by-and-by you will get ahead of them. You willmeet plenty of nice gentlemanly fellows in any part of New Zealand, andthey will think all the better of you if you are earnestly andenergetically industrious. Lastly, don't run away with the notion thatyou are going to jump into luck directly you land. Wages are high to theright people, but you are not among those at the outset. You may besatisfied if you do anything more than just earn your keep, for thefirst six or twelve months. "

I think that that is, upon the whole, pretty sound advice for the classof men to whom it is addressed; but I will go further, and point outwhat advantages the average middle-class "young gentleman" mayreasonably look forward to from emigration to New Zealand. In the firstplace, he may expect to enjoy robust health, more perfect and enjoyablethan he could hope for if tied down to a counting-house stool in thedingy atmosphere of a city. He will exchange the dull monotony of asedentary occupation in the chill and varying climate of Britain, for alife of vigorous action in a land whose climate is simply superb. Whenhe gets through the briars that must necessarily be traversed at theoutset, he will find himself happier, freer from anxiety, and, on thewhole, doing better than he would be if he had remained at the old life. He will "feel his life in every limb, " and, remote from the world, knownaught of its cares. If he be anything of a man, before ten or a dozenyears are gone he will find himself with a bit of land and a house ofhis own; he will be married, or able to marry, his earnings will sufficefor existence, while every pound saved and invested in property will begrowing, doubling, and quadrupling itself for his age and his children. There is something to work for and hope for here: independence, contentment, and competence. It is not a stern struggle from year's endto year's end, with naught at the finish but a paltry pension, dependence on others, or the workhouse. The gentleman-colonist we aretalking of is working for a _home_, and, long before his term of lifedraws to its close, he will find himself, if not rich, at any rate, inthe possession of more comfort and happiness than he could hope for inthe old country. 

I am not an emigration-tout, and have no interest in painting my picturein too vivid colours, and in these remarks I have transgressed againstsome of the ordinary colonial views on the subject; but I have done sowith intention, because I consider them not entirely in the right. Thecolonist says--we don't want gentlemen here, we want MEN! But he forgetsthat the unfortunate individual he disparages has often more realmanhood at bottom than the class below him. Therefore, the middle-classemigrant must remember the qualities most required in him--pluck, energy, and resolution. 

I have met many middle-class men in the colony, and all contrived tobear out the view I have put forward by their own condition. Those whocome to grief do so from their own failings and deficiencies. Some growland grumble a little now and then, and think they would rather be backin England; but, when they reflect upon the condition they wouldprobably be occupying at home in the ordinary course of things, they areforced to admit that they are better off. At any rate, such bitter andterrible distress as overtook so many thousands in Britain a year or twoago, could scarcely fall to the lot of the same people under anycircumstances, if they were industrious colonists. But I have digressedinordinately, and must get back to Auckland forthwith. 

The barracks are empty at last, and all our fellow-voyagers have foundeach his or her starting-point in the new life. Our own little party ofcuddy-passengers is dispersed as well. Some have gone off to joinfriends in the country, some are gone on to distant parts of the colony, some have gone this way or that, scattering to work in all directions;only a couple of us are left, and it is time that we should begin tofollow the plan we have conceived for ourselves. 

Parting with shipmates, with the faces that have been so long familiarto us, seems to have severed the last link that bound us to the oldcountry, the old home, and the old ways. We shall meet with many of themagain, no doubt, but then the old "Englishness" will have disappeared, and we shall be at one with those who now are strangers to us, we tooshall be New Zealanders. Henceforth all before us and around us isstrange and new, an untried, unknown world. We are about to enter on alife totally different to that we have hitherto led, and it is a lifethat we have got to make ours for the time to come; for there is nothought in our minds of retreat, even if we find the unknown moredistasteful than we think. But, courage! "Hope points before to guide uson our way, " and, as yet, there is nothing in the prospect but what isbright and inspiriting, surely; nothing to diminish our youthful energy, nothing to daunt our British pluck! The past lies behind us, with itssweet and tender recollections, and with a softened sense ofremembrance of those failures and sadnesses and bitternesses that arelinked with them. Now our cry must be "Forward!" for a page in the bookof our lives is completely turned down, and we may imagine there isendorsed upon it, "Sacred to the memory of auld lang syne!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: 1882. The railway now runs northward to Helensville, connecting Auckland with the Kaipara; and is being pushed on toWhangarei. To the south, it penetrates far into the Waikato country, andit is only a question of a few years before Auckland, New Plymouth, Wellington, and Napier will be joined by rail. ]

[Footnote 2: 1882. During the last year or two, there has been somedepression in New Zealand, and, for the first time in her history, manylabourers have had difficulty in getting work. But that crisis is nowpast, and things are rapidly returning--as they were bound to do--toformer conditions, such as I have described. ]

CHAPTER III. 

GOING UP COUNTRY. 

I and my last remaining shipmate certainly came out here without anyvery clear idea of what we were going to do. We came to make ourfortunes, of course, after the manner of all new-chums, but as to how wewere to set about it, and what were to be the first steps we shouldtake, we had the very vaguest notion. 

However, our condition of existence as new-chums sat very lightly uponus. Hope! We were all hope; we were hope incarnate! We felt that we werebound to win. It seemed, though, that the beginning must be made in somefashion that was, to say the least of it, unpleasant, now that we wereface to face with the reality. Plenty of work offered, but none of itseemed to be of a particularly engaging kind; and, moreover, the wageoffered us was extremely paltry, so we considered. For we belonged tothat much maligned middle-class, which, in the chrysalis or new-chumstage, is so greatly contemned by colonists. 

But it happened that, long long ago, a certain schoolfellow of ours hadgone forth into the colonial world. He was in the sixth form when wewere in the first, or thereabouts; but, as his family and ours wereneighbours in the old home, there had been enough intimacy between us. It was owing to his letters home that we had determined on emigration. He had been apprised of our coming, so now we were not surprised toreceive a message from him through a resident in Auckland. This was aninvitation to join him at a distant settlement called Te Pahi, there tomake a beginning at pioneer farm work, and see what might turn up. 

We found on inquiry that little or nothing was known in Auckland of TePahi. It was a new township in the Kaipara district, lying sixty oreighty miles north of Auckland. That was about the sum of what we couldlearn of our destination, except that there were very few settlers inthe Kaipara, and that communication between it and Auckland was not verygood. Somewhat later than this date--in fact, to be precise, in 1875--anAuckland newspaper wrote of the Kaipara under the title of TerraIncognita. So that when we decided on going there, we felt that we wereabout to penetrate an almost unexplored country. But we found out whatwere the means of transit, and prepared to set out without furtherdelay. 

Now that we were on the point of starting into the bush, and enteringinto the realities of our new life, we began to encounter thedifficulties of our situation. The first that met us would be moreannoying were it not for the ludicrousness of it. It was the baggagedifficulty, a thing that took us quite by surprise; for, till then, wehad never appreciated the word "transport" at its full meaning. Likemost home-living Britons, hitherto surrounded by every facility forlocomotion of persons and goods, we had utterly failed to understandthat in a new country things are wholly different in this respect. Onecan get about one's self easily enough; travel can always beaccomplished somehow, even if one has to walk; but it is quite anotherthing to move baggage. In a roadless country, where labour is scarce anddear, the conveyance of goods from place to place is a difficult matter. It can be done, of course, but the cost of it is frightful. 

Our old schoolfellow, who, by the way, will be known under theappellation of "Old Colonial" in these pages, had apparently had someexperience of new-chums before. His agent in Auckland had beeninstructed to see to us, and one of that person's first inquiries wasregarding our impedimenta. 

We had been out-fitted in London by the world-renowned firm of Argentand Joy. There being no experience to guide us, we had placed ourselvesunreservedly in the hands of the firm, and had been provided by themwith a sumptuous stock of what they were pleased to term necessaries. Altogether, these formed a goodly pile. Our bedroom at the hotel wascram full of boxes, trunks, and portmanteaus; and their contents werenow spread out for the inspection of our adviser. 

"Good gracious!" was his exclamation when he surveyed our property, andthen he mused awhile. 

"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I've got some distressing intelligenceto break to you. Prepare your minds for a shock. This inheritance is a_dead horse_. Chuck it overboard at once!" And he waved his handimpressively over our belongings. 

We did not understand; we thought this was some new kind of joke--whichit was, but not to us. We asked for explanations; all that we wanted wasto know how we were to get these things up to the Kaipara. Our colonialfriend sighed deeply, and proceeded mournfully to expound the position. He told us that we could not afford to possess more personals than wereabsolutely necessary, and these ought to pack into one box of easilyportable size. In the first place, the freight of our baggage into thebush would cost us something approaching to the expense of our passageout from England. In the second place, we were not going to a house ofour own, but were going to work on different farms, and might be movingabout a good deal. We could not carry such a cargo about with us, forthe cost of doing so would be simply ruinous. It appeared, too, that wecould not even keep the things until we _had_ got a house of our own tostore them in. For, our only resource, with that in view, would be towarehouse them in Auckland, and the expense of even this dead weightwould make too large a hole in our possible earnings. Finally, there washardly anything in our entire outfit that would be of much practical useto us. 

Aghast and grieving, we comprehended at last that we should have to ridourselves of the too heavy burden with which Messrs. Argent andJoy had weighted us, in consideration of that prodigious andever-to-be-regretted cheque. There was no help for it. An Israelitishdealer, who happily abided in the city, would have to be called in. Andit could scarcely be said that he bought our property of us; it was anearer approach to our having to pay him to take it away. 

Our friend contemptuously examined parcel after parcel of things. Dresssuits and white waistcoats, broadcloth and doeskin, scarves and gloves, white shirts, collars, and cuffs all appeared to move his derision. Hekicked aside a dozen pairs of boots with the remark that--

"There's nothing there fit for this country. Rough-hide and hobnails iswhat you want. "

Certain tweed suits that the fancy of our London tailor had investedwith the title "New Zealand Specialities" were, said our friend, onlysuitable for colonists who intended to settle on the top of the SouthernAlps. Various knick-knacks, dressing-cases, writing-cases, clocks, etcetera, were regarded by him as contemptible lumber. Some silk sockshe looked upon almost as a criminal possession. 

In the end we were reduced to a single box apiece, containing somethinglike the following assortment, several items of which had to bepurchased in Auckland. Six flannel shirts, two blankets, two pairmoleskin breeches, one light pilot coat, one light tweed coat andtrousers (which we wore at the time), some handkerchiefs, some socks, two towels, brush and comb, two pairs of boots, and one pair ofleggings, a wide-awake hat, and a few odds and ends. Such books as wehad we were allowed to retain, for, although the time for reading isvery limited in the bush, yet, books being a rare commodity, are muchprized there. 

Of course, there was much merriment among the colonials at our expense, but I think the greatest mirth was excited by our cases of revolvers. These we had brought under the idea that they would prove to be anecessity, imagining that war with the Maoris was the normal conditionof things, and that society was constituted something like what BretHarte writes of in the Rocky Mountains. 

We had had to pay a tax of five shillings each upon our pistols beforebringing them on shore. We were now told that this tax was a main sourceof the Government revenue. Again, we were told that the exportation ofnew-chums' pistols to the United States was one of the main industriesof the colony. But our purgatory was over at last, and our splendidoutfits had passed into Hebrew hands, leaving a very meagre sum of moneywith us to represent them. And now we are ready to start in earnest. 

Low down in the water, almost beneath the timbers of the wharf, is lyinga queer little steam-tub, the _Gemini_, which will convey us on thefirst stage of our journey. A loafer on the wharf cautions us mockinglyto step aboard with care, lest we overset the little steamer, or breakthrough her somewhat rickety planking. She is about the size of some ofthose steam-launches that puff up and down the English Thames, but shewould look rather out of place among them; for the _Gemini_ and hersister boat, the _Eclipse_, which carry on the steam service of theWaitemata, are neither handsome nor new. They are rough and ready boats, very much the worse for wear. Such as they are, however, they sufficefor the limited traffic up to Riverhead, and to the districts reachedthrough that place. When that increases, doubtless their enterprisingowner will replace them with more serviceable craft. 

Punctuality is by no means one of the chief points of the _Gemini_, andit is an hour or two after the advertised time before we get off. Thereis a good deal of snorting and shrieking, of backing and filling, on thepart of our bark, and then at last we are fairly on our way up theriver. We take a last long look at the good ship that brought us fromEngland, as she lies out at anchor in the harbour, and when a bend inthe river hides Auckland's streets and terraces from our view, we feelthat we have turned our backs on civilization for a while, and are fastgetting among the pioneers. 

On board the _Gemini_ is a face we know. It is that of Dobbs, a sometimeshipmate of ours. He is a farm labourer from Sussex, and he and hiswife have come out among our ship-load of emigrants. There is a chroniclook of wonder on their broad English faces. They are in speechlesssurprise at everything they see, but chiefly, apparently, at findingthemselves actually in a new country at all. 

Dobbs touches his hat, and addresses me as "sir, " when he sees me, quiteforgetting that we are now in the colonies, where such modes are notpractised; regardless also of the fact that I am on my way to just thesame life and work that he is himself. The skipper of the _Gemini_notices the action, and grins sarcastically, while he tells asubordinate in a stage-whisper to "just look at them new-chums. "

English readers must not suppose from this that colonial manners arediscourteous. Far from it. Colonials will not touch their hats, or useany form that appears to remind them of servility, flunkeyism, orinequalities of station. On the other hand, incivility is much morerarely experienced among even the roughest colonials than it is in manyparts of the old country, in Birmingham, for example. Apart from that, the new-chum is the incarnate comedy of colonial life. He is eagerlywatched, and much laughed at; yet he is seldom or never subjected to anyactual rudeness. On the contrary, he is generally treated with extratenderness and consideration, on account of his helpless and immaturecondition. Perhaps I may sum up the analysis by saying, that, if polishis lacking to the colonial character, so also is boorishness. 

Our fellow-emigrant tells us that he has been engaged as a farm labourerby a settler at Ararimu, near Riverhead, and that his wife is to dowashing and cooking and dairy-work. They are to have thirty shillings aweek, and they, with their child, will have board and lodging providedfor them as well, and that in a style a good deal better thanagriculturals are accustomed to in England. They seem well enoughcontented with things, though a trifle daunted by the strangeness oftheir surroundings. Dobbs has misgivings as to the work that will berequired of him. He knows, however, that the labourer's day is reckonedat only eight hours here, and is much consoled thereby. Very likely wemay find him a thriving farmer on his own account, and on his own land, if we should chance to meet again in a few years' time. 

There is little or no attraction in the scenery along the eighteen ortwenty miles of river between Auckland and Riverhead. Great stretches ofmud-bank are visible in many places at low tide, varied by occasionalclumps of mangrove, and by oyster-covered rocks. The land on either sideis mostly of very poor quality, though a good deal of it has been takenup. Here and there, we pass in sight of some homestead; a whiteverandah-ed wooden house, surrounded by its gardens, orchards, paddocks, and fields. The steamer stops, and lies off three or four such placeswhile her dingey communicates with the shore, embarking or disembarkingpassengers, mails, or goods. Generally, though, when the river-banks arelow enough to permit of a view beyond them, we see nothing but verybarren and shaggy-looking tracts, not unlike Scottish moorlands ingeneral aspect. Occasionally there are poor scrubby grasslands, wherethe soil has not done justice to the seed put upon it; and where cattle, horses, and sheep appear to be picking up a living among the fern andti-tree. 

As we get nearer to Riverhead the stream narrows. This is the point towhich the tide reaches. Beyond it the Waitemata is supplied by twocreeks, the Riverhead Creek and the Rangitopuni. Here the banks aresteep and high, somewhat picturesque, with varied ferns and shrubbery. On the north side the ranges rise into a background of hills. 

This is the end of our river journey, as is evidenced by the Riverheadwharf, built out from the bank. Here we land, and are received by twomen, who represent the population of the district, and who apparentlyare idle spectators. By their advice we shoulder our traps, and climb upsome steps to the top of the bank. Right before us here is anunpretending house, built in the usual rambling style of architecturepeculiar to frame-houses in this country. A board stuck up over theverandah announces that this is the hotel; and, as the arrival of thesteamer is the signal for dinner, every one makes for the open Frenchwindows of the dining-room. 

Dinner is ready we find, and we are ready for it. Perhaps about a dozenpassengers came up from Auckland in the boat, and as many of these asare not at home in the immediate neighbourhood sit down to the table. The party is further augmented by the skipper and his assistants, thewharf-keepers, one or two residents in the hotel, and the host andhostess with their family. Quite a large company altogether, and of verypromiscuous elements. The only persons not entirely at their ease areDobbs and his wife. They find themselves dining with the "quality, " asthey would have said at home, and have not yet learnt that that word iswritten "equality" in this part of the world. 

At the head of the table sits somebody who is evidently a personage, judging by the flattering attentions paid to him by the daughters of thehouse, and by the regard with which all but we strangers treat him. Itis Dandy Jack, afterwards to become one of our most intimate andcherished chums. As I shall have more to say about him, perhaps I mayhere be allowed to formally introduce him to the reader. 

The first glance at him reveals the origin of his sobriquet. Amid therawness and roughness of everything in the bush, its primitive societyincluded, the figure of Dandy Jack stands out in strong relief. Contrasted with the unkempt, slovenly, ragged, and dirty bushmen withwhom he mostly comes in contact, he is the very essence of foppery. Yet, as we are afterwards to learn, he is anything but the idle, effeminatecoxcomb, whose appearance he so assiduously cultivates. Here is aphotograph of Dandy Jack. 

Five feet six inches; broad and muscular, but spare and clean-limbed. Curly black hair, and a rosy-complexioned face, clean shaven--contraryto the ordinary custom of the country--all except a thick droopingmoustache with waxed ends. A grey flannel shirt, with some stitching andembroidery in front; and a blue silk scarf loosely tied below therolling collar. No coat this warm weather, but a little bouquet in thebreast of the shirt. A tasselled sash round the waist; spotless whitebreeches, and well-blacked long boots. A Panama straw hat with broadbrim and much puggeree. An expression of affected innocence in the eyes, and a good deal of fun about the mouth. Such is the figure we now lookupon for the first time. 

Dandy Jack is a character; that one sees at once. He is generallyunderstood to have passed lightly through Eton and Oxford, to have sownwild oats about Europe at large, to have turned up in Western Americaand the Pacific, and to be now endeavouring to steady down in NewZealand. He has a considerable spice of the devil in him, and is at oncethe darling of the ladies and the delight of the men. For to the one heis gallantry itself; while, to the other, he is the chum who can talkbest on any subject under the sun, with a fluency and power of anecdoteand quotation that is simply enchanting. 

Just at present Dandy Jack has charge of the portage, as it is called, between the Waitemata and the Kaipara rivers. [3] He drives the coach, carries the mails, and bosses the bullock-drays that convey goodsbetween Riverhead and Helensville. And he is rapidly becoming the mosthorsey man in the whole of the North, being especially active andprominent in every possible capacity on the local race-courses. 

Dinner is over very soon, and a very good one it was, well worth theshilling each of us pays for it. Then we take leave of Dobbs and hiswife, whose future boss has arrived in a rude cart drawn by two horses, in which to drive them and their traps over to his place in Ararimu. Weourselves are going on to Helensville in the coach, a distance of abouteighteen miles. 

The coach partakes of the crudity which seems impressed upon everythingin this new locality. The body of it is not much larger, apparently, than a four-wheeled cab, and does not seem as if it could possiblyaccommodate more than eight passengers altogether. Yet Dandy Jack aversthat he has carried over a score, and that he considers sixteen a properfull-up load. On the present occasion there are not more than half adozen, besides my chum and I. Glass there is none about the coach, but agood deal of leather. Springs, properly so-called, are also wanting. Thebody is hung in some strong rude fashion on broad, substantial wheels. Altogether, the machine looks as if it were intended for the roughest ofrough work. 

As strangers, we are invited to occupy the seats of honour--on the boxbeside the driver. There are no lady passengers to snatch the covetedpost from us. Dandy Jack says to me--

"Of course, I should prefer to have a lady beside me, but, somehow, I'malways glad when there arn't any. It's a grave responsibility--a graveresponsibility!"

Whilst we are endeavouring to evolve the meaning of this mysteriousremark--it is not until a while later that we fully comprehendit--preparations are being made for the start. Four ungroomed, unshodhorses are hitched on, and their plunging and capering shows they areimpatient to be off. Our driver's lieutenant, Yankee Bill, mounts afifth horse, and prepares to act as outrider. Then Dandy Jack, loudlyshouting, "All aboard! All abo-ard!" springs to his seat, gathers up thereins, without waiting to see whether every one has obeyed hisinjunction or not, bids the men who are holding the cattle stand clear, gives a whoop and a shake of his whip, and then, with a jolt and a lurchand a plunge, off we go. 

Hitherto we have seen nothing of the settlement, except the hotel andthe goods warehouse on the bank above the wharf. These appear to havebeen shot down into the middle of a moorland wilderness. But now, as thecoach surmounts some rising ground, several homesteads come into view, scattered about within a distance of one or two miles. Beyond thepaddocks surrounding these, all of the country that is visible appearsto be covered with tall brown fern, and a low brushwood not unlikeheather. 

As we go lumbering up the rise we are passed by a young lady riding downtowards the hotel. Very bright and pretty she looks, by contrast withthe rough surroundings. Quite a lovely picture, in her gracefulriding-habit of light drab, and her little billycock hat with itsbrilliant feather. So think we all, especially our gallant Jehu, whobows profoundly in response to a nod of recognition, and turns to lookadmiringly after the fair equestrian. 

Then, upon the right, we look down upon the great feature of thedistrict, Mr. Lamb's flour-mill and biscuit-factory. In thisestablishment are made crackers that are well-known and much esteemedfar beyond the limits of New Zealand. The Riverhead manufacture is knownin the South Sea and Australia. The factory stands on the bank of thecreek, having water-power and a water highway at its door. It is a largestructure, mostly of timber, with a tall chimney of brick. Near it isthe residence of the proprietor, and a row of houses inhabited by hisemployès. The whole is surrounded by a grove of choice trees and shrubs, by gardens and paddocks, evidently in a high state of cultivation. Beyond tower the brown and shaggy ranges, and all around is the uncouthmoorland. It is an oasis in the desert, this green and fertile spot, aTadmor in the wilderness. 

Yet when we make some remarks, as new-chums will, about the apparentrichness of the land down there, a settler, who sits behind, takes us uprather shortly. He appears to consider Mr. Lamb's estate as a positiveoffence. "Bone-dust and drainage!" he says with a snort of contempt. Itseems that the land about us is considered to be of the very poorestquality, sour gum-clay; and any one who sets about reclaiming such sortis looked upon as a fool, at least, although, in this case, it isevident that the cultivation is merely an ornamental subsidiary to thefactory. 

But these poor lands are only bad comparatively. Much of the soil inthem is better by far than that of many productive farms at home; onlyour colonial pioneer-farmers have no notion of any scientific methods inagriculture. They have been spoilt by the wondrous fertility of the richblack forest mould, and the virgin volcanic soils. They will continue toregard manuring and draining and so forth as a folly and a sin almost, until the population becomes numerous, and all the first-class lands arefilled up. 

Fresh from high-dried systems and theories of agriculture as practisedin Great Britain, we are dumbfounded by the tirade against manuring, andthe revolutionary ideas which our coach-companion further favours uswith. We are evidently beginning to learn things afresh, though this isour first day in the bush. 

By the way, I must explain this term to English readers. "Bush" has adouble signification, a general and a particular one. In its first andwidest sense it is applied to all the country beyond the immediatevicinity of the cities or towns. Thus, Riverhead may be described as asettlement in the "bush, " and our road lies through the "bush, " thoughhere it is all open moorland. But, in a more particular way, "bush"simply indicates the natural woods and forests. A farmer up-country, whosays he has been into the "bush" after cattle, means that he has beeninto the forest, in contradistinction to his own cleared land, thesettlement, or the open country. 

Our road lies at first through the fern lands beyond Riverhead, and wesoon lose sight of the settlement. We appear to be travelling at randomacross the moor, for not a trace of what our English eyes have beentaught to regard as a road can we discern. The country is all a ruggedwilderness of range and gully: "gently undulating, " you say, if you wantto convey a favourable impression; "abruptly broken and hilly, " if youwould speak the literal truth. There is not a level yard of land--it isall as rough and unequal as it is possible for land to be. 

The road is no macadamized way: it is simply a track that, in manyparts, is barely visible except to practised eyes. Further on, where wepass through tracts of forest, the axe has cleared a broad path; anddown some steep declivities there has been a mild attempt at a cutting. Where we come upon streams of any size or depth, light wooden bridgeshave been built; and fascines have made some boggy parts fordable in wetweather. Such is our road, and along it we proceed at a hand-gallop forthe most part. The jolting may be imagined, it cannot be described; forthe four wheels are never by any chance on the same level at one and thesame time. 

When we have proceeded eight or nine miles, Dandy Jack seems to bepreparing himself for some exciting incident. Yankee Bill gallopsalongside, exchanging a mysterious conversation in shouts with him. 

"Better take round by the ford, Cap!"

"Ford be blanked!" answers Dandy Jack. 

"The rest of the planking's sure to be gone by this time, " continues thecavalier. 

"Then I reckon we'll jump it. Ford's two miles round at least, and we'relate now. "

Our dandy charioteer glances round on his passengers, and remarks--

"Hold on tight, boys; and, if we spill, spring clear for a soft place. "

So saying, he plants his feet firmly out, takes a better grip of thereins, and crams his hat well on to his head. We ignorant new-chums sitperturbed, for we don't know what is coming, only we do not admire thegrim determination of our driver's mouth, or the devilry flashing fromhis eyes. The rest of the passengers say nothing. They know Dandy Jack, and are philosophically resigned to their fate. 

And now we plunge down the side of a gully, steep and wooded, with abrawling torrent pouring along its bottom. The road runs obliquely downthe incline, and this descent we proceed to accomplish at a furiousgallop, Dandy Jack shouting and encouraging his horses; his mate ridingbeside them, and flogging them to harder exertions. Then we see what isbefore us. 

Right at the bottom of the steep road is a bridge across the creek; or, at least, what was once a bridge, for a freshet or something seems tohave torn it partially up. Originally built by throwing tree-trunksacross from bank to bank, and covering these with planking, what we nowsee seems little more than a bare skeleton; for nearly all the plankingis gone, and only the rough bare logs remain--and of these several aredisplaced, so that uncomfortable-looking gaps appear. Some feet belowthe level of this ruined bridge a regular cataract is flowing. Acrossthe frail scaffolding--you can call it no more--that spans the torrent, it is clearly Dandy Jack's intention to hurl the coach, trusting to theimpetus to get it over. We shut our eyes in utter despair of a safeissue, and hold on to our seats with the clutch of drowning men. It isall that we can do. 

Meanwhile the four horses, maddened by the whoops and lashes of ourexcited Jehu and his aid, are tearing down the slope at racing speed. The coach is bounding, rocking, jolting at their heels in frightfullydangerous fashion. We dare not glance at Dandy Jack, but we feel that heis in his element; and that, consequently, we are in deadly peril. Thenthe chorus of yells grows louder and fiercer, the swish of the whipsmore constant and furious. There is a tremendous rattle, a series ofawful bumps that seem to dislocate every bone in my body, a feeling thatthe coach is somersaulting, I appear to be flying through space amongthe stars, and then--all is blank. 

When I recall my shocked and scattered senses, a minute or two later, Ifind myself half-buried, head downward, among moss and fern. I pickmyself out of that, and stupidly feel myself all over, fortunatelyfinding that I have sustained no particular injury. Then I survey thescene. 

We are on the other side of the stream--so much I discover--but we haveevidently not attained it without a mishap. Not to put too fine a pointupon it, we have experienced a most decided spill. The coach hasoverturned just as it crossed the bridge, and passengers and baggagehave been shot forth into the world at large. Fortunately, the groundwas soft with much vegetation, so that no one is much hurt; the"insides" alone being badly bruised. There is a confused heap ofplunging hoofs, and among them Dandy Jack and Yankee Bill are alreadybusy, loosening the traces and getting the horses on their feet. 

The passengers go one by one to their assistance, and much objurgationand ornamental rhetoric floats freely through the atmosphere. Presently, the coach is got on its wheels again by united effort, and it is foundto be none the worse for the accident. In truth, its builder seems tohave had an eye to such casualties as that we have suffered, and hasadapted the construction of the machine to meet them. 

But with the horses it is different. Three of them are speedily got ontheir legs and rubbed down, being no more than scared. The fourth, however, cannot rise, and examination shows that one of its legs isbroken, and probably the spine injured as well. It is evident the poorcreature is past all further service. So Dandy Jack sits on its head, while Yankee Bill pulls out his sheath-knife and puts the animal out ofmisery. I overhear our eccentric driver murmuring--

 "Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"--

Adding, in a louder voice--

"Twelve pounds I paid for that critter; but I reckon I've had the profitout of it, anyhow!"

The horse that Yankee Bill was riding is now unsaddled and hitched upwith the others, in place of the dead one. For baggage and passengersare being collected again, and it seems we are going on as thoughnothing had happened. 

It is, perhaps, not strange that no one should express surprise at theaccident; but it is certainly singular that no one shows any resentmenttowards our driver, or blames him in any way. The prevailing feeling isone of simple congratulation that things are no worse. One would thinkthe accident was quite a usual affair, and had even been expected. Apassenger remarks quite seriously--

"I will say this for Dandy Jack: he always contrives that you shallpitch into a soft place. "

They seem about to offer a vote of thanks to this reckless madman, forhaving overturned us without hurt to any one! It occurs to us twonew-chums that our life in this country is likely to be eventful, ifthis kind of thing is the ordinary style of coaching. And we begin tounderstand what our driver meant, when he alluded to the graveresponsibility of having a lady among his passengers; for his driving isonly comparable to the driving of the son of Nimshi. 

Before we proceed on our way, the foppery of our charioteer reassertsitself. Of course, his neat and spruce trim has been considerablydisarrayed, so now he proceeds to reorganize his appearance. Gravely andcalmly he draws brushes and so on from a receptacle under the box-seat, and commences to titivate himself. This is too much. Laughter and jibesand energetic rebukes fall on him thick as hail. At first he pays noattention; then he says slowly--

"Look here! If any one wants to walk the rest of the way, he can do it. I'm willing to split fares for the half journey!"

There is a covert threat in this, and as no one cares to quarrel withthe speaker, his eccentricities are allowed to develop themselveswithout further interference. Then we resume our drive on toHelensville. 

For the most part the road passes through open country, but we now morefrequently see scrub and bush in various directions. At one place, indeed, for about two miles, we pass through forest. The trees, mostlykahikatea, seem to our English eyes of stupendous proportions, but weare told they grow much bigger in many other parts. Signs of human lifeare not altogether wanting in these wilds. We pass a dray coming downfrom the Kaipara, laden with wool, and pull up, that Dandy Jack may havea private conversation with the driver of it. This dray is a hugewaggon, built in a very strong and substantial style, and it is drawn bytwelve span of bullocks. 

Here and there among the fern, usually in the bottom of a gully besidesome patch of scrub, we have noticed little clusters of huts. These arenot Maori wharès, as we suppose at first, but are the temporaryhabitations of gum-diggers, a nomadic class who haunt the waste tractswhere kauri-gum is to be found buried in the soil. In a few places wepass by solitary homesteads, looking very comfortable in the midst oftheir more or less cultivated paddocks and clearings. These are usuallyfixed on spots where the soil, for a space of a few hundred acres, happens to be of better quality than the gum-lands around. At most ofthese settlers' houses somebody is on the look-out for the coach, andthere is a minute's halt to permit of the exchange of mails or news. Fortravellers along the road are very few in number, and the bi-weeklyadvent of the coach is an event of importance. 

The afternoon is wearing late, and the rays of the declining sun arelengthening the shadows, when we emerge on the top of a high hill thatoverlooks the valley of the Kaipara. A wide and magnificent prospectlies spread before us. Far down below the river winds through a broadvalley, the greater expanse of which, being low and swampy, is coveredwith a dense thicket of luxuriant vegetation. In parts we see greatmasses of dark, sombre forest, but even in the distance this is relievedby variety of colouring, flowering trees, perhaps, or the brilliantemerald of clusters of tree-ferns. Right out on the western boundary aline of hills shuts out the sea, and their summits glisten with astrange ruddy and golden light--the effect of the sun shining on thewind-driven sand that covers them. To the north the river widens andwinds, until, far away, we get a glimpse of the expanding waters ofthe Kaipara Harbour. Successive hills and rolling ranges, clothed withprimeval forest, close in upon the valley. 

About the centre of the broad-stretching vale, we discern a little patchof what looks like grass and cleared land. There is here a cluster ofhouses, whitely gleaming beside the river, and that hamlet isHelensville--the future town and metropolis of the Kaipara. 

The road, from the hill-top where we are, winds in a long descent ofabout two miles down to the township. It is scarcely needful to say thatDandy Jack considers it incumbent on him to make his entrance intoHelensville with as much flourish and _éclat_ as possible. Accordingly, we proceed along the downhill track at breakneck speed, and comeclattering and shouting into the village, amid much bustle andexcitement. We are finally halted in an open space before the hotel, which is evidently intended to represent a village green or publicsquare, the half-dozen houses of the place being scattered round it. 

The entire population has turned out to witness our arrival: a score orso of bearded, sunburnt, rough-looking men, three or four women, and agroup of boys and children. A babel of conversation ensues. We, asnew-chums, are speedily surrounded by a group anxious to make ouracquaintance, and are eagerly questioned as to our intentions. 

Several persons present are acquainted with Old Colonial, and when it isknown that we are going to join him, we are at once placed on thefooting of personal friends. Hospitality is offered, invitations to takea drink at the bar are given us on all sides. We accept, for we are nottotal abstainers--or sich!--and are in that condition when the foamingtankard is an idea of supreme bliss. 

The hotel is larger and more pretentious than that at Riverhead. It isbetter built, and has a second storey and a balcony above the verandah. It is furnished, too, in a style that would do credit to Auckland--weparticularly noticing some capital cabinet-work in the beautiful wood ofthe mottled kauri. 

And then we are treated to a dissertation on the wonderful advantagesand prospects of Helensville, some day to be a city and seaport, amanufacturing centre and emporium of the vast trade of the great fertiletracts of the Kaipara districts. We are assured that there is no placein all New Zealand where it could be more advantageous to our future tosettle in than here. And so to supper, and finally to bed, to sleep, andto dream of the wonders that shall be; to dream of cathedrals andfactories and theatres rising here, and supplanting the forest and scrubaround us; to dream of splendid streets along the banks of the Kaipara, but streets which ever end in rocky wooded gullies, down which we plungeincessantly, behind a rushing nightmare that is driven either by a demonor by Dandy Jack. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: A railway across this portage was opened for traffic in1876. It has since been continued from Riverhead to Auckland, and isnow--1882--being pushed forward to the north, from Helensville on toWhangarei. ]

CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE KAIPARA. 

The next morning after our arrival at Helensville, we go down to thewharf, close behind the hotel, and embark on board the steamer _Lily_. This vessel is the only regular means of communication, at present, withthe young settlements lying round the Kaipara. She is a much largercraft than the _Gemini_, but she is of the same ancient and ruinouscharacter. One would have thought that, on these new waters, such craftas there were must necessarily be new also. [4] Such does not appear tobe the case, however, for the steam service on the Waitemata and theKaipara is conducted by very second-hand old rattle-traps. Where theywere worn out I know not. Bad as they are, they are considered a localimprovement, for, until quite recently, settlers had to depend on smallsailing-boats, that plied very irregularly. 

The Kaipara is a name applied rather indiscriminately to a river, aharbour, and to a tract of country. The Kaipara river is that on whichHelensville stands. It waters an extensive valley, and, flowingnorth-westerly, falls into the Kaipara Harbour, some miles belowHelensville. It is tidal to a short distance above the settlement. 

The harbour is a vast inlet of the sea, almost land-locked, since itsentrance, the Heads, is only about three or four miles wide. Openingfrom the harbour are sundry great estuaries, resembling the sea-lochs ofWestern Scotland. They are the Kaipara, the Hoteo, the Oruawharo, theOtamatea, the Wairau, the Arapaoa, and the Wairoa. Several of these havebranches. Thus the Pahi, to which we are going, branches out of theArapaoa. They are fed by creeks--that is to say, by freshwater rivers, as one would call them at home. The tidal estuaries are here calledrivers; and the freshwater streams, of whatever size, creeks. 

All these waters have the generic name of the Kaipara. The unitedwater-frontage is said to be over a thousand miles; and nearly twomillion acres of land lying round are comprised within the so-calledKaipara district. Ships of heavy tonnage can get up to Tokatoka on theWairoa, to Te Pahi and Te Otamatea, and within a short distance ofHelensville, these places being, respectively, from twenty-five tothirty-five miles from the Heads. Smaller vessels can, of course, goanywhere. The Wairoa creek is navigable for schooners and cutters formore than eighty miles, as well as its tributaries, the Kaihu, Kopura, Tauraroa, and Maungakahia. 

We have come into a district admirably adapted for pioneer settlement. For nature has supplied water-ways in every direction, and thus thefirst great difficulty in opening up a new country, the want of roads, is obviated. Here, indeed, as we shall find, no one walks to histownship, or rides to see a neighbour, he jumps into his boat and rowsor sails wherever he wants to go. 

As the _Lily_ steams down the Kaipara, we get a better idea of the bushthan our previous day's coach-ride had given us. There is no more of thebrown and shaggy gum-land, but, instead of it, such glorious woods andjungles and thickets of strange beautiful vegetation. Mile after mile itis the same, the dense evergreen forest stretching away over the rangesas far as one can see. Here it is the light bush, woods of young treesthat have grown over what were once the sites of Maori cultivation;there it is the heavy bush, the real primeval forest. 

One great feature of the Kaipara tidal estuary is the quantity ofmangroves. Immense tracts are covered with water at high tide, and areleft bare at low tide. These mud-banks are covered with mangroves inmany places, forming great stretches of uniform thicket. The mangrove ishere a tree growing to a height of twenty or thirty feet, branchingthickly, and bearing a dark, luxuriant foliage. At high water, themangrove swamps present the appearance of thickets growing out of thewater. When the tide recedes, their gnarled and twisted stems are laidbare, often covered with clinging oysters. Below, in the mud, areboundless stores of pipi (cockles), and other shell-fish and eels. 

The channel of the river is broad and deep, but often, to save somebend, the _Lily_ ploughs her way along natural lanes and arcades amongthe mangroves. It is a novel experience to us to glide along the stillreaches among these fluviatile greenwoods. We are embosomed in asubmerged forest, whose trees are uniform in height and kind. All roundus, like a hedge, is the glossy green foliage, sometimes brushing ourboat on either side. And we scare up multitudes of water fowl, unused tosuch invasion of their solitudes. Wild duck, teal, grey snipe, shags, and many kinds that no one on board knows the names of, start from underour very bows. Not gay plumaged birds, though, for the most part; onlynow and then a pair of kingfishers, flashing green and orange as theyfly, or the purple beauty of a pukeko, scuttling away into the depths ofthe swamp. 

By-and-by we emerge into the expanse of the harbour. Once out in it wecould almost imagine ourselves at sea, for, from the low deck of the_Lily_, we only see the higher grounds and hill-tops round, looking likeislands in the distance, as we cannot descry the continuity of shore. And now we have leisure to make closer acquaintance with the boat thatcarries us. 

The _Lily_ is a queer craft. Though old and rickety, she gets through aconsiderable amount of work, and is sufficiently seaworthy to fight asquall, when that overtakes her in the harbour. Not that a gale is byany means a light affair, in this wide stretch of water. When one isblowing, as it sometimes does for two or three days at a time, the_Lily_ lies snugly at anchor in some sheltered cove, and settlers haveto wait as patiently as may be for their mails or goods. She knows herdeficiencies, and will not face stormy weather, if she can help it. 

Three times a week she visits certain of the Kaipara settlements, returning from them on alternate days. The arrangement is such that eachtownship gets--or is supposed to get--one weekly visit from her. She isa boat with a character, or without it, which means about the same thingin the present instance. She has also a skipper, who is something of acharacter in his way. 

The Pirate, or Pirate Tom, as he is indifferently called, is a gentlemanof some importance locally, for he is the channel of communicationbetween the Kaipara settlers and the outside world. He is a man offerocious aspect, black-bearded to the eyes, taciturn, and rough indemeanour. In his hot youth, he is credited with having borne his partin certain questionable proceedings in the South Sea, and hence hisappellation. 

Freights run very high on the _Lily_, and it is by no means certain howfar the Pirate may be concerned in keeping them so. He is apt to becaptious, too, as regards the transit of cargo, and will refuse to dobusiness if it is his whim, or if any particular individual happen tooffend him; for he is lord paramount over the river traffic, and welldoes he know how to turn that to his own advantage. Apparently, heconsiders that he does you a personal favour if he carries you or yourgoods, and you have to keep on his good books, lest he should notcondescend to do either. 

Besides the playful way in which he manipulates the commerce of thedistrict, Pirate Tom has another mode in which he adds to his gains. Atsome of the river townships and stations there is no hotel, or store, where liquor can be obtained. The only immediate facility that settlersand bushmen at such places have for procuring it, is such as is affordedby the boat. The Pirate is always ready to dispense the vile compoundshe call spirits to all comers--sixpence per drink being his price, as itis the established tariff of the colony. It is held to be manners to askhim to partake himself, when any one desires to put away a nobbler; andthe Pirate, being an ardent disciple of Bacchus, was never yet known torefuse any such invitation. He also sells, at seven shillings a bottle, the most atrocious rum, brandy, or "square" gin. 

To assist him in the management of his craft, the Pirate has under himan engineer and a Dutch lad. The former of these has, of course, hisspecial duties; the latter is cook and steward, sailor, landing-agent, and general utility man. He goes by the name of "The Crew. " To beguilethe tedium and monotony of constant voyaging, "The Crew" is wont toexercise his mind by conversation with such passengers as there may be. He is of a very inquiring disposition, and asks leading questions of avery personal nature. Seeing that I am a new-chum, he begins to ask memy name, age, birthplace, who my parents were, where I formerly lived, what I did, what my cousins and aunts are, their names, and all aboutthem, and so on, a series of interminable catechetical questions onsubjects that, one would think, could not possibly have any interest forhim. This would be gross impertinence, were it not that "The Crew" isperfectly unconscious of giving any offence. He only asks forinformation, like Rosa Dartle; and this questioning is his idea ofpolite sociability. 

Among the points of interest about the _Lily_, the most noticeable arethe engines with which she is supplied. These are fearfully andwonderfully contrived. How such rusty, battered, old-fashioned, rough-and-ready machinery can be got to work at all, it is hard to say;but it does. Of course the engines are continually breaking down, orbursting, or doing something or other offensive. But whatever mayhappen, the Pirate and his two aids consider themselves equal to theemergency, and make shift to tinker up the mishap somehow. Such unlookedfor examples of misapplied force are constantly occurring, theconsequence being that repairs are as often called for. Thus it is thatthe engines present a very extraordinary and uncommon appearance. Reporthas, perhaps, added somewhat to the truth, but numerous legends arecurrent in the Kaipara about the _Lily_, her engines, and her captain. 

These amateur artificers are not in the least particular as to thematerials they use for effecting their repairs, nor are they given toconsidering the relative differences of the metals. On one occasion, rust had eaten a hole through the boiler, and leakage ensued. Promptlythey set to work, and soldered the lid of a biscuit-tin over the weakplace. Then the boat went on as usual. 

Once again, so it is said, something or other gave way--some screw, orcock, or lever failed to act. The boat became unmanageable, could not bestopped, or slowed, or done anything with. In short, she ran away. ButPirate Tom was not to be imposed on by any such feeble tricks. Heimmediately steered the _Lily_ slap into the nearest bank and tied herup to a tree. Then the three went on shore, with a bottle of rum and apack of cards, and sat down at a respectful distance to await theprogress of events, and to enjoy a game of cut-throat euchre. 

The engineer bet Pirate Tom a note--colonial for a sovereign--that theengines would blow up, and the latter laid on the chance that the rebelcraft would spend herself kicking at the bank. After churning up themud, plunging at the bank, and straining at her tether for an hour orso, the _Lily_ quieted down, all her steam having worked off. So thePirate won and pocketed the engineer's note; and then the partyadjourned on board again, to resume their ordinary avocation oftinkering up. 

In the log of the _Lily_ there is supposed to be an entry, which wouldseem to indicate that the Pirate is not invariably so lucky as on thelast-mentioned occasion. It is his rule never to spend any more money onrepairs than what cannot possibly be avoided. There was an unsafesteam-pipe, which might easily have been replaced at a trifling cost;but, of course, the Pirate would spend nothing on it, and relied on hisown usual resources. One day the steam-pipe burst, when a number ofpassengers were on board, and a woman got her legs scalded. After that, the Pirate found it absolutely necessary to get a new steam pipe; andwas, besides, heavily mulcted in an action brought against him by theinjured lady. The entry referred to probably runs like this:--

 £ s. D. To a new steam-pipe 0 10 0 To fine and costs 3 12 6 To damages awarded to Mrs. ---- by the Court 5 0 0 To doctor's fees for attendance on Mrs. ---- 4 0 0

On the whole, Pirate Tom did not take much by his economy on thatoccasion. But the lesson was not of any lasting use. He will go on inhis old way, and will take his chance of accidents. 

The defects of the _Lily_ do not cause us any annoyance, on thisoccasion of our first voyage aboard of her. She is on her bestbehaviour, for a wonder, and neither breaks down, nor bursts up, norruns away. We steam over a great stretch of the harbour, noticing herethat strange effect, when the distant land seems to be lifted above thehorizon, and to have a belt of sky between it and the water. 

Then we pass into river after river, proceeding up each some miles, tothe townships, or stations, where we have to call, then descending intothe harbour again, only to go on to the entrance of yet another river. The scenery is very varied, and there is much in it to attract ourregard. Sometimes we pass below lofty bluffs, by wild rocky shores andislets, sometimes along great stretches of mud-bank or mangrove swamp. 

The land on all sides is a primitive wilderness for the most part. Rangeafter range sweeps and rolls away, while ravines and gullies and basinsopen upon the rivers, with tumbling creeks or graceful cascades pouringthrough them. One might suppose that some giant of yore had ploughed outthis country and left it. A newly-ploughed field must seem, to an ant'svision, something like the contour of this to ours. 

The land is richly wooded. Here and there we see the heavy bush, mammothtrees soaring up, overhung with creepers and ferns; but the heavy bushis chiefly at some distance from the waterside. What we see most of hereis the light bush; dense thickets of shrubs, and smaller trees, resembling our remembrance of the denes and copses of England, or Eppingand the New Forest. 

To us new-chums it seems absurd to call this bush "light, " but we cansee that it is so by comparison with the primeval forest, where thetree-trunks run from ten to forty feet in girth. Once upon a time, whenthey numbered millions, the Maoris inhabited these shores prettythickly. They preferred to be near the water, as settlers do now, forthe same reason of convenience in communication, and also because fishwas a chief article of their diet. All the land near the rivers has beenat some time under their cultivation, and the light bush has grown upupon it since. 

So late as fifty years ago, the Ngatewhatua tribe, who were lords of theKaipara, were very numerous; but were then nearly exterminated in a warwith the Ngapuhi of the north. Still, numerous as they may have beenthen, they could not have held the immense tracts here undercultivation. That must date from a more remote period. But the placeswhere their villages stood, in the early part of this century, are nowburied under such a wealth of scrub and shrubbery, as to show veryclearly how rich is the soil and how fruitful the climate. 

We see at last what we have long been looking for, hitherto to nopurpose, namely, Maoris and their habitations. Brown, gypsey-like peoplethey appear in the distance, wearing ordinary clothes like Europeans, only dirty and ragged usually. Here and there we pass a cluster of theirwharès, low down near the beach--brown huts of thatch-like appearance, for they are made of raupo grass. Some of them are very neat, withcarved and painted doors and fronts. Near them is usually some fenced-incultivation, and possibly a rough-grassed clearing, on which may be afew cattle or horses. There are always pigs and dogs visible, and brownnaked children disporting themselves on the beach, where canoes aredrawn up, fishing nets spread out, and a scaffolding erected to dryshark-meat upon. 

Few and far between are these evidences of the native race, and few andfar between, also, are evidences of the new nation that is supplantingit. Frere, the statesman, speaking of Spain, said--he loved it becauseGod had so much land there in His own holding. If he could say that ofSpain's bare sierras and bleak barrancas, what would he not have said ofthis land, whose splendid woods and forests clothe the hills and fillthe glens with verdure. 

Here and there we lie off some settler's station, a white woodenhomestead, perhaps with a few outbuildings beside it, perhaps alone;round it the pastures won by the axe and the fire, a mere bite out ofthe boundless woods behind. At such places "The Crew" paddles ashore inthe dingey, or possibly a boat comes off to us, bearing two or threebushmen, who, may be, think that the opportunity for getting a nobblerought not to be suffered to pass by. 

We have three or four townships to call at, places where the Governmenthas set aside a certain tract of land for a future town. A township siteis cut up--on paper--into allotments, which are sold, or kept in theLand Office until wanted. From what we see of the Kaipara towns, theyare very much in embryo as yet. Te Otamatea, for instance, is a singlehouse and nothing more. This is our ideal of a bush settlement; it is asit should be--not too much humanity and crowd. The house, a rambling, wooden building, is of a good size though, being an hotel and store. Round it are several hundred acres of grass. Sometimes it is veryfestive, for a large Maori kainga is not far off; and at Te Otamatea arace-course has been made, where the annual races of the Kaiparadistricts are held. 

Altogether, we like Te Otamatea, with its beautiful situation and lovelyviews, better than Port Albert. This is a sort of bloated Manchester orBirmingham of the district. No less than six or seven houses arevisible close together. If you count barns and byres, and such moredistant houses as are visible from the steamer's deck, there must beover a dozen. It is horridly populous. Moreover, one sees here, sostrongly marked, that uncouth rawness that attends incipientcivilization. Nature has been cleared away to make room for the art ofman, and art has not yet got beyond the inchoate unloveliness of bareutilitarianism. The beautiful woods have given place to a charred, stumpy, muddy waste, on which stand the gaunt, new frame-houses. Gardens, orchards, cornfields, and meadows are things to come; untilthey do the natural beauty of the place is killed and insulted. But whathave we to do with sentimental rubbish? This is Progress! Bless it!

Of course we did not expect to get to our destination all in a minute, for Te Pahi is more than forty miles from Helensville, in a straightline. We started about five o'clock in the morning, but it is late inthe day before we get into the Arapaoa. By taking advantage of thetides, the _Lily_ manages to accomplish ten knots an hour. But the goingin and out of different rivers, though we do not go far up any of them, and the various stoppages, short though they be, make it late in theafternoon before we sight Te Pahi. 

We are coming up the broad Arapaoa, and before us we suddenly see TePahi, a vision of loveliness, "our" township, as we are already callingit. A high, wooded bluff, the termination of a hill-range behind, rushesout into the tranquil, gleaming water. Round the base of the bluff, on alittle flat between it and the white shingly beach, are the houses ofthe settlement. Four families live here at this time; and besides theirabodes, there are a row of three cottages, called immigrant barracks, aboatbuilder's workshop, and an assembly hall. The neatest, fairest, best, and to-be-the-most-progressive of all the Kaipara townships. Wesay this "as shouldn't;" but it is so. 

The broad, lake-like expanse of water over which we are moving--fourmiles across from shore to shore--parts before Te Pahi. It stretchesaway to the left in a wide reach, to form the Matakohe, out of whichopens the Paparoa, hidden from sight at this point. Before us, bearingto the right, is the Pahi river. It is a vista of woodland scenery, glorious in the rays of the declining sun. Its shores are steep, andbroken into numberless little bays and promontories, all clothed withbush to the water's edge. Far up, the towering ranges close down andterminate the view. 

On the left of our position the shore is not so high, and we can see agood deal of grass, with the white homestead of a settler's station. Beyond is what appears to be a chain of distant mountains. Looking tothe right an exclamation bursts from our lips, for there is theloveliest view we have yet seen. 

A deep, semi-circular bay falls back from the river, bordered with abelt of dazzling shingle. Beyond and round it rises a perfectamphitheatre, filled with bush more sumptuous and varied than any wehave gazed upon all day. The range seems to rise in terraces, and justone abrupt gap about the centre discloses the peak of a conical hillbehind. The whole is a perfect idyllic picture, not to be described in abreath; for this is the showplace of the Kaipara. It is Te Puke Tapu, famous in Maori history as the scene of a great battle. 

Beautiful as this place is, it would doubtless soon have been marred bythe pitiless axe and fire of the settler, but that it is sacred soil. The Maoris will not enter it, and they prohibit Europeans fromtransgressing within its boundaries. Nor will they sell the land, although its superb fertility has induced some settlers to offer almostfabulous prices. For, under those rich greenwoods, caressed and buriedin ferns, lie scattered the bony relics of the flower of Ngatewhatuachivalry. 

So much and more a fellow-passenger tells us, while we gaze at the view, inwardly wondering whether wandering artist will ever present thisglorious landscape now before us to people at home. But the story mustbe reserved for another time, until we are able to do justice to it. 

At last the _Lily_ is lying right off the beach of Te Pahi township, andher whistle is echoing among the woods on the ranges above, scaring theshags, kingfishers, and rock-snipe on the oyster-beds and beaches. Veryspeedily, two or three people appear at the township, and one of themputs off in a boat to board us. 

To him we are shortly introduced by the Pirate, and handed over to hiscare, as candidates for a berth in the immigrant barracks. We discuss anobbler, which is at once a farewell one with Pirate Tom, "The Crew, "and the rest of our fellow-passengers, and an introductory ceremony withour new acquaintance, "The Mayor. "

A merry, athletic, thoroughly healthy and hearty Englishman is ourfriend, the Mayor, always in a hurry and bustle of business, for hisavocations are startlingly numerous. He is the oldest inhabitant of thetownship, and was called the Mayor when he dwelt there solitary, a fewyears ago. Now he is postmaster, storekeeper, justiciary, acting-parson, constabulary, board of works, tax-gatherer, customsofficer, farmer, dealer in everything, town clerk, lawyer, doctor, and, perhaps, a score of things beside, as they reckon such in Te Pahi. 

The Mayor hurries us and our traps ashore in his boat, and deposits uson the beach. Then he hastens back to the steamer, bidding us waitthere, as "he'll be back to fix us before we can have time to wink. "Half a dozen men and boys--the entire population--stand at a littledistance, regarding us shyly, but inquisitively, with pocketed hands. Some young children are also apparent. 

As we stand gazing about us, and wondering how to make acquaintance withthe group, a little girl comes running up to us. It is always thesuperior sex, you see, even in the bush, that make the first advances. She offers us peaches, the little bright-eyed, sunny-faced thing; andreadily submits to be kissed; indeed, appears to expect it. Then sheprattles away to us in right merry fashion. 

The little incident breaks the ice. The group of men come forward andenter into conversation. Perhaps a trifle constrained at first--fordwellers in the bush necessarily lose the readiness of people moreaccustomed to society--they show themselves anxious enough to behospitable and welcoming. They are eager to know who we are, naturally, what we are going to do, and so forth. When it comes out that we haveadvented to join Old Colonial, we are admitted as chums at once, andformally accepted as free citizens of the soon-to-be prosperous andthriving town of Te Pahi. 

By-and-by the Mayor gets back; and the _Lily_ steams off again on herway to Matakohe, where she will anchor for the night, returning toHelensville next day. Old Colonial, it seems, is away up the riversomewhere, but is expected at the township that night, as he knows thatthe steamer is due, and that we were likely to come by it. 

And now what are we to do? Go to the immigrant barracks, we suppose, since they are expressly designed for the accommodation of suchnew-chums as ourselves. Barracks be hanged! Is it likely that we are tobe allowed to go there while the Mayor has a comfortable house in whichto receive guests? Not likely! Why, others of the citizens are intent onhospitality as well, and any of the four homes of the place may be oursfor the present, if we will. 

But the Mayor is not going to be choused out of his guests; don't youbelieve it! What is he Mayor and boss of the township for, he would liketo know, if not to look after new-chums? Besides, on his own soleresponsibility, he has turned the immigrant barracks into a warehousefor produce, since no immigrants ever seemed to be coming to occupythem. So, he is in a measure bound to take possession of us, don't yousee? and, by Jove, he means to, what's more!

Then we walk along to the Mayor's residence, and a comfortable, well-furnished house it is, quite a surprise to us, who hardly expectedhome-comforts in the bush. But then the Mayor is a thriving man, and hasa wife to look after him. 

A cheerful, amiable lady bids us welcome, with a heartiness as thoughshe were only too glad to see us, although it would appear as if herhands were full enough of housework already, without the additional careof looking after a couple of helpless, unready new-chums. But strangersare so rare up here, that much must be made of them when they do come;therefore, the fatted calf is killed, so to speak, and we are regaled inhandsome fashion. 

Later, after supper, there is a sudden arrival in the darkness of thenight. We hear a stamping on the verandah outside, and a loud, lusty, half-remembered voice addressing the Mayor. 

"Have they come, I say? Where are they, then?"

The door of the room we are sitting in bursts open, and a burly, beardedman, rough and savage enough in outward appearance, sooth to say, rushes in upon us. He seizes our hands in a grip that brings the tearsto our eyes, he shakes them up and down with vehemence, and while we aretrying to make out whether this Old Colonial can really and truly be oursometime schoolfellow, he exclaims--

"Well, this _is_ good! I _am_ glad to see you! _Now_ we'll have asplendid time! Now we'll _make_ this old place hum round! Oh, but thisis glorious!"

Thus, and much more; and so, with the true, hearty good-fellowship ofthe bush, are we welcomed to our future home. 

 * * * * *

And now that we have arrived at the scene of our future work, let thischapter close. No need any longer to pursue our history as new-chums. Inthe pages that follow we will resume the story at a further date, whenwe have arrived at the full estate of settlers and colonists. Suchthread of narrative as these sketches possess shall henceforth beunwound off another reel. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: It must be remembered that this is ten or twelve years agothough it holds good down to 1876. Since the railway was made morecolonists have come into the district, and two fine new steamers now plyon the Kaipara waters. ]

CHAPTER V. 

OUR SHANTY. 

Several years ago now, we bought our land from the Maoris, and settleddown here upon the Pahi. Necessarily, our first proceeding was toconstruct a habitation. We might have employed the carpenter andboat-builder, who resides at the township, to put up a good andwell-made frame-house for us, for a price of a hundred pounds orupwards. But we had entire confidence in our own abilities, and besides, there was something enticing in the idea of building our future homewith the actual labour of our own hands. 

Moreover, there was another reason, possibly of chief importance: wecould not afford to pay for a house. After paying for our land, payingfor our farm-stock, and calculating our resources for meeting thecurrent expenses of the first year or two, we found there was but slightmargin for anything else; therefore we decided to build a shantyourselves. Meantime, we were camped on our new estate in a manner morepicturesque than comfortable. A rude construction of poles covered withan old tarpaulin sufficed us. It was summer weather, and this was quitegood enough for a beginning. From step to step, that is the way toprogress, so we said. First the tent or wharè, temporarily for a fewweeks; then the shanty, for a year or two; then, as things got well withus, a well-finished frame-house; finally, a palace, a castle in the air, or anything you like. 

There are shanties and shanties. It is necessary to explain. Primarily, in its Canadian and original sense, the term means a log-house--a hutmade of rough squared logs, built up upon each other. Such log-huts arenot common in this country, though they may be seen here and there. Themild climate does not require such a style of building. The labour ofcutting and squaring logs for the purpose is great. The native wharè ofthatch is quickly and easily raised, serves all requirements, and lastsfor years. In most parts hitherto settled, water-communication placesthe settler within reach of a saw-mill, where he can obtain boards andso on at very moderate cost. A shanty here, is a name applied to almostany kind of nondescript erection, which would not come under thedesignation of wharè, or be honoured by the ambitious title of house. Rough edifices of planking are the common form. 

We went up to Tokatoka on the Wairoa, and there we purchased enough sawntimber for our purpose, for about twelve or fifteen pounds. We hired abig punt, and fetched this stuff down to our place, a distance of someforty miles or so by water. Then we set to work at building. 

The site we selected was an ambitious one; too much so, as we wereafterwards to discover. From the first Old Colonial objected to it. Itwas too far from the river, he said, and would necessitate such anamount of "humping. " Bosh about humping! returned the majority. It wasonly a temporary affair; in a year or two we should be having a regularframe-house. Old Colonial gave way, for he perceived that, as ouracknowledged boss, he would have but little of the humping to dohimself. And the chosen site was central for the first proposedclearings of our future farm. 

The selected spot was a rising ground in the centre of a broad basin, nearly a mile across. Steep ranges surround this basin, and the wholewas then covered with light bush. Half a mile in front is a mangroveswamp, beyond which flows the river--the mangroves filling up a spacethat without them would have been an open bay. The prospect in thisdirection is bounded by the forest-clothed ranges on the opposite sideof the river, which is here about a mile in breadth. The land within thebasin is nothing like level, and English farmers might be frightened atits ruggedness. To colonial eyes, however, it seems all that could bedesired. 

Knolls and terraces gradually lead up to the ranges, which sweep away torun together into a high hill called Marahemo, about three miles behindus. The little eminence, on which stands the shanty, slopes down on theleft to a flat, where originally flax and rushes did most abound. Through this flat a small creek has channelled a number of little pondsand branches on its way to the river beyond. 

On the right the bank is steeper, and upon it stand a number ofcabbage-tree palms. Down below is a little rocky, rugged gully, with abrawling stream rushing through it. Just abreast of the shanty thisstream forms a cascade, tumbling into a pool that beyond is still andclear and gravelly. It is a most romantically beautiful spot, shaded andshut in completely by fern-covered rocks and overhanging trees. This isour lavatory. Here we bathe, wash our shirts, and draw our supplies ofwater. This creek flows down through the mangrove swamp to the river;and, at high-water, we can bring our boats up its channel to a pointabout a quarter of a mile below the shanty. 

The site of the shanty has its advantages; but it has that one seriousdrawback foreseen by Old Colonial. Somehow or other, year after year hasflown by, and still we have not got that frame-house we promisedourselves. It is not for want of means, or because we have not beenquite so rapidly successful as we anticipated. Of course not! Away withsuch base insinuations! But we have never any time to see about it, andare grown so used to the shanty that we do not seem to hanker afteranything more commodious. So all these years, we have had to hump on ourbacks and shoulders every blessed thing that we have imported orexported, from the shanty to the water, or the contrary--sacks of flour, sugar, and salt, grindstones, cheeses, meat, furniture. Oh, misery! howour backs have ached as we have toiled up to our glorious site, whileOld Colonial laughed and jeered, as his unchristian manner is. 

Our work began with the timbers of the shanty itself, and with the heavymaterial for the stockyard. But humping was then a novelty, and weregarded it as a labour of love. Now we know better, and, when we do getthat frame-house, we are going to have it just as near to thelanding-place as we can possibly stick it. You may bet your pile onthat!

Of course, in building the shanty, we employed the usual fashionprevalent in the colony. Because, when we set to work we said we weregoing to build a proper frame-house, _not_ a shanty. That is a name forour habitation, which has since grown up into usage. We were none of uspractised carpenters; but what did that matter? We knew how to use ourhands; and had so often seen houses built that we knew precisely how todo it. 

First of all, then, are the piles. These are of puriri wood, tough, heavy, and durable. They are rough-split sections of the great logs, some two feet thick, with squarely-sawn ends. They are fixed in theground two or three feet apart, so as to bring their flat-sawn tops upona uniform level. The irregularities of the ground are thus providedagainst, while a suitable foundation is laid. 

The next process is to build a scaffolding, or skeleton frame, ofscantling and quartering. When that has been done, the floor is plankedover, the sides weather-boarded, doors, windows, and partitions beingput in according to the design of the architect. Lastly, the roof isshingled, that is, covered with what our chum, O'Gaygun, calls "woodenslates. "

Our shanty is thirty feet long by ten in width. The sides are seven feethigh, and the ridge-pole is double that height from the floor. There area door and two windows, the latter having been bought at the township. There is a partition across the shanty, two rooms having originally beenintended; but as this partition has a doorway without a door, and isonly the height of the sides, being open above, the original intentionin raising it has been lost, and it now merely serves for a convenientrack. There is no verandah on the outside of the shanty, for we regardedthat as a waste of material and labour. 

The fireplace is an important part of the shanty. Ten feet of the sideopposite the door was left open, not boarded up. Outside of this a sortof supplementary chamber, ten feet square, was boarded up from theground. The roof of this little outroom slopes away _from_ that of therest of the shanty, and at its highest point a long narrow slit is leftopen for a chimney. There is no flooring to this chamber, the groundbeing covered with stones well pounded down. Its level is necessarilysunk a little below that of the shanty floor, which is raised on thepiles, so the edge of the flooring forms a bench to sit on in front ofthe fire. The fire used simply to be built up on the stones, in themiddle of this chimney-place; but, after a year or two, we imported anAmerican stove, with its useful appliances, from Auckland. 

Our shanty is the habitation of some half-dozen of us, year out and yearin. There are in the district a good many settlers of themiddle-classes. Men of some education, who would be entitled to thedesignation of "gentleman" in Europe. Of such sort are we. Some of usare landowners, and some have no capital, being simply labourers. Whichis which does not matter. I shall not particularize, as each and allhave the same work to do, and live in exactly the same style. There isbrotherhood and equality among us, which is even extended to some whowould _not_ be called by that old-world title just alluded to, anywhereat all. We do not recognize class distinctions here much. We take a manas we find him; and if he is a good, hearty, honest fellow, that isenough for us. 

A good many of us come from the classes in England among whom manuallabour is considered low and degrading. That is, unless it is undertakensolely for amusement. Out here we are navvies, day-labourers, mechanics, artisans, anything. At home, we should have to uphold the familyposition by grinding as clerks on a miserable pittance, or by toiling insome equally sedentary and dull routine of life. If we attempted towork there as we work here, we should be scouted and cut by all ourfriends. 

Out here we have our hardships, to be sure; we have got to learn whatroughing it really means. It is no child's play, that is certain. Buthere, an industrious man is always getting nearer and nearer to a homeand a competence, won by his toil. Can every one in the old country, nomatter how industrious, say that of himself? Is it not too often thepoor-house, or the charity of friends, that is the only goal oflabouring-class and middle-class alike, in overcrowded Britain? Doespatient industry invariably lead to a better fortune for the decliningyears in England? We know that it does here. 

This is enough for one digression, though. Be it understood, then, thatwe are not horny-handed sons of toil by birth. We were once calledgentlemen, according to the prevailing notions of that caste at home. Here, the very air has dissolved all those ancient prejudices, and muchbetter do we feel for the change. Only occasionally does some amusinginstance of the old humbug crop up. I may light upon some such examplebefore I lay down my pen. 

It is now some years since our shanty was built--seven or eight, Isuppose. The edifice certainly looks older. Not to put too fine a pointon it, one might candidly call it ruinous, rather than otherwise. Thisis singular and surprising; we cannot account for it. Frame-houses inthis country ought to require no repairs for twenty years at least. Thatis the received opinion. We dogmatically assert that the house we builtourselves, with such infinite labour and trouble, is as good as anyother of its size and kind. Consequently, it will not want repairing fortwenty years. _But it does. _ It looks as old as the hills, and seems tobe coming to pieces about us, though only eight years old. Nevertheless, we will not forswear ourselves, we will _not_ repair our shanty tilltwenty years are gone!

As for allowing that there could be any fault in our workmanship, thatour inexperienced joinery can have been the cause of the shanty'spremature decay, that, even Old Colonial says, is ridiculous. No, thewood was unseasoned; or, perhaps, it was over-seasoned. We admit somuch, but our handicraft was certainly not to blame. 

The imperfections of the shanty are many and grievous. The door andwindows have quarrelled desperately with their settings. On windy nightswe get no sleep, as every one is engaged trying to fasten and wedge theminto noiseless security. The door developed a most obstreperous andnoxious habit of being blown into the middle of the house during thenight, with much hideous clatter and clamour. We stopped that at last bynailing it up altogether, and making a new entrance through the side ofthe chimney-place. 

Then, each particular board in the sides of the shanty has somehowwarped itself out of place. We are thus enabled to view the lovelyscenery lying round the place from our bunks, without the trouble ofrising and going to the window. Old Colonial says that free ventilationis one of the great blessings of life. He thinks that the chinks in ourwalls are absolutely a provision of Nature, since, he says, we wouldcertainly be choked with smoke if there were none. 

Sometimes the cattle, feeding on the clearings round the shanty, comeand thrust their noses through the gaps in the boards, or stand and eyeus as we are taking our meals. The Saint says he has invited them tobreakfast with us, on the first of April next, by which time he expectsthat the chinks will have gaped wide enough to permit of the passage ofcattle. 

Of course, the smoke of the fire will not go up the chimney as it ought, but floats freely about the shanty. This is good for the bacon and hams, when there are any, that depend from the rafters. It is also a wholesomething, says Old Colonial, and sweetens and preserves everything. "Noneof your gassy, sooty coal-smoke, but the fragrant vapours of the burningforest!" so he remarked one night, when we were all blinded and chokedby the volumes of smoke that rolled through the shanty. O'Gaygun isoften funny, but not always original. He says that the smoke floatsabout our habitation because it never knows which hole it ought to goout at!

On rainy nights--and that is nearly every night during some three monthsof the year--there is perpetual misery in the shanty. One hears somechoice varieties of rhetorical flowers of speech; there is a continualshifting about of beds; and often unseemly scuffling for drier places. O'Gaygun says that he loves to "astthronomise" when lying comfortably inbed; but he adds, that, "a shower-bath is a quare place to sleep in. "

It will be surmised from this that our roof is leaky. All roofs arethat, you know, in a greater or lesser degree, only ours in a greater, perhaps. Those shingles _will_ come off. We are sure we put them onproperly and securely. The nails must have been some inferior rottenquality, doubtless. Loose shingles lie about all around the shanty. Theycome in useful as plates, as our crockery is generally short. In fact, O'Gaygun prefers them to the usual article, and always goes outside topick up a plate for any stranger who may happen to drop in to lunch. Touse his words, "They fall aff the shanty roof loike the laves aff thetthrees!"

Somehow or other all these things go unremedied. It would, of course, bean admission that our work had been unsatisfactory, if we were toearnestly set about repairing the shanty, and thereby formally allowthat it required such renovation. No one will dare to initiate such aserious thing. Besides, it is no one man's particular business to beginthe work of mending; while we are always busy, and have acquired such anamazing notion of the value of our time, that we consider the necessaryrepairs would not be worth the time it would take us to effect them. 

Moreover, Old Colonial is a bush-philosopher, and delivers himself ofmoral orations in the shanty of nights. His views on some subjects arepeculiar, and they are always hurled at our heads with the utmost scornand contempt for all who may differ from them. This is his theory onrepairing--

"We are pioneers; it is our special duty and purpose to make, to begin, to originate. We inherit nothing; we are ourselves the commencement of afuture society, just as Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden. Ourwhole time and labour must be given to the one purpose of hewing outthe new path. We cannot stop to repair our faults and failures. For _us_that would be a waste of energy and of time. It is for those who inheritthe commencement we have made to do that; not for us, the pioneers. Theywill improve our beginnings; we must continue onward. _Never mendanything_, except your manners, boys! Put up with discomforts andhardships, as pioneers should!"

The furniture and internal arrangements of our shanty are more simple inconstruction than elegant in appearance. We go in for utility, and notfor show. As a central feature is the table. It is our pride and glory, that table, for it was made in Auckland, and imported by us fromHelensville. It is the one piece of furniture we possess that displaysan art superior to our own. Solid, strong and large, made of stout kauriwood, it has borne a great deal of rough usage, and is capable ofbearing a great deal more. 

Besides all the customary uses to which a table may be put, this articleof ours fulfils even another purpose. It comes in very handy sometimesas a bedstead. I have known two men to sleep upon it on occasions; itsbreadth being considerable. For a long time it went by the name ofO'Gaygun's four-poster, that gentleman having a predilection forsleeping on it. He is a huge, bony Irishman, and somewhat restless inhis sleep. Accordingly, it was no unusual thing for him to roll off thetable in the night, and descend upon the floor with considerable uproar. This was got over by inverting the table at night, and making himrecline on the inside of it, with the legs sticking up around him. Hedoes not like this position, though, for he says the rats run across himall night. 

Chairs we have none, except two curious contrivances belonging to theSaint and the Little'un. We use empty kegs and boxes, sawn logs set upon end, and the sides of our bunks, when we sit at table. When at ourease and our tobacco, we either recline in our bunks, or sit on the edgeof the floor opening into the chimney-place. 

The two curious contrivances alluded to are styled armchairs by theirmanufacturers, and somewhat remarkable objects they are. The Saint's ismade out of the section of a cask set up on four legs. It possesses afifth leg, or outrigger at the back, and has cushions of flour-bags, stuffed with turkey's feathers. The owner doubtless finds it to hismind, but he has to guard against leaning to either side, or collapse isalways the consequence. 

The other armchair is the Little'un's. Now, this young gentleman, thoughthe most youthful of our party, is by no means the least. He is, infact, six feet six inches in height, and is of broad and muscular build. His private seat is therefore of the ponderous kind. At first sight itwould seem to be of immense strength, since it is made of heavy stakes, cut in the adjoining bush. These are abundantly jointed with bars andbolts of the same solid and substantial kind; the seat and back beingcomposed of sacking. But, in spite of the apparent power displayed bythis fabrication, disastrous accidents are continually happening. TheLittle'un has no inborn genius for joinery. 

Sometimes it has happened that, as we sat at a meal, a loud crack wouldbe heard, some part of his throne would give way, and the Little'unwould disappear from view. Shouts of laughter from the rest. OldColonial, in high delight, would proceed to show how cleverly theLittle'un had adapted his armchair to his exact weight; and how it wasunable to support the addition of the great load of victuals which thatindividual had unthinkingly stowed away. The Little'un would arisesilent and perplexed; and, by-and-by, we would find him deeply ponderingover the manufacture of his scaffolding, and probably shaping anothersmall tree with his axe to add to it. 

The most important items of the shanty's plenishing are the bunks andbeds. The former are made in this way, having been constructed by thecarpenter at the township. A simple folding trestle at head and footsupports two parallel bars. Across these is stretched and nailed stoutcanvas. Each of us has one of these bedsteads, which are very convenientin the limited dimensions of our shanty, for they can be folded andstacked out of the way when necessary. 

The beds themselves are curiously fabricated. Old potato-sacks, flour-bags, and the like have been utilized. The stuffing is of fern, feathers, mounga, and sundry other matters. Each of us has two or moreblankets, which, I regret to say, are a trifle frowsy as a rule. O'Gaygun's call for special remark. 

This descendant of Hibernian kings is content to undergo even greaterinconveniences than he necessarily need do, since he has determined tomake his fortune in the shortest possible space of time. Moreover, heprofesses the profoundest contempt for luxury and even comfort. He holdsthat almost anything civilized is an effeminacy, and out of place in thebush, where he considers that life ought to be lived in a stern and"natchral" way. He is intensely conservative in the primitive usages andhabits of the roughest pioneering times, and emphatically condemns anyinnovations thereupon. He works with furious zeal and unflaggingenergy, and saves all the money he earns, generally investing it ingold-mine scrip, or something that rarely turns out well. 

In the matter of blankets and bedding, the spirit of O'Gaygun's economyand self-sacrifice is apparent. His bedding is like that of all of us, except that it is less bulky--O'Gaygun asserting that a soft bed is asin. His blankets have long been worn out; in fact, they are the mereshreds and tatters of what once were blankets. Bunk he has none. Itwould go against his principles to get one. If any of us is absent, O'Gaygun borrows his bunk for the time. When all are present he contentshimself with the inverted table, his especial four-poster. 

To see this eccentric Milesian settling himself for the night isinvariably a mirthful spectacle, and, it may be added, that, no one ofus is more volubly humorous and laughter-loving than O'Gaygun himself. Reclining on the sacks which he has spread out upon the table, heproceeds to draw his tattered blankets carefully over his lengthy limbs. Piece by piece he spreads the coverings. First one foot and thenanother, then the waist, and so on, until at last he is entirelycovered. The process is troublesome, perhaps; but when it is finishedO'Gaygun lies as warm and comfortable as need be. Why should he go tothe expense of new blankets?

Of course there is in the shanty a litter of cans, kegs, oldpacking-cases, and the like, which come into use in various ways. Amongthem are the remains of former state, in the shape of certain trunks, portmanteaus, and boxes. These receptacles held our wardrobes, when wepossessed such things, and the sundry personals we brought with us fromEngland years ago, and imported up here. 

We have long got over the feeling that it is imperative to hoard upclothes and things in boxes; in fact, we have no longer any clothes andthings that require such disposal. But in the bush everything must servesome purpose or other; and so all these now disused trunks are turned touse. One grand old imperial is now a brine-tub, within whose dank andsalt recesses masses of beef and pork are always kept stored ready foruse. Other cases hold sugar, salt, flour, and so on; a uniform case isnow our bread-basket; each has its proper purpose, and is accomplishingits final destiny. There is a fine leather portmanteau, or what was oncesuch, now the residence of a colley bitch and her litter of pups. Mildewed and battered as it is, it still seems to recall to mind faintmemories of English country-houses, carriages, valets, and otheroutlandish and foreign absurdities. There must be magic in that oldvalise, for, the other day, Dandy Jack was looking at the pups thatlive in it, and remarked their kennel. A fragment of schoolboy Latincame into his head, and, to our astonishment, he murmured, "_Sic transitgloria mundi!_"

To avoid the possibility of any mistakes arising from an admission justmade, I hereby beg to state that we do _not_ consider clothing asentirely superfluous. But we no longer regard it from any artistic orornamental point of view; that would be to derogate from our characteras bushmen. We are not over-burdened with too large a choice ofclothing. Such as we have is pretty much held in common, and all that isnot in immediate use finds a place on the partition-rack, or the shelvesupon it. We are supposed to possess _another_ change of garments apiece, but no one knows exactly how he stands in this matter, unless it be theLittle'un, whose superior amplitude of limb debars him from the fullestexercise of communal rights. 

Our ordinary costume consists of flannel shirt and moleskin breeches, boots, socks, leggings, belt, and hat. In chilly and wet weather wesling a potato-sack, or some ancient apology for a coat, round ourshoulders. When we visit the township, or our married neighbours, weclean ourselves as much as possible, and put on the best coat we canfind in the shanty. We do not entirely dispense with such things astowels and handkerchiefs, though the use of them is limited, andsubstitutes are employed. Razors, of course, were discarded long ago, but some antique brushes, and a small piece of cracked looking-glass, represent the toilette accessories of the shanty. 

Our custom is to wear our clothes just as long as they will holdtogether, before we renew any garment by purchasing another of its kindat the township store. There is no time for mending in the bush, so weare often rather ragged. Washing is a nuisance, but we feel bound to gothrough it sometimes; and very knowing laundrymen are we, up to everydodge for economizing elbow-grease, and yet satisfactorily cleansing thethings. But we do not undertake this work too often. Old Colonial haslaid down a law upon the subject. He says--

"Frequent washing spoils clothes, and causes them to rot sooner. Besides, it is unnecessary where there are no women about, and a loss oftime if it trenches on more important work. "

Dandy Jack is an exception to the common sumptuary habits of the bush. In fact, he is an exceptional character altogether. Place him where youwill, and he always looks fit for a drawing-room. How he manages it, noone knows. Many have tried to imitate him, but without success. Theyhave expended much money, and time, and thought, in the endeavour tocompete with our dandy chum, but have had, sooner or later, to give upin despair, and return to tatters and grime like the common run of folk. Dandy Jack always carries a small swag about with him from place toplace, wherever he may temporarily pitch his tent. If he rides, it isbehind his saddle; if he boats, it is beside him; if he walks, it is onhis back. Yet it is not only this that enables him to appear as he does. Other people can carry swags as well as he. But Dandy Jack has apeculiar genius which other persons lack. That must be it!

There is one portion of our domicile that we are accustomed to speak ofwith a certain fond and lingering reverence. This is THE LIBRARY. Highup in one corner, festooned with cobwebs, are a couple of shelves. Uponthem are a pile of tattered newspapers and periodicals, a row of greasyvolumes, mostly of the novel sort, one or two ancient account-books, andthe fragmentary relics of a desk containing pens, ink, and paper. Suchas it is, our library is more than every establishment like ours canboast of. There is precious little time for reading or writing in thebush. 

The smaller half of the shanty, divided from the rest and from thechimney-place by the incomplete partition already spoken of, is termedby us the dairy. It is not in any way separate from the rest of thehouse, though, since we use it and sleep in it as part of the generalapartment. But here, arranged on shelves all round the walls, are tindishes and billies, a churn, a cheese-press, and the variousappurtenances of a dairy. Humble and primitive as are thesearrangements, we do yet contrive to turn out a fair amount of butter andcheese. At such seasons as we have cows in milk, this makes a fair showto our credit every week, in the ledger of the township storekeeper, ourgood friend the Mayor. 

It will be readily understood that our table equipage is not of the bestor most sumptuous description. It fluctuates in extent a good deal fromtime to time, and always presents the spectacle of pleasing variety. Weare never without appliances and substitutes of one kind or other; andmembers of the society now and then add to the stock such items as theyseverally deem desirable, or happen to pick up cheap "down the river. "

Experience has taught us that meat is meat still, although it may beeaten direct out of frying-pan or stew-pot. It is just as good, betterwe think, as when served up on Palissy ware or silver. Knives and forksare distinctly a product of civilization; custom holds us to the use ofthem. But what are a sheath-knife and a wooden skewer, if noteverything that is needed?

Those ultra-conservatives among our number, those rigid adherents to themost primitive bush-life, of course despise all the refinements of thetable. Plates, forks, and spoons are to them degeneracies, --things thatno noble bushman needs or requires. They scorn any leanings towardsluxury and ease. Give _them_ a life that is totally free from the pettytrammels and slavish conventionalities of the old world!

At one time we were possessed of but a single plate, an iron one, whichhad lost its enamel, and was half eaten through by rust; we had only onefork, and that had only a prong and a half remaining. But we had ourcooking-pots and billies, our sheath-knives, wooden skewers, fingers, and O'Gaygun's shingle-plates. What more could any one want? And ifthere were not enough pannikins or mugs to hold our tea all round, therewere empty preserve-cans, gallipots, and oyster-shells! We were contentand happy. But this blissful state was to be rudely broken. 

One day, a member of our party had been down Helensville way. There hadbeen an auction of the effects of a settler, who was moving off to theSouth Island. Our chum had not been able to resist the temptation, andhad invested all he was worth in an assortment of goods. It was nightwhen he returned, and we were all in the shanty. He came up from theboat, staggering under the weight of a great kit full of crocks andsuch-like. 

Of course, the excitement was great as we surveyed the heap of newtreasures we had acquired. Even O'Gaygun was enchanted for a moment, till he remembered himself, and assumed the stern and savage bearingbefitting the leader of our conservatives. His scorn was withering. 

"F'what might this be?" he would ask, fingering contemptuously first onething and then another. 

"An' f'what do ye do wid it, at all?" he inquired, as article afterarticle was reviewed, affecting the airs of wonderment supposed tobelong to a child of nature. 

Presently his humour changed, and he passed into the declamatory stage. 

"'Tis a sinful exthravagance! a temptin' av Providence!" he exclaimed. "Plates! an' faaks! an' dishes! an' sacers! did ivver anny wan see theloike? F'what do ye expict nixt? Kid gloves to work in, maybe! Thativver I'd see the day whan sich degrading emblems av the ouldsuperstitions of sassiety was brought into the bush! Ough!"

So much and more the O'Gaygun. But there is a sequel to the incident. 

Some time after, when we had learnt to love and cherish theseacquisitions, the Little'un was one day detailed as hut-keeper. It sohappened that he had our entire stock of crockery to wash up, as wegenerally work through the set before any one will act as scullery-maid. The Little'un got through his task; he washed every plate and cup we hadgot; but, not finding any towel or cloth handy, he disposed the thingson the stones in the chimney-place, round the stove to dry. There heleft them, and went off to chop firewood, forgetting to fasten the door. 

Directly the Little'un's back was turned, a wandering pig arrived on thescene. Seeing the open door, he resolved to prospect a bit, andaccordingly entered the shanty. What followed can now never be preciselyknown, but conjecture allows us to arrive at the probable truth. 

The pig's first discovery was a number of comical objects, whose purposehe could not divine, stuck about among stones and gravel. He ruminatedover these awhile, and at last inquisitively snouted one dish that stoodalone, like a small monument. Down went the strange thing and smashed. The pig thought this was singular, and was somewhat startled. Still, heresolved to persevere in his investigations. He inserted his nose into along, hollow thing that lay there, but could not get it out of the jugagain. In his horror and fright at such an extraordinary accident, heplunged round and round the place; and, as he went, things fell andcracked and crashed under his feet in an awful and terrifying manner. Atlast he hit the thing that covered his snout against something hard, andit, too, broke. But a splinter wounded his nose, and made him squeal andfairly scream with pain and fright. At last, executing one finalpirouette and gambado, while the strange things crunched and crackled atevery move of his, he rushed out through the door, oversetting a man whowas coming in with a bundle of firewood. 

It was a scene of woe when the rest of us arrived from work. Concern andconsternation sat on every brow, as the Little'un unfolded his tale, andwe surveyed the universal smash of our crockery. Only O'Gaygun showedsigns of levity. In stentorian tones he shouted:--

"A jedgment! a jedgment on ye, bhoys! The very bastes is sint to pracheaginst yer exthravagance an' lukshury! The pigs is tachin' ye as theytached the howly St. Anthony av ould! O glory, glory! 'tis grand!"

But his remarks were ill-timed. Conservatism was out of favour justthen, and the Liberals were in power. The wrath of the assembly wasturned upon this audacious prophet; and, excommunicated from the shanty, it was very late before humanity compelled us to let him have hissupper. And I may mention that fresh pork chops were added to the billof fare that night. 

CHAPTER VI. 

OUR HOME-LIFE. 

Among the friends of colonists at home in Britain, among those who talkmost and know least of this land of the blest, I specify three classes. First, there are the people who talk of "roughing it" with an air ofrapturous enjoyment, and a Micawber-like roll of the voice, as if thatwere really something good, something both pleasant and praiseworthy initself. Again, there are those who shudder at the bare idea, and whoconceive it, perhaps, to be a good deal worse than it really is. Lastly, there are some who are quite vacuous in the matter, either because theterm conveys no meaning to their minds, or because Nature has made themindifferent to personal comfort and discomfort. 

Now, in the first place, roughing it is not a nice process. There isnothing at all delightful or charming about it. Plainly, it issuffering. Suffering of numberless discomforts and privations, slightin themselves as a rule, though not invariably so, but certainly aserious matter in the aggregate. Nor is there anything grand or gloriousin the prospect of roughing it. Merely in itself it does not add to aman's good in any particular way. It has to be got through in order thatcertain ends may be achieved. That is about the sum of it. 

On the other hand, there is nothing to daunt healthy young fellows inthe prospect of roughing it. Only those who are delicate, or who are ofsensitive nature, need turn back from the possibility of it. And it mustbe remembered that, to succeed eventually in any path of lifewhatsoever, some sort of hardship, toil, and self-sacrifice must beundergone. 

Of course, you cannot carry the drawing-room with you into the bush. That side of life, with much of the refinement belonging to it, is sweptcompletely out of your reach. And what is of more importance still, yourexistence is apt to grow somewhat unintellectual. Yet these are mattersthat are already remedying themselves. As comfort and competence aregradually achieved, and as society becomes large, so do the higherresults of civilization follow. And as pioneering progresses into themore advanced stages of improvement, so do the opportunities andpossibilities for mental work and culture become more generally andreadily appreciable. 

To us, when we first came out from England, the life here seemed utterlydelightful, because it was so fresh and novel. We were quite captivatedwith it. Our existence was a perpetual holiday and picnic, to which thevarious difficulties and discomforts that cropped up only seemed to addmore zest. But we soon got over that. We soon began to find that it didnot rain rosewater here. A rude picnic prolonged day after day, yearafter year, soon lost its enchantment, and merged into something verylike suffering. We began to yearn after those flesh-pots of Egypt whichwe had left behind us; and there were times when we have regretted thatwe ever emigrated at all. 

Now we have settled down to a calm and placid contentment with our lot. We begin to see what results are possible to us, and there are signsthat our chrysalis condition is finite after all, and that some rewardfor our toil will be ours ere long. The days of our worst poverty anddifficulty lie behind us, and better things are in store. 

We have been thankful for one thing. Our society in this district islimited; but it comprises persons of some small amount of cultivationand intelligence. We appreciate this at its fullest, for most of ushave, at one time or other, had to work in other parts of the colony, where our only associates were of the rudest and dullest mentalorganization. We are kindred spirits, and are happy in our way, makinglight of difficulties, laughing at hardships and privations, and mockingat poverty and toil. By this means we believe that we enjoy to theutmost all the good that there is in this life of ours, and that wemeasurably lessen the struggles and troubles that have to be gonethrough. 

And now to revert more particularly to our home life in the shanty. 

The insect world is a great feature in Northern New Zealand, both as tovariety, which is extensive, and as to quantity, which is illimitable. Within our shanty there are certain species which make themselves felt, smelt, or otherwise apparent to our annoyance, without taking intoconsideration the hosts that, as far as we are concerned, are innocuous. 

St. Patrick is reported to have driven all the snakes out of Ireland;and, according to O'Gaygun, he afterwards journeyed over here, andperformed the same service in these islands. The deed was done, says myinformant, in order that this Canaan of the South Sea might be madeready for descendants of Hibernian kings, when the proper time shouldcome; and that time, he continues, was when loyal and true sons of Erinshould be seeking afar for a home, where the Land League would ceasefrom troubling; and the landlord be at rest!

Well, we have no snakes, thanks to St. Patrick, but if that gentlemanhad only continued and completed his work, so far as to have excludedcertain insect pests as well, we could have felt more beholden to him. We have them both out of doors and indoors, but it is with the invadersof our sanctuary that I have at present to deal. 

First, there is the mosquito. We have them here of all sorts and sizes. Sometimes they come by twos and threes, and sometimes they come inswarms. They are a deadly nuisance anyway, and a most obnoxious additionto the inhabitants of our shanty. The peculiar delight of a mosquito isto arrive just at the moment when you are falling off to sleep, properlyfatigued with your day's work. You hear a long, threatening boom, whichfinally ends with a sharp jerk, like buzz-z-z-z-z-z-zup. Then you waitin anxious expectancy for what you well know will come next. It doescome, a sharp prick on some part where you least expected it. You slapangrily at the place, and hurt yourself, but not the mosquito. O no! heis gone before you can satisfy your just vengeance, and he leaves a markof his visit that will worry you for days after. 

Wise people envelope themselves in gauze mosquito-bars, but we are notwise, and we do not. Conceive the fury of O'Gaygun at such aninnovation, such pampering, effeminacy, luxury! Who would venture tointroduce a mosquito-bar into a community of which he is member? Whatmight not be expected from this most conservative of pioneers? Even OldColonial says it is better that we should "harden ourselves to it. " Butoccasionally, in the stilly watches of the night, I hear a hasty remarkfrom his corner of the shanty, which leads me to believe that, with allthe years of his mosquito experience, he is not wholly hardened yet. 

Then there is the sandfly, another enemy of our peace. This creature isnot so bad as the first, though. It is true his sting is sharp, andalways draws a drop of blood, but there is no after irritation. Sometimes, when sandflies abound about us, we make them contribute toour amusement in moments of leisure. Bets are made, or a pool is formed, and we stretch out our closed fists together and wait. By-and-by asandfly settles on the back of some one's hand, and proceeds to browse. Once his proboscis is buried in the skin, the hand is opened, and he iscaught, for he cannot withdraw his weapon from the now contracted skin. Then the capturer pockets the stakes, and executes the bloodsucker. Suchis one of our simple pastimes. 

Another insect foe of ours is one not wholly unknown in other parts ofthe world. It is the nimble flea. St. Patrick is not to blame forleaving this reptile here. He is not indigenous. He was unknown to theMaoris until the coming of the Pakeha; but he has naturalized himselfmost thoroughly now. The "little stranger, " as the natives playfullyterm him, is to be found in abundance in every Maori wharè. Excludedwith the greatest difficulty from the best appointed houses in thecolony, in the humbler residences of the bush, and in our shanty, forexample, his name is Legion. Why this should be so, we have nevertroubled our heads to inquire; we simply accept the fact as it is. Possibly our floor, that, in spite of a daily brooming and a weeklysluicing, is ever well carpeted with dust and mud, is one source ofthese pests. And, now I think of it, there is a nightly scufflingunderneath the boards, which leads to the conclusion that pigs, dogs, and fowls, are harbouring among the piles beneath. 

Every night, before turning in, we are accustomed to shake wholeregiments of fleas out of our blankets. Not infrequently we sprinkle theblankets with kerosene oil; and, sometimes, in hot weather find itnecessary to anoint our bodies all over with the same thing. That keepsoff the crawling plagues until we have time to get to sleep, and thenwe do not care for them. But I think we really have got hardened to thefleas. We feel the annoyance of them but little now. 

One of the chums, a harmless, peaceable fellow yclept "The Fiend"--Iknow not for what particular reason--has lately invented a new game forour evening's diversion. He calls it flea-loo. After supper it is ourusual custom to sit on the edge of the floor, where it abuts upon thefireplace. That part of our domicile, it will be remembered, is pavedwith a sort of gravel of loose stones, and, sooth to say, with a gooddeal of _débris_ of every sort and kind. The stove stands in the middle. As we sit there, the sensations in our legs remind us that fleas likewarmth too, and that the gravelly bottom of the chimney-place is afavourite assembly-room of theirs. But they are of aspiring nature, andthis fact was known to the Fiend. Under his advice, each man plants astick upright in the gravel before him. Then we make a pool and awaitthe result. The fleas soon come out, and begin to crawl up the sticks;and, by-and-by, some individual of the race reaches the top of thestick. The owner of that stick takes the pool. Here is another gentleand Arcadian sport. 

And now, with considerable trepidation, and with something vergingupon veritable awe, I approach a subject that I feel myself scarcelycompetent to handle. Fraught with the deepest interest to everynew-chum, and a matter of no light concern to even the oldest colonist, it is one that demands an abler and more facile pen than mine to do fulljustice to it. Some one has boldly asserted that, throughout theinfinite treasure-house of Nature, every separate and single thing hasits particular and well-defined purpose. Without attempting to dispute aproposition so emphatically and dogmatically brought forward, it will besufficient for me to say that men have asked in shuddering horror, andmust still continue to ask, what part in the economy of creation is thesphere of duty or usefulness of that malignant thing we call theKAURI-BUG. [5]

We do not know whether this insect is known to naturalists or not. Thatis a slight matter, and not particularly pertinent to the question ofits interest for us. We believe, however, that no naturalist has yetbeen found of sufficiently ardent temperament, and of sufficiently hardynerves, to attempt to classify or examine this most infamous of bugs. 

Appearances are deceptive very often; they are so in this instance. Nothing could look more innocent and inoffensive than the kauri-bug, yetfew insects rival it in crime. It is an oval shape, anything under andup to the size of a crown piece. It is flat, black, hard, and shiny, andresembles a cross between the English black-beetle and the woodlouse orslater. It stinks. That is all it does, but it is enough. Look at it, and it is harmless enough. But tread on it, touch it, disturb it neverso slightly, and instantly the whole surrounding atmosphere is permeatedwith a stench more infernally and awfully horrible than anything elsethis side of the Styx!

The kauri-bug inhabits dead-wood of various kinds, but chiefly does itlove that of the tree from which it derives its name. It invades housesbuilt with open joints like ours in regiments and battalions, bringingall its family and luggage with it. The best class of houses are herebuilt in a fashion styled bug-proof, but even they cannot wholly excludethis fearful thing. It comes in hidden in the firewood, and once in thehouse it stops there, since no one is courageous enough to turn it out. It appears to be indifferent as to whether the house is new or old, well-built or ruinous. If the structure is of kauri timber the kauri-bugwill be there, and it will put up with any other wood if kauri timberis not available. It is one of the peculiar products indigenous toNorthern New Zealand, and it is the least attractive of all. 

Dandy Jack, who has been in North America, is my authority for statingthat the celebrated odour of the skunk is mild and refreshing, comparedto the unutterable loathsomeness of that of the kauri-bug. I can wellbelieve it. How well I remember one of my first nights in the bush! Itappears that one of these diabolical insects had got into my blankets. Irolled over and crushed it in my sleep. Inured as I had been bycircumstances to bad smells, this conquered me. I awoke perspiring froma frightful nightmare. I rushed from my bed, from the room, from thehouse, to escape the hideous effluvium; and--well, darkness veiled therest!

Nature has in this insect achieved the very acme and culmination ofrepulsive villainy. Fortunately she has mitigated it in two ways. Thestench is volatile and soon disappears; while settler's noses get usedto it in a measure. Were it not for these merciful provisions, colonization in this land would be an utter impossibility for people whohad olfactory nerves at all. The kauri-bug would have driven us back toEngland long ago. 

As an instance of an earnest but mistaken striving after the truecolonial fertility of invention and readiness of resource, I put onrecord the following. The Fiend once evolved from the obscurest depthsof his inner consciousness a truly fearful and alarming plan. In thisgentleman's somewhat feeble intellect there floats a sort of hazyreverence for a mysterious force denominated by him "kimustry. " And tothis occult power he appears to ascribe a magical potency, that recallsmemories of the "Arabian Nights. "

We conclude that, at some time or other, the Fiend had been told, or hadread, that a certain delightful perfume, _eau de millefleurs_ I think itis called, was derived by chemical agency from sewage, or some equallymalodorous matter. He appears to have formed the idea that anydisgusting stink could be turned, by "kimustry, " into a deliciousperfume; and, further, that the more horrible the original stink mightbe, the more ravishingly delightful would be the perfume to be derivedfrom it. 

One night, when the parliament of our shanty was assembled in fullconclave, the Fiend enunciated his views. Seriously and circumstantiallyhe put forward his proposition. This was that we were to form ourselvesinto a joint-stock company; that we were to cultivate and makecollections of kauri-bugs; that we were to find a "kimust" who could "dothe trick, " and employ him; and that we were to introduce to the world, and grow rich by, the sale of a sort of celestialized essence ofkauri-bugs. In proof of good faith, the Fiend produced a box full ofkauri-bugs that he had collected for experiment, and handed them amongthe midst of us. 

Conceive our horror and consternation at this unnatural and appallingproposal. Springing instantly to his feet, O'Gaygun demanded that theFiend be forthwith taken out and hung from the nearest tree. But theFiend saved his life by immediately withdrawing his proposition and hisbugs, humbly suing for mercy. It was then thought that our duty tohumanity would necessitate our sending the unhappy Fiend forincarceration in the Whau Lunatic Asylum, where they were in want of"subjects, " as Old Colonial significantly remarked. That point is stillunder debate. Meanwhile, the Fiend still lives, but is kept under strictsurveillance. 

There is another of our insect enemies which must have special mention, and that is the Maori blow-fly. We have flies of many sorts, house-fliesand blue-bottles among them. The latter, the blue-bottles, get very big, and have an increased propensity for multiplying themselves, and that intheir usual unpleasant manner. But over all the blue-bottles'old-fashioned systems the Maori blow-fly soars supreme. It is acolonizer with a vengeance. It does not go to the trouble of layingeggs or nits; it carries its family about ready hatched. The blow-fly isalways ready, at a moment's notice, to deposit an incredible number oflively, hungry maggots upon any desirable surface. 

The difficulty of keeping fresh or cooked meat, and various otherprovisions, will be readily appreciated. The blow-fly will cause itsdisagreeable offspring to take part in every meal. Maggots are showereddown on your very plate. A string of them may be deposited on themouthful on your fork. The blow-fly is not particular. If you have awound, cover it up, or the maggots will speedily be in it. The eyes ofcattle and sheep are often full of them. If blankets or clothes are hungup to air in the sun, they will soon be white with living organisms;though, for want of moisture, they cannot live more than a few minutesin such a situation, luckily. There is little or nothing we can doagainst these foes. We get used to them, and try to forget theirexistence. We keep them out where possible. We salt our food, which theydo not like. But we are unable to keep them down, or fight with them. Even argument with a blow-fly is inadmissible. 

We have spiders as big as walnuts, with great hairy legs two or threeinches long. We would rather encourage them, as they help to keep downthe flies, and they do no harm, though not pretty to look at. There issaid to be a poisonous spider in the country, but no one in the Northseems to know anything about it. We regard it as a myth. Other insectswe have in profusion, but none that affect us like those I havespecially spoken of. 

After all, we have no great cause for complaint. Some trivial annoyanceis the worst we have to suffer in this way. We have no scorpions, snakes, poisonous centipedes, or any other vile thing of that sort. Ihave told the worst of our indoor plagues. Rats and mice we have, ofcourse, as they swarm in the bush; but our dogs, and a cat or two, keepthe shanty fairly clear of them. 

Our commissariat is plentiful and varied enough. With slight exceptionwe are our own providers, living almost entirely on our own produce, asfarmers should. Sometimes the pressure of work leads to carelessness incatering and cooking, and we are consequently reduced to short commons, for which there is no sort of need. In the worst times of poverty weshould not starve. The river is always full of fish; and things must bemore than bad if one could not get credit for a sack of flour orpotatoes with the Mayor, or with some other storekeeper on the rivers. And, after the first year, the garden ought to produce enoughvegetables, potatoes, kumera, taro, pumpkins, and maize, to keep thefamily going, even if everything else failed them. 

Pig-meat, in its various forms, is our staple article of food. We breedand fatten a large number of pigs on the clearings round the shanty. These we butcher in batches of six or eight, as required, and turn intosalt pork, bacon, and ham. We have occasionally sent a cask or two ofpork, some flitches or hams, to market; but as a rule we consume ourpigs on the farm. Pig-meat is most reliable as a staple. One does nottire of it so utterly as one does of either mutton or beef, if one ofthese be the invariable daily food. 

Beef we rarely see in our shanty. The steers we breed are too valuableto be used by ourselves; they have to go to market. Only occasionally wefind it necessary to slaughter some unmanageable rusher, a cow, orbullock, and then we have beef, fresh and salted down. Mutton was justas scarce for several years, as we could not afford to kill out of oursmall flock; and mutton is not good to salt down. Now, we kill a sheepevery week, sometimes a couple, as the township will take the surplusmeat, and so it pays us. 

We keep a great number of turkeys on the clearings, as also a lessnumber of ducks and poultry, to diminish the crickets, caterpillars, andother insect foes. These birds are now practically wild, and give ussomething like sport to shoot them. There are hundreds of turkeys, asthey thrive amazingly, consequently we often have them at table. Eggs, too, are plentiful enough, whenever any one takes the trouble to hunt upsome nests. 

As to wild game of any sort, we get little enough of that; for we cannotspare time to go after it. Sometimes we may shoot some of the splendidwild pigeons, some kakas, parrots, tuis, wild duck, teal, or theacclimatized pheasants. Wild pig is nauseous eating, so that is notsought after. 

Every now and then we go in for fish. There are schnapper, rock-cod, mullet, mackerel, and herring, or species that answer to those, to behad for very little trouble. There are also soles, which we catch on themud-banks and shallows at night, wading by torchlight, and spearing thedazzled fish as they lie. When we make a great haul we salt, dry, orsmoke the capture for lasting use. The endless oyster-beds, and othershell-fish, we rarely touch, they are not worth the time and trouble, weconsider. 

Tea is the invariable beverage at every meal, and almost the only one, too. Milk is generally available in our shanty as a substitute, butsomehow we stick to the tea. We drink quarts and quarts of it everyday, boiling hot, and not too weak. Throughout New Zealand and all theAustralian colonies this excessive tea-drinking is the universalpractice. Even the aboriginal races have taken to it just as kindly. Itis such a good thirst-quencher, every one says, so cooling in warmweather, and so warming in cold seasons. 

We had an earnest medico on a visit to us lately. He inveighs stronglyagainst tea-drinking, which he says is the curse of these countries. Ithink he would preach a crusade against it if he dared; for, of course, he would have to join issue with Good Templars, Sons of Temperance, andall the fanatical anti-alcoholists. These zealous reformers are soblindly infatuated with their hatred for alcohol, that tea seems to themits natural antithesis, and they vaunt it as if it were a celestialboon. And such people are a political power out here--worse luck!

The doctor declares--"Tea-drinking is one of the most serious mistakesof our age and race in these new countries. It produces, first of all, alow form of chronic dyspepsia, whose effect is immediately perceived inearly decay of the teeth. It often seriously affects the greatorgans--the liver, kidneys, stomach, and heart--predisposing them toderangement, and aiding the progress of organic mischief in them, shouldthat arise from other causes. It affects the nerves, causingirritability and debility in them. Nervous power becomes impaired, reacting with evil effect upon the ganglionic centres and the brain. Hence the mind must become insidiously affected also. I am quite surethat the character of our colonists is being modified by their practiceof excessive tea-drinking, and I cannot believe that the change will befor the better. I believe that we may trace to tea, gloominess, misanthropy, loss of cheerfulness, a restless energy without fixity ofpurpose, a sour temper, a morbid and abnormal simplicity, leading tointellectual retrogression instead of progress, and to a tendency toyield to superstitious fancies, with loss of control over reason and itsadvancement. What will be the future of these young tea-drownednations?"

Fortunately, we only understood a fraction of this tirade, yet wetrembled and shivered ever afterwards as we drank our tea. Then the doctor showed us how to make sugar-beer, treacle-beer, cabbage-tree-root-beer, honey-beer, peach-cider, corn-cider, and variousother drinks of a more or less unlicensed kind. So now we have usuallysomething else to quaff besides tea. Peaches we have in any quantity;and the cider they make is capital stuff. Honey abounds in every hollowtree; and the mead or metheglin we compound is a fine drink. 

Flour and meal we have to buy. By-and-by there will be a flour-mill atthe township, for already some of the more forward settlers near aregrowing wheat. Maize we do not use ourselves, except as a greenvegetable. Some people grind it and use the meal for cakes, but weprincipally turn it into pig-meat or fowl-flesh. 

Our garden department, though not always so well managed as it might be, yet adds largely to our food supply. The principal crops are potatoes, kumera (sweet potatoes), and pumpkins; good substantial food that willkeep, and, should we have a surplus, will sell. We don't bother withgreen vegetables; they don't pay, we think, and boiled green maize-cobssuffice us for that class of thing. But, in such seasons as it hasoccurred to any one to go in for more extensive gardening, we rejoice ina profusion of carrots, turnips, parsnips, onions, taro, beet-root, andsundry other things. 

Fruit can hardly be looked on as a food; it is merely an ornamentalaccessory to it, in our opinion. We are great fruit-consumers, but welook on such trifles as only refreshers for odd moments, and not ashaving anything to do with the serious business of eating. We havepretty well all the fruits that are seen in English gardens, and besidesthem we have quantities of various sorts of melons and peaches, alsospecimens of oranges, lemons, shaddocks, grapes, loquats, quinces, pomegranates, guavas, Cape gooseberries, figs, almonds, and some others. We have even bananas, which are a success in most seasons. Themarvellous profusion and richness of our fruit-crops, leads to thebelief that industries connected with fruit-growing will eventually befound to succeed best in the North. 

Of course, long practice in cooking has made us tolerably proficient inthe simpler processes of the art. Several of us are very fair all-roundcooks, but Old Colonial is supreme in this, as in most things. He is averitable Soyer of the bush. When he chooses to exert his skill he canturn out the most wonderful dishes. Where he learnt, and how he learnt, no one can tell; but he seems to be a perfect master of cookery in everyshape and form. 

In spite of the peculiarities of our table-service, we fare sumptuouslyoften enough, much more so than many people who would disdain to feedwithout linen and dishes and plates, forks, spoons, and other thingsthat we hold in slight regard. Old Colonial's name has gone abroadthrough the country. When any one of our neighbours goes in for theluxury of a wife, Old Colonial is not infrequently called in to educateher in culinary matters. He is a past master in endless wrinkles, dodges, makeshifts, and substitutes of all sorts; and has, besides, anunbounded faculty of invention that is highly satisfactory to our littlecommonwealth. 

One hot and blazing Christmas-tide we invited all the married people, who lived within anything like reasonable distance, to visit ourshanty--Bachelor's Hall, as the ladies termed it. Such an entirely noveland unusual event as the visit of some of the gentler sex to our shantywas an occasion of no light moment. Old Colonial determined to banquetour visitors in the superbest possible style, and vast preparations wereat once undertaken. 

Two days before the expected arrival, all hands set to work in thearduous and unavailing endeavour to render the shanty approximatelyclean and respectable. Such a turn out as that was! Such an unlookedfor bringing to light of things that must be nameless! We broomed and wescrubbed, we washed and we sluiced, we even tinkered and mended, wecleaned and we swore, and made our lives temporarily miserable; and yet, with all this, how grimy, and dirty, and mean, and wretched, that shantyof ours would continue to look!

Never had our household property been subjected to such a cleaning up asthat was. Gradually some order was introduced into the chaos, and atlast we began to think we should convey a favourable impression afterall. But our chief concern was in the matter of table equipage. 

One of us was sent over to the township, with orders to beg, borrow, orsteal, all the crockery and table-cutlery in the place. Another wasdispatched on horseback through the bush somewhere else, and on the sameerrand, that something like proper table furniture might grace thefeast. Then our wardrobe underwent inspection. Some one had to go overto the township and buy new shirts for all of us, with several pairs oftrousers, and other things. O'Gaygun stormed and wept at this outrage;but our boss was firm for the proprieties, as he estimated them. Theworst of it was, we had to contemplate frightful expenditure. And more, it was humiliating that our previous condition should be made known tothe Mayor, who, with his wife, were to be among our guests. But, whatmatter? The Mayor is a good fellow, and a friend; and what can be toogreat a sacrifice to make for England, Home, and Beauty!--especially thelast. 

We all had our tasks. There was the path between the shanty and thelanding-place to be put in proper condition; various muddy places in itto be covered with fascines; a certain watercourse we were in the habitof jumping to be newly-bridged, and so forth. Then there was thecatering. Two of us were out with guns, shooting turkeys, pheasants, pigeons, fowls, and anything else that was eatable. Others werebutchering the fairest and fattest pig in our drove, and doing the sameby a lamb. Two were out on the river diligently fishing, or collectingoysters and cockles. Some, too, were employed in the garden, pickingfruit, gathering vegetables, and so forth, and so on. 

All day and all night the stove was redhot, while a supplementary fireblazed outside the shanty. Between them oscillated Old Colonial, pipe inmouth, hirsute and unkempt, grim, grimy, and naked to the waist. His twoaids, the Saint and the Fiend, had a bad time of it. They were hisscullions, marmitons, turnspits, or whatever you like to call it. Theyhad to keep up the supplies of firewood, to prepare the fowls and fish, and generally to do all the dirty work; and the way that Old Colonial"bossed" them round was an edifying sight to see. 

The preparations were stupendous. Victuals enough had been laid in tofeed a regiment, and the variety of them was endless. But Old Colonial, once having given way to the mania of extravagance, was determined tolay under contribution every conceivable thing, and to turn out moredishes than even an American palace hotel would put on its bill offare. 

Finally, it was discovered that the shanty was far too small a place forour banquet. So, on the appointed morning we were up at sunrise, and, from then till noon, we laboured at the construction of a bower; whileOld Colonial was busy with his hot meats and confections. The bower wasan open shed, running all along the shadiest side of the shanty andbeyond. It was a rude erection of rough poles, latticed andthatched--Maori fashion--with fern-fronds and flax. Under it was _the_table, supplemented by another of loose boards on such supports as wecould fabricate; and round it planks resting on kegs and boxes madesufficient seats. 

Hardly were our preparations finished when the first boat was descried, coming through the mangroves from the river down below, and a parasolwas visible in the stern. Then there was a hasty stampede down to thegully to wash; an agonized scuttle into the new shirts; and a hot andanxious assumption of restful calm. And so we welcomed the guests asthey came. 

What a feast that was, and how it astonished everybody! And such a partyas our shanty had never witnessed before! For curiosity brought half adozen ladies--all there were in the district--and fully a score ofmasculine friends honoured our establishment with their presence. 

It is not to be supposed, of course, that all our neighbours inhabitrude shanties like ours. Some are further forward, or had more capitalat the start; and men do not bring wives into the bush until they canmanage to furnish forth a decently comfortable house for them. Ourmarried friends live in respectable comfort. Still, the ladies, livingin the bush, get to know its more primitive ways, though they may notexperience them themselves. So, our domestic arrangements, though madethe occasion for a great deal of banter and fun, were neither unexpectednor novel to our lady visitors. But the banquet that was provided forthem made them open their eyes indeed. It was something altogether newto the bush. Such a miracle of catering! such marvellous unheard ofcookery! It surpassed anything any one of them had ever seen before, anywhere. 

The table was covered with white linen, borrowed at the township, andall the equipage we could muster was displayed upon it. Plates, forks, spoons, and knives, there were in plenty; but we had not been able tocollect enough dishes and bowls for the profusion of viands Old Colonialhad provided. Some parts of the service were therefore peculiar, andcaused much addition to the merriment. There was always such incongruitybetween the excellence of the comestible and the barbaric quaintness ofthe receptacle that happened to contain it. Soups in billies, turkeysin milk-pans, salads in gourd-rinds, custards in cow-bells, jellies insardine-boxes, plum-pudding in a kerosene case, vegetables, fruits, andcakes in kits of plaited flax; anything and everything was utilized thatpossibly could be. 

High enthroned upon a pile of potato sacks, Old Colonial presided overthe feast he had created; while, as vice, sat O'Gaygun, his barbaricconservatism laid aside for the nonce in favour of grace and gallantry. What glorious fun we had! What a flow of wit beneath the augustinfluence of ladies' smiles! And we were cool in our ferny bower, out ofthe strong hot sunshine. And in the intervals of eating and drinking, wecould look about us on the splendid perspective of bush and river, across the clearings, where the air shimmered in the heat, where thecrickets whistled and hummed, and where the cattle were lazily lyingamong the stumps. It was a magnificent picnic, so everybody declared. There never was anything to match it in all New Zealand!

I can fancy, that in days to come, when the full tide of civilizationhas overtaken this fair country, some of those ladies will be sitting inboudoirs and drawing-rooms talking to their children; and they will tellthem of the early pioneering days. And one of their best-rememberedstories will be that of the Christmas-time, when they were banqueted byOld Colonial and his chums at our shanty in the bush. 

To a certain extent we are of musical tastes, and, though our time forpractice is limited to an occasional half-hour of an evening, weconsider ourselves no mean instrumentalists, and sometimes give publicperformances, as will appear hereafter. We have two flutes, a clarionet, a cornet, and a French horn, often supplemented by two violins and aconcertina. Old Colonial does not play, neither does O'Gaygun. Theyfiercely decline to add to what they term the beastly uproar. 

If we have a failing, it is to be found in an inability to hang togetherin our play, and an incapacity for comprehending the said fact. Seteither instrumentalist by himself, and he will manage to stumble througha tune; but put the whole orchestra together, and the result usuallyfalls short of what should be harmony. The hornist is our feeblestmusician. He has not yet succeeded in eliciting more than two notes anda half out of his instrument, and these he lets off in spasmodic puffs, governed by a curious notion of the proper places for them to fit intothe general performance. The flutes are a little unsteady andunreliable; the clarionet always squeaks in pathetic parts; and thecornet imagines that loudness is the chief thing to be desired. 

There was a newly-married couple recently established a few miles awayup the river. Of course, they were received in the district with greatacclamation, when they first came up here, after being tied up inAuckland. Bonfires blazed on the ranges, guns were fired, and aprocession of boats escorted theirs home. As a strictly bachelorcommunity, we felt some hesitation about going to call and congratulatethe couple. This was owing to our own shyness and uncouthness, youunderstand, not to any disfavour with which we looked upon matrimony asan abstract thing. For we were previously unacquainted with the bride. However, some demon prompted us to give them a midnight serenade. 

By dint of tremendous practice, we had mastered, as we thought, thosethree famous melodies, "Home, Sweet Home, " "Juanita, " and "God Save theQueen. " The orchestra was equal to _them_, anyhow, we considered. Neither of our two unmusical associates cared to be left out of theproposed excursion, so a drum was manufactured for Old Colonial, bystretching a sheepskin over the open ends of a cask; O'Gaygun was foundincompetent to play on any other instrument but the ancient comb andpiece of paper of his happy youth. Then we started, rowing up theriver, and anchoring silently off the beach opposite our victim'sresidence, one night soon after their arrival. 

The moon was at the full, throwing sombre shadows down from the woodsupon the gleaming water, and making the splendid scenery of the rivermysterious and romantic. The husband and wife were out on theirverandah, enjoying the calm beauty of the night, and sentimentalizing, as newly-married couples will. 

Suddenly, from the river below them, rises the melancholy and discordantclamour of our performance. Quickly, the voices of the night awake inearnest protest against it. Roosting shags and waterfowl fly screamingaway. In the swamp a bittern booms; and strange wailing cries come fromthe depths of the bush. On the farm dogs bark energetically, cattlebellow, horses neigh, sheep bleat, pigs grunt, ducks quack, and turkeysgobble. Frightful is the din that goes echoing among the woods. And thenthe outraged bridegroom gets out his gun, and commences rapidfile-firing in our direction. 

But nothing daunts us, or makes us flinch from our fell purpose. Perspiring from every pore, we labour manfully on to the bitter end. Cornet and clarionet strive for the mastery, the flutes tootle along inthe rear, the violins screech and squeal, the horn brays with force andfury, and Old Colonial pounds at his drum as if he were driving piles. Not until the last notes of "God Save the Queen" have been duly murdereddo we cease; then, breathless and exhausted, we row down river on ourhomeward way, rejoicing in the performance of a meritorious deed. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: A species of _Blatta_, or cockroach, called byentomologists _Polyzosteria Novæ Zealandiæ_. ]

CHAPTER VII. 

OUR PIONEER FARM. 

I. 

Of course, all farms are not the same, even in the North. Nevertheless, there is a good deal of similarity in the work that has to be gotthrough at the outset. The modifications in it are various, consistingin the character of the land, the amount of capital available, thelabour employed, and so forth. But, generally speaking, most settlersmust go through pretty much what we did before they get the wildernessreclaimed into an orderly farm. 

People who commence with plenty of capital have naturally a greatadvantage. They can employ more labourers, and get the first operationsover more quickly. But, more than that, they are not hampered by thenecessity of making a living as they go along. They can afford to waituntil the farm is in thorough working order before they expect anyreturns from it. 

Not many of this class have settled in the North. When a man has largecapital, his chief idea is sheep or cattle. And he is not impressed withthe notion of making a home, but with the desire to make a great pot. So, if he comes to New Zealand, he goes South as a general thing, andleases a vast run of natural pasturage. In ten or twenty years he hasmade his pile, and gives up farming altogether. Then he either goeshome, or settles down in one of our cities. 

We were circumstanced very differently from that. When we made up ourminds to work for ourselves, instead of acting as labourers to others, we were not blessed with much capital. Our joint purse contained justenough, as we calculated, and it did not contain more. But our notionwas to make ourselves a comfortable home, primarily, though, of course, we had our golden dreams as well. 

The bulk of the land in the North Island belongs to the Maori tribes, who sell tracts of it to Government or private individuals occasionally. In the South Island all the waste land is the property of the Crown--anice little estate of about the size of England and Wales. Most of theKaipara district belonged to the Ngatewhatua tribe when we came on thescene; and the early settlers bought their stations from them. 

We had our korero with the chiefs, and arranged to purchase a block, orsection of a block rather, on the Pahi. We selected our location--fromsuch a creek to such a creek, and back from the river as far as such andsuch a range. We offered ten shillings an acre for it, the thenmarket-price. The chief said, "Kapai!" and so that was settled. 

Then we got up the Government surveyor for the district, and to it wewent with billhook and axe, theodolite and chain, fixing the boundariesand dimensions of our slice of forest. Said the surveyor, after plottingand planning and making a map, "There you are! Two thousand andtwenty-one acres, two roods and a half!" "Right, " said we; and proceededto the next business. 

A Land Court was held by the Crown official at Helensville. Thitherproceed the Ngatewhatua chiefs, with the surveys and maps of the sectionwe had chosen. They make out their claim to the land, according toestablished usage, and receive a Crown grant as a legal title. This isthen properly transferred to us, in lieu of our cheque. Variousdocuments are signed and registered, and we stand the proud possessorsof so much soil and timber; while the Maoris make tracks straight to thehotel and store, with much rejoicing. 

Not that we paid in full at the time. Such a simple arrangement wouldnot have suited our pockets, any more than it would have suited theMaori idea of a bargain. A part of the land was paid for and boughtoutright, the rest was to be paid off in certain terms of years, orsooner, if we liked. Meanwhile, we were to pay interest on the sumsremaining due, which was actually a sort of rent for the balance of theestate. As a concession on their side, the Maoris gave us the right ofrunning cattle free over the unpaid-for acres. And as there were nofences, of course, this really meant that we might run our cattle overthe whole country side, which was practically what we paid the interestor rent for. Then we entered into possession, and built the shanty. Butobserve what we had to do in the forthcoming years. We had to get aliving, first. We had to pay the annual sum agreed on as a sort of rent, second. We had to provide for the purchase of implements, sundryaccessories, and stock, third. Lastly, we had to lay by to meet thefuture large payments for the land, which would make us proprietors ofthe whole of it, and, of course, annul the annual rent. 

Perhaps it will be better understood now why we live in a shanty, andwhy the furniture of it is so unique in quality and restricted inquantity. How we have got on so well is a marvel, and shows what hardwork will do in this country. A thousand pounds would have bought ourstation outright. But we had not a thousand pounds among us, or anythinglike it; and we had to reserve money to live on for the first year, tobuy our axes and spades and milk-pans, and to buy the nucleus of ourfuture herds and flocks and droves. We have done all we had to do, andnow we are beginning to see that our joint work during all these yearswill eventually produce for us homes and comfort. 

It is a hard and difficult thing to make money without capital to startwith. It is as hard a thing to do in the colonies as it is at home, though people at home are apt to think differently. And it is always theearly years of toil that are the worst. 

Money is like an apple-tree. At first it grows but slowly, and there isno fruit. Then there come little scanty crops, increasing year by year, until at length the tree attains maturity. Then there are full crops, and you realize a handsome profit on your planting. 

Our station--or, as you may choose to term it, our estate, selection, place, farm, location, homestead, or run--may be reckoned a choice bitof land. 

The soil is not all of one character, it seldom is so on any one farm inthis country, but it is all good class. Most of it is a rich blackhumus, resting on clay and mountain limestone. In configuration it isof the roughest, like the country generally, being an abrupt successionof ranges, gullies, and basins, in every variety of form and size. 

When we took possession, nearly every inch of the property was coveredwith what is termed light bush. It might have been a slice out of theNew Forest. The light bush is just as dense a wood of small trees, twenty to fifty feet in height, shrubs, creepers and undergrowth, as canwell be conceived of. Where the thicket is thinner the trees are larger, and the smaller they are the denser the covert. If you wish to journeythrough this light bush, where there is no semblance of a track, it willtake you perhaps two hours to make a single mile, so thick is it. Toride through it is, of course, impossible, unless a track has been cut. 

Two or three miles back from the river--at our back, or behind us, as wesay--the heavy bush begins. This is the primeval forest: endless milesof enormous timber-trees, girthing ten feet, twenty feet, thirty feet, forty feet, and even more, and of startling height. People cannot makefarms out of that; at least, not all at once. The timber is slowlyencroached upon to feed the saw-mills. Then the land so denuded can bedone something with. The stumps can be fired and left to rot, which theydo in about twelve or fifteen years, or they can be stubbed up withinfinite labour, or blown out with dynamite, the quickest and leastexpensive way. 

We have not much big timber on our section. Here and there are groves oflarger trees amidst the jungle, and most of this sort we shall leavestanding, for it is not good to totally clear a large farm. Patches ofbush are wanted for shade, for cover, and to keep up the supply ofmoisture. Settlers before us, who have inconsiderately made a cleansweep of everything, have found out their error, and are now plantingout groves. 

But when you get a slice out of miles and miles of pathless woods, andhave to hew your future farm out of them, you are apt to forget the moredistant future, and go at everything before you with axe and fire. Youwant to see grass-paddocks and plough-lands. Time enough to think ofplanting again, or of saving bits of bush. 

Our first operation was to clear some twenty acres or so, as a primaryclearing, wherein our shanty might be built, and a little grass providedto keep the milch-cows near home. We had two or three weeks chopping, then, in the height of the dry season, managed a successful burn of thefallen stuff, letting the fire run among the standing bush where itwould, and which it would not to any great extent, as the undergrowthalways keeps fresh on such rich soil. Thus we had a small clearing readyto be sown with grass-seed directly the rains should come. And then wewere occupied with the erection of the shanty, as already described. 

After that we had our first stockyard to set up. It is a simpleenclosure, measuring a chain or two square; but had to be made of greatstrength, in view of the contingency of unruly mobs of charging cattle. To procure material we went six or eight miles off, to a creek that ranthrough heavy bush. There we felled certain giant puriri trees, cut theminto lengths, and split them up with wedges into posts and rails. Puriritimber is terribly tough stuff to work. It is harder than oak, and veryheavy, too, so that transporting it is serious toil. We groaned overthis job, and spoilt numerous axes; but we did it. 

Terrible work it was getting this material on to the ground. After wehad finished cutting, and had split out all the posts and rails wewanted, it was comparatively easy work to punt the stuff into our ownwater. But then the carrying up from the landing-place, a quarter-mileor so, to the spot selected for the stockyard, was a labour indeed. Ittook six of us to lift one of the posts, so solid were they, and soheavy the timber. Old Colonial said--

"We are giving over work, and taking to humping. "

This is a bit of pleasantry that only those who have tried it canunderstand, for humping timber is one of the most undesirableoccupations possible; as many a galled shoulder and aching back couldtestify. 

Puriri timber is the strongest and most durable of any in the country. We knew that kauri would give us less work, but the result would not beso lasting or satisfactory. Therefore, we elected to go in for puriri. 

The posts stand about eight feet above ground, and are sunk some threeor four into it. Their average thickness will be from nine inches to afoot. They carry five rails almost as substantial as the posts, bothbeing of roughly split timber. The rails are fixed into holes, bored andwedged in the posts. Slip-panels form an entrance. Such was our firststockyard--a substantial, thoroughly secure, and cattle-proof enclosure. And it is as good now as it was eight years ago. For a long time itserved all our needs; but, subsequently, we have put up other yards, amilking-shed with bails, sheep-pens and hog-pens, all constructed ofrough material, cut by ourselves in the bush. 

Having now got our habitation and our stockyard completed, and it beingwell on in the wet season, with the newly-sown grass springing greenover the charred surface of the clearing, obviously it was time tointroduce stock. Our agent in Auckland bought for us a dozen good, youngcows and a bull, which were despatched to us on a small schooner. Shebrought them up the river; and then they were dumped into the water, andswum ashore. The whole lot cost us about a hundred pounds, freight andother charges included, the cows being four or five pounds apiece, andthe bull forty, he being a well-bred shorthorn from the Napier herd. 

The cows were belled, and the whole little herd turned loose in thebush. But the cows were tame, some of them being in milk, and we had notmuch trouble in keeping them near home. The bull would not wander farfrom the cows, and we drove them up and yarded them, with a good feed offresh koraka, every now and then. Besides the cattle we introduced somepigs, fowls, and a dog or two. Before long we were milking daily, andbeginning to turn out butter and cheese; for the cows throve on theplenteous feed in the bush. 

Although the wet season is not the usual time for felling bush, yet wewent to work at that at once. We were anxious to get as much grass as wecould the first year, so that we might get some sheep on it. For, thoughcattle find plenty of feed in the bush--leafage, and shoots oftrees--sheep must be provided with grass, and there is no grass suitablefor pasturage indigenous to _Northern_ New Zealand. Accordingly, weworked steadily at bush-falling right along to the end of the succeedingsummer; and when the next wet season came round again, we were able tocontemplate a hundred and forty acres sown down with grass. 

Axe-work was our principal daily toil, and it is a somewhat differentthing as practised here, to what the English woodman has to do. Abushman's work is severe and energetic, altogether in contrast with thelazy stop-and-rest methods of too many labourers at home. It is a fiercebut steady and continuous onslaught upon the woods. Everything must fallbefore the axe, and everything does fall. Once I was watching theprostration of a Worcestershire oak. It was a tree that might have hadsome twelve feet of girth. Three men and a boy were employed at it, armed with ropes and pulleys, wedges, saws, and all sorts of implements, besides axes; and it was two days and a half before they got the tree toearth. If a single bushman could not have knocked that tree over beforedinner-time, he would not have been worth wages in this country; I amsure of that. 

Of course, it is an understood thing that England cannot turn out anaxe. If you want an axe that is really good for anything, you must go toAmerica for it. Here, in the bush, all our tools come from the land ofthe Stars and Stripes. Why it should be so ask English cutlers. Englishtools and cutlery of all sorts cannot find a sale here; for bitterexperience has taught us what inferior and unreliable goods they are. American things never fail us. We do not buy them because they arecheaper, but because they are better. They are exactly what we want, andof sterling quality. 

Now, Sheffield can turn out the best hardware in the world, no one candeny that. Then, why do we not get some of it out here? Some settlers, who have furnished themselves in Sheffield itself, can show tools offiner make than the American ones. But all the cutlery that we seeanything of in the stores, if it be English, is thoroughly worthless. Why will English traders continue to suppose that any rubbish is goodenough for the colonies? We are afraid to buy English implements andtools out here; and every experienced colonist prefers to trust America. Our patriotism is humiliated, but we cannot afford to be cheated. Surely, trade interests must suffer in the long run, by the pertinacitywith which English traders send inferior goods to the colonies. 

In felling bush, or "falling" it, as we say here, advantage is taken ofthe lay of the land. To make the burn which is to follow a good one, thestuff must all lie in the same direction. The tops of the felled treesshould point downhill as much as possible. The trees are gashed at aboutthree feet from the ground. This saves the bushman's back, obviating thenecessity of his stooping, and, moreover, allows him to get through morework. Also, in after years, when the stumps are rotten, they are moreeasily pulled out of the ground. By a simple disposition of thedirection in which the gashes are cut, the bushman is able to bring downhis tree to whichever side he wishes. A bill-hook, or slasher, supplements the axe, for the purpose of clearing all the undergrowth. Nothing is left standing above waist-height. 

The usual time for bush-falling is the dry season, that is to say, fromAugust till March, in which last month the burn is usually accomplished. By that time the fallen stuff has been pretty well dried in the summersun, and will burn clean. Fires are started along the bottoms on dayswhen the wind is favourable. Some experience is needful to ensure a goodburn. Should the burn be a bad one, after work is much increased, andwages consequently spoilt. 

After the burn comes the logging, that is, the collection into heaps ofsuch _débris_ as lies about unburnt, and the final burning of theseheaps. During April and May the rains begin; and then grass seed is sownbroadcast over the charred expanse. It soon sprouts up, and in a coupleof months there will begin to be some pasturage. Before next season agood strong turf ought to have formed among the stumps. Every farmer hashis own particular ideas as to the kinds of seed to use. We used amixture of poa pratensis, timothy, and Dutch clover, and have abundantreason to be satisfied with the result. 

When bush-falling is performed by hired labour, it usually goes bycontract. The bushman agrees to fall, fire, and log a specified tract, at a fixed price per acre. Such bush as ours would go at thirtyshillings to three pounds an acre, according to the size of the trees onthe average. A bushman reckons to earn five shillings a day, taking oneday with another, so he ought to knock down an acre of stuff in fromfive to ten days. Thirty or forty acres represent one man's work for theseason. 

A good deal of judgment is required in making these contracts. Wherethere is a great deal of supple-jack, or tawhera scrub, the work may geton as slowly as if the trees were comparatively large. And there is agood deal of luck in the burn, for if it be a bad one there may beweeks of logging afterwards. Sometimes, at the end of the season, abushman may find that his contract has not paid him much more than theworth of his tucker during the time; or, on the other hand, he may findhe has made ten shillings a day clear out. 

New-chums often find a job of bush-falling is the first thing they canget hold of, and a bitter apprenticeship it is. Their aching backs andblistered hands convey a very real notion of what hard work and manuallabour means. And this goes wearily on day after day, while, verylikely, they find they are not earning a shilling a day, do all theymay. The ordinary English agricultural labourer, transplanted here, doesnot seem to do better at this work at the start than the "younggentleman. " His class take a lot of teaching, and anything new appearsto be a tremendous difficulty to them. Moreover, they have to learn themeaning of an Antipodean ganger's frequent cry, "Double up, there!Double up!" And they do not like to work so hard that every now and thena stop must be made to wring out the dripping shirt. Worst of all, thereis seldom any beer in the bush!

After we had got some grass clearings, the next thing to do was to fencethem in. A very necessary thing that; first, to keep the sheep in--and, second, to keep the wild pigs out. Two most important reasons, besidesother lesser ones. 

Fencing of many kinds has been tried in the colony, the question ofrelative cost under different circumstances mainly influencing settlersin their choice. I need only mention four varieties as being general inthe North. They are post-and-rail, wire, wattle, and stake. 

The first is undoubtedly the best of any, but the labour of cutting, splitting, getting on the ground, and setting up is so great, that thecost of such a fence is very heavy. It may cost two to five pounds achain, or more; but it should require no repairs for ten or twelveyears, and is proof against cattle, sheep, or pigs. The materials, whether kauri, totara, or other timber, is much the same as that we usedfor our stockyard, only, of course, it is not needed anything like sostrong. But it is the same sort of rough stuff, procured in the sameway. 

As to wire fences, they are useful enough for keeping sheep in, and comein well for inner fences, being sufficiently cheap and easily set up. But they will not keep out wild pigs, and cattle, accustomed to forcetheir way through the thickets of the bush, mistake wire fences for meresupple-jack, and walk straight through them. Wattles interlaced onstakes make first-rate protection, but they can only be used witheconomy when the supply of them is close handy. 

The fence most commonly seen on new farms, and that may fairly be termedthe pioneer's mainstay, is a simple one of stakes. This is the kind wewent in for, as we had the material for it in any quantity upon our ownland. 

The stakes are the trunks of young trees, either whole or split. Theyare about four inches diameter at the thickest end, and are set up atthree or four inches apart. The stakes are connected by one or morebattens nailed along them, or by wires. They are cut eight or nine feetin length, so as to allow of a good six feet above ground when set up. Red, black, and white birch are used, also red and white ti-tree, thelast variety being most esteemed, as it is more durable. A stake-fenceought to be proof against both pigs and cattle, and is reckoned to begood for seven years; if of white ti-tree it will last ten or twelveyears. It will cost, in labour, from eight shillings a chain andupwards, according to the distance the cut stakes have to be moved. 

Our work in fencing was as follows. The first clearing we set aboutenclosing was on the side of a range, and included forty or fifty acres. If this were a square there would be some eighty chains or a mile offencing required to enclose it. Practically, there were nearer ahundred chains of boundary. Each chain required from a hundred to ahundred and thirty stakes. This is about the number that one of us couldcut in the day, and bring out of the adjoining bush on to the line. Forwe got our material in the standing bush close to the clearing, workingalong the edge of the woods, and seldom having to go further than fivechains away from the edge of the clearing to find suitable trees. 

Two or three men were engaged in pointing the stakes, and dumping andmalleting them into the ground. Sometimes they would put up four or fivechains in the day, sometimes only one; it depended on the nature of theground. When the weather was wet, and the ground soft, the work wasnaturally lighter. After the stakes were set up we had to batten themtogether. We bought several boatloads of battens--rough outside boardssplit up, and the like--for next to nothing, at the Wairoa saw-mills, and got them down to our place. Then we had to hump them up to theground; no light work, for a load had to be carried often nearly a mileuphill. We purchased a keg or two of nails, and finally fixed up thefence. 

We were proud of our clearings when they were new, and we are proud ofthem still. But they would look strange sort of paddocks to an Englishfarmer's eye. The ground is all hills and hollows, lying on the sides ofranges, or stretching across the gullies. Amidst the grass is a dazzlingperspective of black and white stumps, looking like a crop oftombstones, seen endways; and round the whole careers, uphill and downdale, the rough, barbarous, uncouth-looking stake fence. Never mind! Offthat gaunt and unseemly tract has come many a good bale of wool, many afair keg of butter, or portly cheese. What have we to do with trimappearances?

In the course of fencing operations, the Little'un developed a wonderfulaptitude for the manufacture of gates. Whether he had learnt the wholeart of carpentry from his practice upon a certain chair, elsewheredescribed, I do not know; but his gates are a marvel of ingenuity, andreally very capital contrivances. Only, he is so vain of hisperformance, that he wishes to put a gate about every hundred yards. Aconstant warfare is waged upon this point, between him and Old Colonial, who does not seem to approve of gates at all. 

In subsequent years we have done something towards making live-fences. We have dug ditches and banks within some of the fences, planting themwith thorn, acacia, Vermont damson, Osage orange, and other hedgematerial. We have now some very good and sightly hedges. Luckily, wenever tried whins, or furze, as here called. This is a vile thing. Itmakes a splendid hedge, but it spreads across the clearing and ruins thegrass; and it is the worst of weeds to eradicate. 

Whins and thistles are the only bad things that Bonnie Scotland has sentout here. They, and sweetbriar, are given to spreading wherever they go. In some localities in the North there are clearings submerged underwhins or sweetbriar, and there are forests of thistles, which marchonward and devour all before them. Whins you cannot clear, unless bytoil inadequate to the present value of land. But thistles can beeffectually burnt, I believe. At any rate, they die out after a term ofyears, and, it is said, leave the land sweet and clean. So they are, perhaps, not an unmixed curse. 

We think that thorn makes the best hedge. But there are objections toit. It is not easily or quickly reared, and it straggles on light soils;moreover, it is always needing attention. We have no time to spare forclipping and laying and all that sort of thing. Labour has to beseverely economized on pioneer farms. 

Of course, all the time these things were proceeding, we weresimultaneously busied with other matters. Chiefly were we providing forour own immediate sustenance. The pigs were bred and well looked after, fattened, butchered, made into pork, or cured. Poultry was alsocarefully regarded, especially the turkeys, which are so valuable inkeeping down crickets, and make such an important addition to thecommissariat. Then there was the garden. 

We have several gardens at present, as we follow the custom of enclosingany particularly choice bit of land, and using it for our next year'scrop of potatoes, kumera, or maize. Some of these enclosures areafterwards turned into the general grass, or are converted intoorchards, and so on. 

The first garden we made was set apart for the purpose directly afterthe shanty was finished, and certain of our party were engagedexclusively upon it for the time being. It comprehended two or threeacres on the shoulder of a low range, and was once the site of a Maorikainga, or village. Hence, the scrub that covered it was not of largegrowth, while the soil is exceptionally loose and rich, consisting ofblack mould largely intermixed with shells. This space we cleared andfenced in. Then we went to work with spade and pickaxe and mattock. 

We cut drains through the garden, and laid it off into sections. Thesewere planted with potatoes, kumera, melons, pumpkins, onions, andmaize. Digging was, of course, a hard job, the ground being full ofroots. We threw out these as we dug, or left them; it does not mattermuch, for as long as we just covered the seeds anyhow, the rest was ofsmall concern. After a crop or two the ground gets into bettercondition, and what we put in thrives just as well among the stumps asnot. 

Round the sides of the garden we planted peach-stones, which have nowdeveloped into an avenue of fine trees. We also set cuttings offig-trees, apples, pears, loquats, and oranges, obtained from someneighbour. 

Thus, before we had been a year on the land, we had gone a good waytowards providing the bulk of our food-supply for the future. We havesince seldom had to buy anything but our flour, tea, sugar, salt andtobacco, so far as important and absolutely needful items are concerned. 

And now that I have recorded the manner of our start, I may go on tospeak of things as they are, seven or eight years later. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

OUR PIONEER FARM. 

II. 

We have a large farm, and a great deal of work to get through, but thenthere are eight or nine of us to share in the first and to do thelatter; yet we find that we never have time to do all that we ought todo, and all that we want to do. Every year brings with it an increasingamount of labour, just to keep things going as they are, consequentlythe time for enlarging the farm becomes more and more limited. Thus itis, that though we cleared and grassed a hundred and forty acres in ourfirst year, yet we have now only five or six hundred acres of grass inour eighth. 

Hampered as we were by the lack of capital, and by the necessity ofscraping and pinching to meet those payments spoken of, it is littlewonder that we seem as poor and pauperized as we were at thecommencement. But we are by no means really so. We are actually in verygood circumstances. Our farm is immensely increased in value, and is nowbeginning to pay substantially. Another year will see the sum completed, which will close the purchase of the land. After that, we shall havemeans to make outlays of sundry kinds, be able to build a fine house, goin for marriage. Who knows what else?

The grass on our clearings is rich and abundant, and, owing to thenature of the soil, keeps fresh and green all through the dry season, when other districts are crying out against the drought. In spite of thestanding stumps, the rough ground, and the mere surface-sowing, ourgrass will carry four sheep per acre all the year round; some of itmore. It is not all fenced in--that would be too much to expect--butmost of it is; and what is not gives the milch cows plenty of feed, andso keeps them from wandering off. The clearings are not all in onepiece. They are divided off into paddocks, and there is a good deal ofstanding bush among them, some of which will eventually come down, andsome of which will be left. 

We have now seven or eight hundred head of sheep. We had to buy ouroriginal store flock on credit, but the increase and wool has enabled usto pay that off long since. Similarly, grass-seed, some stock, andother things were bought on credit, which has since been liquidated. What we have is our own. We have had years of incessant toil, thehardest possible work, with plenty of food, but little comfort and noholidays to speak of. Two or three years more of it, and then we shallbe in a condition to really enjoy the prosperity we have laboured for. 

Except at shearing and lambing seasons, our Lincolns and Leicesters giveus but little trouble. We did try the merino breed, but they brokethrough the fence and ran away into the bush, where we occasionally seetraces of them, and have once or twice caught one and turned it intomutton. Shearing is a great business, but we are all accomplished handsat it now, and our bales are larger every year as the flock increases. Wool is ready money here, being an article that can always be negotiatedat once with the Auckland dealers. Our wool is reckoned of even betterquality than that grown on the great sheepwalks of Canterbury and Otago. 

During a great part of the year we are milking ten to twenty cows daily, and, in spite of the seeming inefficiency of our dairy arrangements, wesend a goodly store of butter and cheese to the township, whence it goesto Auckland and elsewhere. We fatten pigs, too, on skim-milk, maize, pumpkins, and peaches grown by ourselves. A score or two are usually tobe seen on the clearings round the shanty. We are able butchers andcurers; and Old Colonial excels in the manufacture of brawn, sausages, collared head, and the like. Most of the pig-meat is consumed byourselves. In one form or other it is our staple food. But occasionallywe sell a barrel of pork, or some flitches and hams, to such localbuyers as the bushmen employed at the saw-mills. 

Dandy Jack talks of introducing Angora goats. I do not know exactly why, but he appears to think the project a good one. He has long ago given upmere coaching. In fact, people began to have doubts about entrustingthemselves to his driving, though I hesitate to record such adisagreeable matter. He joined our society some years ago, though he isnot always with us, gravitating invariably towards all the races, horseand cattle fairs of the country. But he has set up as a horse breederand trainer, keeping his stud on our clearings, and thus adding anotherindustry to the various others of our pioneer farm. This is a good thingfor us, as Jack's horses come in very usefully sometimes, for carryingor dragging purposes. 

Our largest source of income just at present is the herd. First there isthe dairy business, which I have already spoken of. The milch cows keepon the clearings, or near to them, and soon get tame enough to come upwhen called. They are brought to the bails morning and evening, fastenedup, and given a feed of koraka. All cattle are very fond of the leavesof the koraka-tree, and it is used to entice them with when that isrequired. Of course, it will be understood that, as there is no coldwinter here, we do not require to house our cattle at any season, nor dowe need to provide them with hay or root food. They find their ownliving all the year round, either in the bush or on the clearings, andthe most we do is to give them maize-stalks when we have some. 

The bulk of the herd, numbering now upwards of two hundred head, runsfree in the bush. There is no native grass, as I have before mentioned, and the feed is tree leafage. This suits the cattle, and they fattenwell upon it, though not turning out very large beasts. But thepasture-fed cattle of the South are not in prime condition for marketduring the dry-season. Our bush-raised beasts are, and this gives us apull. 

The best part of one man's time is always taken up with stock duty. Tokeep the cattle from becoming unmanageably wild, and from getting toofar away, they must be constantly driven up to the yards, and accustomedto discipline. It is our practice to give every beast a night in theyard at least once in six weeks. And it is also essentially necessaryto keep an eye on calving cows, for if the calf is not brought up atonce, branded, and so forth, it will be sure to turn out wild and arusher, and then it would have to be shot at once, to prevent itsinfecting other beasts. 

Of course, we are all stockmen more or less; but Old Colonial and theSaint are the chief hands at this work. The latter gentleman did notreceive his appellation, as might be supposed, from any relations whichhis character bore to it. He was intended for the Church at one time;but, perhaps, the Church is to be congratulated in that it did notreceive him. There is nothing mild or milk-and-watery about our Saint, though he has his own peculiar moral code, and is strictly scrupulous inits observance. 

The Saint is the most elaborate swearer I ever heard. That is, when heis driving cattle. At other times he most conscientiously refrains fromeverything but abstract rectitude of speech. He says that you cannotdrive cattle without swearing; that they understand you so far, andnever think you are in earnest till they hear an oath. Whip and dogs androaring will not do without some good hearty swearing, too. The Saintsays so, and he ought to know. He declares that he could never bring upcattle unless he swore at them. I think I have heard something similarfrom other drovers. Perhaps some naturalist will be good enough toexplain this extraordinary characteristic of cattle. 

The cattle associate themselves into mobs. Each such mob is headed by anold bell-cow, sometimes by two or three. Bulls, of which we have nowtwo, are sometimes with one mob and sometimes with another. Individualbeasts, belonging to neighbours of ours, are to be found running withcertain mobs belonging to us, and the reverse is also the case. We haveto look after the strange beasts with our own, and our neighbours do thesame by us. At musters, or when drafting for market, we make thenecessary exchanges. But we have only two neighbours on this side theriver who run cattle in the bush; one lives six miles off, and the otherfifteen. 

We keep a stock-book, in which every beast is entered. Each cow receivesa name when she becomes a mother, and her offspring are known bynumbers. Steers are never named. They have only four years of it, beingsent off to market at the end of that time. Then a line is drawn throughthe "Beauty's third, " or "Rosebud's fourth, " which has designated theirindividuality in the stock-book; and the price they have fetched isentered opposite. The various mobs are known by the names of the oldcows that lead them. Thus, we speak of "White Star's mob, " or "Redspot'smob. "

It is the stockman's duty to know each individual beast, and also toknow the members that compose each mob. He has to go out with the dogsalmost every day to hunt up some mob or other. Our bush is much toodense to admit of riding, except along certain narrow tracks, partlynatural and partly cut with the axe, which serve as bridle-roads, andkeep open communication with distant settlements or settlers' places. Sothe member of our fraternity who happens to be stockman has to gocattle-hunting afoot. 

Cattle-hunting, as we term this employment, has a certain charm and airof sporting about it; but it is by no means light work, especially inwarm weather. The stockman has to travel through pathless woods all thetime, and has an area of twenty to thirty miles round our place in whichto search for his cattle. He takes some fixed route to start with, making for some distant locality, where experience has taught him suchand such a mob are likely to be feeding. On his way he takes note of anycattle he may come across, marks the gullies they are in, and thus, having knowledge of the ways of cattle, is able to guess within a mileor two where those mobs are likely to be found when wanted. 

Moreover, a good stockman gets to be experienced in tracking. He reads"sign" in every broken bough or trampled water-hole, and this guides himin finding the mob he wants. We know the bush around us pretty well bythis time, about as well, in fact, as a cabman knows the streets ofLondon. It is all mapped out in our minds, and we talk of various spotsby name, either their Maori names, if they have such, or fancy titles wehave given them. 

Of course, the dogs are our main reliance, though, even without them, such able hands as Old Colonial and the Saint can get on well enough. But clever, well-trained cattle-dogs are a treasure beyond price in thebush; and this we know, taking great pains with our colleys. The cattlelie very close in the dense thickets of foliage, and hide themselvesfrom sight. One may run slap into a beast before it will move. But thedogs traverse the gullies on the stockman's flanks, and start up anycattle that may be in them. Here is where the value of the dogsconsists, for, if they are not well-trained, they may run after wildpigs, or rats, or kiwis, and give a lot of trouble. 

Sometimes, after tracking the forest for many a weary mile, the stockmanwill have to return without finding the mob he wanted. Occasionally hewill have to camp out, not because of losing himself--that seldomhappens to us now--but because of the distance he is from home. So astockman rarely goes out without three requisites about him--food, matches, and tobacco. Except in wet weather, camping out is noparticular hardship to us. One can always make oneself comfortableenough in the bush, if one has those three articles, that are thebushman's "never-be-withouts. "

When the cattle are found, belonging to a mob that the stockman thinksproper to drive home, comes some very heavy and exciting work. We callour beasts tame, and so they are in a sense; still, compared to thegentle creatures one sees on English meadows, they are scarcely to be socharacterized. 

At one time a mob will head for home, and go straight and quietlyenough, needing only the dogs at their heels to keep them in the rightdirection. At another time the mob will scatter, and the members of itprove very unruly. They will charge and rush in every direction but theright one, and the very devil seems to be in the beasts. Scrambling upsteep ranges, dashing down precipitous ravines, and always forcing apassage through dense undergrowth and jungle, plunging through marsh andbog, chasing to right and to left, it is a wonder how dogs and men getthrough the work they do. And often there are miles and miles of thisbefore the welcome clearing comes in view. 

What is the condition of a stockman after he has brought up his mob andyarded it for the night? He has walked and run and scrambled, perhaps, twenty or thirty miles during the day, and that not over a plain road, but through the rough and hilly forest. He is totally tired out andexhausted. He is dripping with sweat, caked with mud from head to foot, his shirt torn to rags, his skin scratched all over, and very likelysome nasty bruises from tumbles. He has hardly energy enough left towash himself. Supper does not revive him, though he stows away anappallingly large one. And then he stretches himself in his bunk and ishappy. Only, when morning comes again, he awakes stiff and sore. But, nomatter for that, inexorable duty claims him for the same toil. And sowags our daily life--hard, unremitting, unromantic labour, day afterday, year after year. Still we say it is a glorious life, and we believewhat we say. Anyhow, it is better than being chained to a desk, orgrowing purblind "poring over miserable books. "

If you can only realize what cattle-hunting means, the shouting androaring after them and the dogs, the loss of temper that fatigueinduces, and the consequent aggravation when beasts are unruly, perhapsyou will forgive the Saint for his "exuberant verbosity" in relation tocattle. Even a real saint might swear under the circumstances, and beheld excused by his peers in the celestial hierarchy. 

Our four-year-old steers do not show very large, considered from Englishfarmers' points of view. Fifteen or sixteen hundred lbs. Is about themaximum of our fat beasts. But the beef is of first-rate quality; and asbush-fed beasts are in good condition at the end of the dry season, whenpasture-raised cattle are poor, we do as well by them as could bedesired. The bush is always cool and fresh and moist, even when all thegrass is withered and brown on the pastures; and this is one of thereasons why we prefer bush-land to open-land for pioneer farming. 

There is a standing controversy waged among settlers, as to whether itis better to take up such land as ours or to go in for a tract of openfern-land. On open lands you can easily clear the ground, and, though itwill not, as a rule, yield grass for mere surface-sowing, yet the ploughcan be put into it within a year or two. But the cost of fencing it ismuch higher; and the open-land farmer must wait longer for returns suchas will keep him. He has no bush-feed for cattle as we have, and it iscattle that the pioneer relies on for his support at first. It is eightor twelve years before the bush-farmer gets a chance of ploughing; butthen his cattle keep him going from the outset. Also, our burntclearings will yield us good grass for surface-sowing, which will feedsheep until the stumps have rotted and the plough can be used. The sumof it is that open-lands will pay a man with good capital quicker, whilebush-lands are the only possible thing for such poorer folk asourselves. 

We send steers to Auckland market two or three times a year. Once ortwice we have driven them overland, a distance of eighty miles or so bythe map. This is not so far, certainly; but then there are no properroads, and most of the way lies through thick bush. There is a faintapology for a bridle-track through the forest, not very easy to find, which strikes the Great North Road about twenty miles from here. Andthis same Great North Road, in spite of a pretentious title, and also inspite of being marked in the maps with a heavy black line, as though itwere a highway of the Watling Street description, is just a merebridle-track, too, hardly discoverable at all for the greater portion ofits length. 

Two or three of us ride along these tracks with the cattle. One or twohave to be most of the time on foot, while the third leads their horses. They are plunging through the otherwise impenetrable scrub after dogsand cattle, which last will not keep the line. The whole journey takesabout a week. We camp down at night, and half the next day is taken upwith hunting for some of the beasts that have strayed. Usually one ortwo are lost altogether before Auckland is reached. 

This sort of thing hardly pays, unless a considerable number of beastshave to be sent at once; and then the steers have lost condition beforethey can be got to market. I have had some experience of thiscattle-driving work; and of all the aggravating jobs I know, itcertainly is the very worst. 

We usually send up our fat steers in batches of a dozen or so at a time, and prefer now to have them conveyed by water. When we have arranged todo so, there is a grand muster of the herd. Mob after mob is brought upand enclosed in the fenced clearings, until we have collected togetherall we deem necessary. 

Then comes the job of drafting out the steers selected for market. Thisis a work of difficulty. All hands are required to achieve it, and oftenseveral neighbours will come over to assist. A small paddock, or astockyard, opens out of the larger one wherein the herd is assembled. The slip-panels between are guarded by four men. Others on horseback, armed with the formidable loud-cracking stock-whips, drive the cattleslowly towards the gate. Then comes the tug of war. Each man uses allhis endeavours to drive the chosen steers through the gate, while therest are excluded. 

A regular battle is fought over every steer; for the guardians of thegate often fail in preventing other beasts from getting through as well, as they will not separate. Then the driving is renewed from the otherside. The cattle get wild and furious, charging and rushing ateverything and everybody, and the men on foot have to look out forthemselves very warily. The racket and row make up an indescribable din. 

As each four-year-old is finally drafted out, it is driven into aseparate yard, until all are secured there. Then the bulk of the herdare turned loose into the bush again. By-and-by, perhaps a day or twolater, comes the job of shipping the steers. In order to effect thisthey are transferred to a stockyard on the beach. 

We have chartered a sea-going cutter, and she lies off in the river, possibly two or three hundred yards from the beach. A rope connects herwith the beach; and the noosed end of this is passed over the horns ofone of the steers in the yard. Then comes a tussle to get thatparticular beast out of the yard while the others shall be kept in. Often, in spite of the dreaded stockwhips, one of the guardians of theslip-panels gets knocked over, and then away goes the mob of terrifiedbeasts, tearing along the beach, and giving no end of trouble to getthem back again. Once, I remember, a heavy steer bounded clean over theeight-foot fence of the stockyard, and got away. 

When the roped animal is got out on the beach, a ring of men drives himdown to the water, the people on board the cutter hauling at the ropemeanwhile. By this means he is easily got alongside of her, when once heis off his legs and swimming. Then a sling is passed under his belly, tackle is affixed, and, with a "Yeo, heave ho!" he is lifted on boardand deposited in the hold. Then the process begins afresh until all thebatch is shipped. 

The cutter sails down the river and out through the Heads into the opensea. She then coasts down and enters the Manukau Harbour, going up toOnehunga to unload. Onehunga is only six miles from Auckland, of whichit is practically a part, being the port of the city on the west coast. It is connected with Auckland by railway and macadamized carriage-road. 

In Auckland market fat cattle sell at twenty to thirty shillings perhundred lbs. , sometimes even a little more. Our beasts usually fetch usten or twelve pounds apiece, after deducting freightage, and ouragent's charges for receiving and selling them. This year, our herd oftwo hundred head yielded us three batches of four-year-old fat steers, each batch containing about a dozen head. 

When cattle breed wild in the bush they may be a source of considerableannoyance and loss. This does not matter in remoter districts, such asthe recesses of the Hokianga forests. Wild cattle abound there, possiblyin hundreds; and the Maoris make a good thing by hunting them for theirhides. There are no settlers' cattle running in the bush there; butwhere there are, wild cattle would make them as wild as themselves, andwould spoil a herd in no time. When they appear in a district, cattle-farmers have to combine to hunt them down and extirpate them. 

Once there were some wild cattle in the bush between Te Pahi andPaparoa, on the opposite side of our river. The settlers of Paparoa werehunting them down, and we were warned to look out, for fear the beastsshould take to the water. They did do so, and a whole mob of them triedto swim over to our side. 

Fortunately we were on the look-out. At once a party took to the boats, while others watched along the shore. We were in a great funk about thematter, for if the wild bulls got over to our side it might mean almostruin for us. So we charged gallantly at them in the water, and strove tohead them back to the other side, where the Paparoa men were waiting forthem. 

Such guns as we had were brought out, but they were little good, notbeing rifled, and we had no ball cartridge. Dandy Jack performedprodigies of valour with an old harpoon; and O'Gaygun used his axe withgreat success. Altogether, the excitement was great and the sport good. One bull overturned a boat, as it rowed alongside him; but the Fiend, who was in it, adroitly clambered on to the animal's back as it swam, and, with great difficulty, managed to open its throat with his knife. Seven or eight were killed in the water. Even the despised new-chums'pistols were brought into use, and in this emergency they proved reallyvaluable. The beasts that effected the crossing were slaughtered on thebeach; and altogether we killed some eighteen or twenty. We preventedthem thus from getting into our bush, so saving our own herd fromcontamination. This has been our only experience of the kind in thisdistrict, luckily. 

There was an incident that happened once, in connection with cattle, ofrather an unusual sort. So much so, in fact, that most people to whom wehave at times spoken of it have doubted our veracity. I suppose it willadd but little weight to the story if I premise it with the assertionthat it is simple truth. Nevertheless, it _is_ actual fact, believe itor not who list. 

There was a grand assemblage at the station of a friend and neighbour ofours, on one of the Kaipara rivers. He had been running a large herd, over a thousand head of cattle, and was now going to dispose of thegreater number. This was because the feed for them was getting short inhis immediate neighbourhood; and because his land was now becoming readyfor sheep and the plough. 

Nearly all the men in the district had been asked to come and assist atthe mustering, drafting, and so on, of the herd. It was a gathering ofthe kind known in America as a "bee. " And as a bee usually winds up withfestivity, feasting, dancing, and the like, such femininities as thedistrict possessed were brought over by their respective husbands ormale relatives. While we busied ourselves with the cattle in the yardand on the run, the ladies were occupied with industries peculiar tothemselves indoors, giving the mistress of the house the benefit of asewing, scandal, and cooking bee, probably. 

We had been all day hard at work, and had pretty well got through allthere was to do. Most of the cattle had been drafted into yards, hadbeen branded or handled as required, and the work was nearly complete. Towards sundown we came to be most of us assembled about one of theyards. 

This was a stockyard, or paddock, of about two acres in extent, andwithin it an obstinate young bull remained solus, holding his ownagainst us. It was necessary, for purposes which need not be specified, that the beast should be thrown and tied down. We usually accomplish theoverthrow of big beasts by noosing their legs, and so tripping them up;but this bull was far too wary to let any one get near him, and was wildand vicious, moreover. Several of us had been fruitlessly trying, for anhour or more, to do something with him, and our host was now saying thebeast had better be shot out of hand; but we had spent so much time overhim already that we did not like to give in, and resolved we would throwhim anyhow. None of us could stay inside the fence, so fierce were therushes of the bull, and he was too cunning to let himself be caught bycoming near the rails. 

As man after man concluded his other tasks, and came up to assist, ourperplexity seemed to increase. Various plans were discussed, and put inoperation, but the bull baffled them all. There was beginning to be agood deal of ill-temper and swearing among us. 

And now Dandy Jack appeared on the scene. He had not been with us duringthe day, having just rowed over from somewhere else. Of course he hadgravitated towards the house when he arrived, and had been sunninghimself in the ladies' smiles. Now he was strolling out to have a pipe, and to see what we were about. 

Tired, ill-tempered, and covered with muck as we all were, there was atendency among us to resent this late arrival of Master Dandy Jack's;and this feeling, you may be sure, was not lessened by a contemplationof the extravagant cleanliness and daintiness of apparel that, as usual, pervaded this spruce lady-killer's outward man. 

He was hailed with a volley of sarcasm and personalities, amid which hestood, hands in pockets and pipe in mouth, placidly surveying us and thesituation. At length, when a pause in the tempest of words gave him anopportunity of speaking, he said, in his softest and most delicatetones--

"I see before me a number of gentlemen with whom I have the honour to bemore or less acquainted. They are all hot, dirty, and disagreeable. Ialso see a stockyard, and within it four quarters of fresh beef, likewise hot, dirty, and disagreeable. There would seem to be adifficulty somewhere. Can I assist in removing it?"

He was answered by a burly giant of a bushman, a Wairoa man, who hadscant knowledge of our dandy. 

"P'raps you'll be so blanked polite as to show us how to capsize thatblanked beast, " he said, adding with bitter irony, "if it ain't too muchto ask from such a blanked, pretty, drawing-room ornament!"

"Oh, certainly! with all the pleasure in life!" responded Dandy Jackurbanely. "Will you kindly keep my pipe alight for a minute?"

Then, to everybody's amazement, he vaulted over the fence and approachedthe bull. Instantly that animal saw him, down went his head, of course, and up went his tail, as he charged upon the sauntering figure. But Jackdodged the rush with the nimbleness of a practised picador; and the bullcrashed against the fence. Again and again the same performance wasrepeated, while we all watched round the fence, calling to Jack atintervals to come out of his dangerous situation. He only noddedcarelessly, and continued to saunter about as if no bull was near him. 

Presently, the bull stood stock-still, then commenced pawing the ground, tossing his head and tail, bellowing, and eyeing Jack, who was leisurelymoving towards him right in front. He had apparently grown tired ofcharging this figure that always eluded him, and was uncertain what todo next. So Dandy Jack walked on till he was within a yard or two of thebull's nose. Then the beast thought it was time to do something, andconcluded to try the effect of one more rush. 

But he was too late. Directly that his angry head went down, with apreparatory sweep, Dandy Jack, whose assumed carelessness really covereda preternatural degree of alertness, sprang at him. 

It was all done so quickly that we spectators could hardly distinguishwhat was happening. We saw Jack seize one of the bull's horns with bothhands, we saw him place his foot upon the other. Then came a wrench anda wrestle, all in the space of one moment, and then Jack was whirlingthrough the air, to fall lightly enough on the soft ground half a dozenyards off. 

But the bull lay rolling on his back. That twist of his head hadoverbalanced him. And before he could recover himself and scramble tohis feet, we had sprang over the fence and got him securely tied withour ready ropes. 

A few minutes later, our eccentric chum was quietly sitting on theprostrate and helpless carcase of his late antagonist. With his usualdainty care he was ridding himself of the dust and dirt that had soiledhim when he fell. The Wairoa man was regarding him in blankastonishment. Clearly, Dandy Jack was an entirely new species of the_genus homo_ to him. Thus spake the bull-fighter, with elaborateaffectation of languor and softness--

"Look here, old fellow! You don't understand what a bull is. I'll tellyou. It's a thing that some people look at from the safe side of thefence, and that other people take by the horns. "

This was hardly fair upon the giant, perhaps. But after his doughtydeed, Dandy Jack was to be excused if he improved the occasion, andrevenged himself for the sneer that had previously been cast upon him. 

Oh! we are getting on fast and famously now, with our farm. The stumpson the first clearing are now completely rotten; so we have pulled themout, piled them in heaps, and burnt them. This clearing is ready for theplough. Besides, there is a piece of flat, marshy ground below ourshanty on the left, and this was only covered originally with flax, swamp-grass, and small shrubs. In the dry season we have burnt this offas it stood. The soil is not deep, but it is good, and we shall ploughthis in with the other. There will be about fifty acres of plough landaltogether, and twice as much more next year, or the year after. 

We have borrowed a plough and harrows from a neighbour, and are goingto work. Ploughing is quite a new industry up here. There are some ofthe settlers round who have got lands under plough before this; but notto any great extent. To us it seems to open up a boundless vista ofopulence, and there is no end to our speculations, and to the generalexcitement in our shanty. 

Wheat! We must grow it, of course; and a flour-mill at the township isan imperative necessity. Somebody must start one, and that quickly. Whyshould we go on eating Adelaide flour, when we are growing wheatourselves? They have reaped sixty and eighty bushels to an acre, in theSouth Island, and their average is thirty! So Old Colonial tells us. Well, our land is richer than theirs, and our climate is better too, somuch cannot be gainsaid. _Ergo_, we shall have better crops. SouthIsland corn has been sold in London at a profit; and has been judgedfirst-class in quality. _Ergo_, again, ours must infallibly top themarkets of the world. That is, what we are _going_ to grow, youunderstand. 

Then there is the great sugar question. Government is always offeringdivers incentives to new industries. It has offered a bonus of £500 towhomsoever produces the first fifty tons of beet-root sugar in NewZealand. That is, over and above what the sugar may fetch in the market. We say, why should not we go in for it? So many acres of beet, acrushing mill, a few coppers and some tubs, and there you are! Wealth, my boy! Wealth!

But O'Gaygun has misgivings. "This is not a whate-growin' counthry, " hedeclares. It is far too rough and hilly. There are too many difficultiesin the way. You can grow wheat to a certain extent, of course. The Northcan produce enough for its own consumption, and more. It will pay as oneamong other operations and productions. But we must not think of it asour principal or staple industry. 

And then as to sugar. You must have a couple of hundred acres of beet atleast, to begin with. A mill and appliances that are to be of real usewould cost £2000 or so. Your bonus would be but a small thing if you gotit. If all the farmers in the district were to combine to grow beet-rooton every acre they could plough, and nothing else, even then it wouldhardly pay the sugar-mills, or possibly the farmers either. Stick tocattle and sheep, to pigs and potatoes, "Ontil ye're able to give ye'reattintion to fruit. Fruit! Whativver ye can do wid it, that's what thiscounthry's made for! Wine! an' ile! an' raisins! an'----"

"Oh, shut up, O'Gaygun! Get out, you miserable misanthrope!"

Nevertheless, I think our Irish chum was about right in what he said, after all, especially in the last part of his remarks. 

Dandy Jack had been training horses, and Old Colonial had been gentlingbullocks; so we had a choice of draggers for the plough. We ploughed inthose fifty acres, fenced them round, and put in potatoes for a cleaningcrop, to thoroughly break up the old turf. We hope to get two crops inthe year. The second will be maize and pumpkins. Then, next year, wheat. 

The new-ploughed land is surveyed with rapture by us; but it issomething different from an English field, after all. The ground was soirregular and rough; our beasts were not too easy to manage; andthen--but this is unimportant--it was our first essay at ploughing. Thefurrows are not exactly straight, and there is a queer, shaggy lookabout them. But the potatoes are in, and a crop we shall have, no doubtabout it. What more can possibly be needed?

I have mentioned that we have several enclosures that may be termedgardens. So we have, and what they produce fully bears out O'Gaygun'sopinion, as to this being essentially a fruit country. Of course ourspade industry gives us all the vegetables we require, when we layourselves out for it. The worst of growing anything except roots is theimmense amount of weeding required; the weeds spring in no time; andthey are of such a savage sort in this fertile land. 

We grow large quantities of melons--water-melons, musk-melons, rock-melons, Spanish melons, pie-melons, and so on. Also, we growmarrows and pumpkins in profusion, as the pigs are fed on them as wellas ourselves. These plants do not want much weeding. They may be grown, too, among the maize. Kumera, or sweet potatoes, we grow a good deal of;also many other vegetables, when we think we have time to plant them. 

But in fruit we excel. There is a neighbour of ours who goes in fortree-culture exclusively, and who has a nursery from which he suppliesAuckland. To him we owe a greater variety than we should otherwise have, perhaps. 

First, there are peaches. We have a great number of trees, as they willgrow from the stone. We eat them in quantities; pickling, preserving, and drying them sometimes. But the principal use to which we put them isto fatten our pigs. We have several kinds of peaches, coming on atdifferent seasons. The earliest kind are ripe about Christmas, and othersorts keep on ripening to March or April. Then we have some fewapricots, nectarines, plums, cherries, loquats, etc. , all yieldingbounteously. 

The last are a very delicious fruit, ripening about October or November. Figs we have till late into the winter, and they begin again early; weare very fond of them. Oranges, lemons, and shaddocks grow fairly well, and are fruiting all the year round. Apples do badly, being subject toblight, though the young trees grow rapidly, and, if freely pruned, willyield enormous crops. To obviate the blight we keep a constantsuccession of young trees to replace those that are killed. Pears arenot subject to the blight, and do well. Grapes are very luxuriant; and, no doubt, this will be a wine-country in the future. Already, somepeople at Mangawai have made good wine, and have started a little tradein it. Of strawberries, guavas, Cape gooseberries, and other small fruitwe have a little. The former fruit so plenteously here, that the leavesare entirely hidden by the clusters of berries and blossom. The secondis a bush; and the last a plant like a nettle, which sows itself allover. The fruit is nice. 

Both the gardens and the clearings are subject to a horrible plague ofcrickets. They are everywhere, and eat everything. But turkeys and ducksfatten splendidly on them, acquiring a capital gamey flavour. Cricket-fed turkey would shame any stubble-fed bird altogether, both asto fatness and meatiness and flavour. We have hundreds of turkeys wildabout the place, which keep down the crickets a good deal. Although weeat them freely, they increase very rapidly, like everything else here. The worst of it is they will not leave the grapes alone, and if theywould the crickets won't, which is a difficulty in the way ofvine-growing. But notwithstanding that, some of us are convinced thatwine-making is the coming industry of the Kaipara. Then there is theolive, and the mulberry for serici-culture. Both these things are tocome. Experiment has been made in growing them, but that is all as yet. Tobacco, too, will have its place. It grows well; and the Maorissometimes smoke their own growth. We prefer the Virginian article. A manat Papakura has done well with tobacco, we hear. Government has bonusedhim, so it is said; and his manufactured product is to be had in all theAuckland shops--strong, full-flavoured stuff; wants a little more carein manufacture, perhaps. 

Tobacco, like some other things we have tried--hops, castor-oil, spices, drugs, and so on--needs cheap labour for picking. That is the _sine quânon_ to success in these things. And for cheap labour we must wait, Isuppose, till we are able to marry, and to rear those very extensivefamilies of children, which are one of the special products of thisfruitful country, and which are also such aids to the pioneer ingetting on. 

Take it altogether, we--the pioneers of Te Pahi--are of opinion thatpioneer-farming here is a decided success. We are satisfied that ityields, and will yield, a fair return for the labour we have invested init. We think that we are in better case, on the whole, than we shouldhave been after eight years' work at other avocations in the oldcountry. Putting aside the question of the magnificent health weenjoy--and that is no small thing--we are on the high road to a degreeof competence we might never have attained to in England. Not that wewish to decry England; on the contrary, we would like to return there. But for a visit, merely. Here is our home, now. The young country thatis growing out of its swaddling clothes, and that we hope, and we know, will one day be a Brighter Britain in deed and in truth. 

CHAPTER IX. 

OUR SHOW-PLACE. 

We have a show-place, and one of which we are excessively proud. It isnot a castle, a baronial hall, or ruined abbey, as one would expect aproperly constituted show-place to be--at "home. " In this new country, it is needless to say, we have no antiquities of that sort. Yet thisplace, of which we are so proud, and that it delights us to extol tostrangers, has a history that renders its singular picturesquenessadditionally striking. 

Mere scenery is never so effective if it has no story to tell. Theremust be something, be it fact or fiction, to attach to a place beforeits beauties can be fully appreciated. The charm of poetry and romanceis a very real one, and can add much to one's enjoyment of a particularview. I suppose that something is needed to interest and attract theintelligence, at the same moment that the sense of sight is captivated, so that a double result is produced. 

Scotland is one fair example of this. Fine as the scenery there may be, is it to be supposed that alone would attract such hordes of touristsevery summer? Certainly not; it is the history associated with each spotthat throws a glamour over it. Much magnificence of nature is passed byunheeded in Scotland, because history or tradition has conferred ahigher title to regard upon some less picturesque place beyond. Thefiction and poetry of Scott, and of Burns and others in less degree, have clothed the mountains and the glens with a splendid lustre, thatcauses people to view their natural beauties through a mental magnifyingglass. Nature unadorned seldom gets the admiration bestowed on it thatit does when added to by art. 

But why pursue this topic? Every one knows and feels the power thatassociations have of rendering picturesque nature more picturesquestill. Therefore, a show-place, to be regarded as such in the true senseof the word, must possess features of interest of another kind, underlying the external loveliness of form and outline that merelyplease and captivate the eye. 

Here, in our Britain of the South Sea, we have abundance and variety ofthe most glorious and splendid scenery. So far as wild nature isconcerned, there is nothing in Europe that we cannot match. Our Alpsmight make Switzerland envious; one or two of our rivers are morebeautiful than the Rhine; the plains of Canterbury are finer thanmidland England; the rolling ranges and lakes of Otago may bearcomparison with Scotland and with Wales; Mount Egmont or Tongariro wouldmake Vesuvius blush; the hot-spring region of Rotomahana and Rotoruacontains wonders that cannot be matched between Iceland and Baku; andhere in the North our forest country is grander than the Tyrol, and morevoluptuously lovely than the wooded shores of the Mediterranean. Atleast, that is what those who have seen all can say. 

But, though nature has given us such sublime triumphs of her rawmaterial, these have no history, no spirit. They tell to us no story ofthe past; and poetry has not crowned them with a diadem of romance. Hence their effect is partly lost, and when we New Zealanders go "home"for a trip, we find a charm in the time-hallowed landscapes of the OldWorld, above and beyond all our greater scenic glories here. 

Still, here and there in this new land, we have contrived to invest somespecial spot with a kind of infant spirit or baby romance of its own. Here and there our short history has left a landmark, or Maoritradition a monument. Already we are beginning to value these things;already we are conscious of the added interest they give to our scenery. But to our children's children, and to their descendants, some of theseplaces will speak with more vivid earnestness. They will appreciate thestories that as yet are so new, and will take a rare and lively pleasurein the scenery enriched by the tale of their pioneer ancestors, or bylegends of the native race that then will be extinct. 

New Zealand has even now what may be termed its "classic ground, " aswill be found in another chapter. But there exists a great deal of Maoritradition connected with various spots, and some of us do the best wecan to preserve the tales that adorn certain localities. Some of thelegends are mythological. Of such sort is that which gives such vividinterest to lonely Cape Reinga; the place where the spirits of deadMaori take their plunge into the sea, on their way from earth to thenext world. Such, too, is the dragon legend, the tale of the Taniwha, which graces the volcanic country in the interior. 

Besides these are the numerous stories of a more historical sort, incidents of love and war, which hang around the places where theyhappened. A country like this, so rich in natural beauties, so filledwith the glories and magnificences of the Creator's hand, is surely--

 "Meet nurse for a poetic child. "

It is not surprising, then, that we find the Maori character activelyalive to such impressions. The oldest men absolutely revel in theabundance of the tales, both prose and poetry, that they are able torelate about the scenes around them. But Young Maori is more civilized, and does not trouble his head so much with these old narratives. It iswell, then, that some should be preserved while that is possible. 

Old Colonial is a great hand at yarns. He loves to hear himself talk, and, in truth, he can tell a tale in first-class dramatic fashion. O'Gaygun and Dandy Jack are both given to the same thing a good deal. They run Old Colonial pretty close in all respects save one, and that iswhen he gets into a peculiarly Maori vein. There they cannot follow him, for neither has achieved his command over the intricacies of Maorirhetoric, nor has that intimate experience of the natives, which enablesOld Colonial to enter so thoroughly into the spirit and character oftheir narrations. 

As I know that Old Colonial's hands are more accustomed to the axe thanto the pen, and that he will never take the trouble to give hiswonderful collection of anecdotes to a larger audience than his voicecan reach, I have made notes of his narratives, and some day, perhaps, shall put them in print. In the meantime, I may as well mention, that, it was from his lips that I heard the tale of our show-place. 

One day, some lime was wanted on the farm for some purpose or other, andit became a question as to how we had better get it. The usual methodemployed in the neighbourhood was to utilize oysters for this purpose. Arude kiln would be constructed in the bank, where it sloped down to theriver-beach. In this would be placed alternate layers of dead wood andof living oysters, with a proper vent. The burn usually resulted in afair supply of good shell-lime, than which there can be no better. 

But on this occasion we wanted a tolerably large quantity of lime, sothat there were objections to the plan I have just detailed. For thoughoysters abounded on our beach, and covered the rocks that low-tide laidbare, yet, when a good many tons of them were wanted, all of which mustbe gathered with a handshovel and carried on men's backs to the kiln, itbecame evident that a considerable amount of labour must be undergonebefore our ultimate object could be attained. 

Now, one of the first and chiefest considerations of the pioneer-farmeris always how he may most closely economize time and labour. It isparticularly necessary for him, because of the scarcity of the lattercommodity, and the consequent pressure upon the first. It is usually astrictly _personal_ question. 

On this occasion the subject was debated at one of our nightlyparliaments in the shanty. Then the Saint broke out with one of thosequaintly simple remarks that used to amuse us so much. He said--

"I don't think it can be right to burn oysters, you know. It must hurtthem so awfully, poor things!"

Of course, we all laughed long and loudly. It seemed too ridiculous toconsider the possibilities of an oyster feeling pain. 

"Well done, Saint!" was the general exclamation; "that's a good excuseto get yourself off a job of humping over the rocks. "

The Saint flushed up, and proceeded argumentatively, "Look here!Wouldn't it be better to burn dead shells?"

"F'what did shells is it, me dear?" asked O'Gaygun, in a wheedling tone. 

"Well, there's plenty on Marahemo, for instance. "

Marahemo, I may mention, is a hill about three miles back from theriver. It is about one thousand feet high, I suppose, and lies behindour land. 

"Did ye ivver hear the loike av that, now?" roared O'Gaygun, boisterously. "Here's the bhoy for ye! Here's the bhoy that's afraid toate an eyester fur fear av hurtin' the baste, an' that's goin' to humpMarahemo down to the farrum, aal so bould an' gay! Shure now, thim's theshouldhers that can do that same!"

After a brief, friendly passage of arms between the two, the Saintcontinued hotly--

"Well, all I can say is, it seems to me more sensible to burn our limeon Marahemo and to hump it down here, than to hump oysters along thebeach, and then have to hump the lime again up from there. "

"By Jove!" broke in Old Colonial, "the boy's right, I believe. Shut up, you Milesian mudhead, and listen to me. Right from the old pa on the topof Marahemo down to the very foot, there's the Maori middens: a regularreef of nothing but shell, oysters and pipi and scollops and all therest. There must be hundreds and hundreds of tons of pure shell. Allwe've got to do is to make a kiln near the bottom and shovel the shellinto it; and there's any amount of firewood, dead stuff, round about. "

"Well, but look at the long hump from there down to the farm. "

"I know; but won't it be simpler to do that than to collect oysters onthe beach? We should have to hump treble the weight of the lime weshould get after burning them. And then we should have to hump the limeat least half a mile up from the beach. There is a track through thebush up to Marahemo, and we could easily open it a bit. Half a day'swork for the lot of us would make it passable for a bullock-sled; or wemight pack the lime down on some of Dandy Jack's horses. Then the stuffwe should get there would be easier burnt and make better lime. And wecould make enough to supply the neighbourhood. A few boat-loads sold ata fair price would pay us for our work, and we should have the lime wewant for our own use as pure profit. If we didn't find a market on therivers, I'm certain it would pay to charter a schooner, load her up, andsend her round to the Manukau. Auckland has to get all her lime fromWhangarei or Mahurangi as it is. "

So the thing was settled, and we went to work on Marahemo aslime-burners. 

One day when we were "nooning, " Old Colonial and I chanced to betogether on the top of Marahemo. We were looking at the splendidprospect, glorious under the mid-day sun. All around us was bush--adense jungle of shrubs and trees. The conical hill on which we stood wasthickly clothed, and all round, over the steep, rough ranges, theabrupt ravines and gullies, with their brawling streams, was spread theone variegated mantle of gorgeous foliage. 

Since then I have seen certain of the far-famed forests of the tropics, but I must candidly say that the scenery they offer is, on the whole, far less striking and beautiful than that of the bush of Northern NewZealand. The colouring is not so good; in the mass, it is not solustrous, nor so varied. The rich flowers are hidden away, so that thefewer and less gaudy blossoms of our bush are more conspicuous, becauseseverally more plentiful. But a woodland scene in England, the old homeacross the seas, even surpasses all in the glory of its autumn dress. 

From where we stood on Marahemo we could see for considerable distances, where the ranges did not intervene. Here and there, through some vistaof wooded gullies, we could catch a glimpse of shining river reaches, and, in one or two directions, could make out the house of someneighbour, easily distinguishable in the pure atmosphere, thoughpossibly ten or twelve miles distant. 

Looking towards the west, we could see our own farm. The distance wasjust enough to mellow the view softly. The shanty looked neat and tidy;the grass in the paddocks bright and fresh; the fences appeared regularand orderly; the asperities and irregularities of the ground were notseen, even the stumps were almost hidden; and the cattle and sheep thatdotted the clearings might have been browsing on English meadows, sofair and smooth was the picture. As we looked on our home thus, thegrowth of our labour, we realized our independence of the outer world. And I dare say that, for a moment, "our hearts were lifted up withinus, " to use the Scriptural phraseology. 

I believe I was guilty, under the inspiration of the scene, of utteringsome sentimental nonsense or other, in which occurred reference to"primeval forests, " or something of the sort. Old Colonial took me upshortly--

"'Tain't primeval, " he said. "There's the heavy bush, the real primevalstuff, " pointing to a well-marked line that commenced about half a milefurther back. 

"No, " he continued; "all this round us is only about fifty years old. "

"Only fifty years!" I exclaimed wonderingly, for the woods looked to meas old as the New Forest, at least; judging by the size and luxurianceof the trees. "

"Oh, here and there, there are older trees; but half a century ago allthis land was under Maori cultivation. "

Then he showed me the old ramparts that had defended the crest of thehill. A double bank of earth, now all overgrown with trees and shrubs, not unlike the outlines of ancient British and Roman encampments. Onevery point around us similar traces could be found, showing that thedistrict had been thickly inhabited. As the Maoris had no grazing stockin those days, and no grass in these parts, their lands were solelyspade-cultivations. Some thousands of acres between the Pahi and theWairau had once grown their taro and kumera and hue, together withpotatoes and other things introduced by Captain Cook. 

Marahemo Pa was the capital of the district. Its position, occupying thecrest of a sugar-loaf hill, defended by earthworks and stockades, musthave made it seem impregnable to people unacquainted with artillery. Thespace enclosed was considerable; and the immense quantities of shellsthrown down the sides of the hill attested the numbers of itspopulation--for all the shell-fish would have to be brought up here onthe backs of women and slaves from the beach, which is over three milesdistant; and shell-fish was by no means the principal item of the Maoricommissariat. 

"That must have been the way they went, " said Old Colonial, looking in adirection where a strip of the Arapaoa was visible through a gap madein the ranges by a narrow gully. 

"Who went?" I asked, for I did not follow his thought. 

"Hoosh!" cried he. "Do you mean to say you've never heard the story ofthe battle and capture of Marahemo, the tale of Te Puke Tapu?"

No, I had not heard it. At least, I remembered only some confusedaccount of a conflict having taken place at the latter spot, which, being our show-place, I had often seen and knew well. 

"Well, " said Old Colonial, "there's no time now; but we've got to getsome schnapper for supper to-night, so you and I will go and fish downthe Arapaoa yonder; then I'll tell you. "

In the evening we were sitting in the boat, anchored in the river nearlyopposite our much venerated show-place. We were fishing with line andbait, diligently securing a supper and breakfast for ourselves and therest of the company who make our shanty their home. Every now and theneither of us would pull up a great pink slab-sided schnapper, aglistening silvery mullet, or a white-bellied whapuka; we were in a goodpitch, and the fish were biting freely. Our minds were relieved from theanxiety of a possible shortness of provisions. The scenery around us istruly magnificent, if only it were possible to describe it. I must, however, try to convey an idea of its outlines. 

We are lying in the Arapaoa Firth, at the point where it loses itsdistinctive name and divides into three heads. These three lesserfirths, together with the main creek that flows into each above thepoint where the tide reaches, are respectively the Pahi, the Paparoa, and the Matakohe. 

Our boat seems to be floating in a lake, rather than in a river, forhere the Arapaoa is between three and four miles across. Looking down tothe right we see it stretching away, between bold, high banks ofirregular outline, flowing down to the harbour and the sea thirty milesoff. To our left is our own river, the Pahi, narrower than the other. Itis, perhaps, a mile across at the mouth. Its shores present adiminishing perspective of woods; and, as mangroves line the beach oneither side, the leafage and the water seem to melt into one another. Five or six miles up, the ranges rise higher and run together, so thatthe beautiful Pahi appears to lose itself in the forest. 

The opposite shore of the Pahi ends in a high bluff that, from our pointof view, appears like an island in the expanse of gleaming water. Roundthe base of the bluff are gathered the white houses of Te Pahi township;and the masts of several small sailing-craft are seen off the beach. Behind and above is a bold sweep of dark woods, forming a background tothe baby town. 

The township bluff hides from us all view of the Paparoa, which liesjust behind it. But we have a full prospect of the wide reach of theMatakohe, which has quite a lake-like look. Just within it, on thefurther shore, are some low mud-banks, partially covered with stuntedmangrove. Here great flocks of grey snipe continually assemble, togetherwith kingfishers, shags, wild duck, teal, and other waterfowl. The highbank conceals all behind it; but in one or two places we catch a glimpseof some settler's house, cresting the bold bluff, or half hiding in itsorchards. 

And now we face to the east, with the setting sun behind us sending itsrays full upon the central interest of the view, and thus we gaze ourfill upon Te Puke Tapu. A small but deep bay forms a bend in the shoreof the river, guarded by steep heights on either hand. On the left along promontory runs out into the Pahi, as though to meet the townshipbluff upon its further shore. On the right a towering scaur shows theabrupt termination of the range behind it. The tide in the Arapaoa flowsswiftly by, but within the bay the water lies smooth as glass. 

Between these two points may be a distance of about a mile straightacross. The curving line of the shore, sweeping round from one to theother, forms a complete crescent. No rocks or mangroves, no mud-banks oroyster-beds spoil the effect of a narrow belt of white and glitteringshingle, which lines the beach of the little bay. And right at the edgeof this border-line begins the mingled green of fern and forest. 

The land slopes upward gradually from the beach, rising by regular stepsinto a grand semicircle of heights. The general shape is that of anamphitheatre. And here so rich is the soil, so sheltered the situation, that all the wild vegetation of the country seems growing with magnifiedluxuriance. 

The colouring is brighter and more brilliant than it often is in thebush; and there is a more extensive mingling of different trees andshrubs, a more picturesque grouping of forms and tints. There areemerald feathery fern-trees, copper-tinted "lancewoods, " with theirhair-like tufts, the tropic strangeness of nikau palms, crestedcabbage-trees, red birch and white ti-tree, stately kauri, splendidtotara, bulky rimu, dark glossy koraka, spreading rata, and half thearboreal catalogue of the country besides. 

And, in their several seasons, the blossoms which all the evergreentrees and shrubs put forth bloom more brightly here than elsewhere;and, while creepers of strange and beautiful forms twine and suspend andstretch from tree to tree, the woodland greenery is set with a richvariety of scarlet cups and crimson tassels, of golden bells orflesh-pink clusters, or the darker depths are lit up by showering massesof star-like clematis. 

Terrace above terrace, receding from the water's edge, the encirclinglines of bush rise upwards and away, until at last the leafy mantleflows over the summit of the topmost range. Far back, and central, inthe wide sweep of the amphitheatre is a sudden dip in the outline. It isthe opening of a little gully, through which a hidden stream comes downbelow the trees and babbles out across the shingle; and that openingjust reveals Mount Marahemo behind. His wooded crest has caught thetinted radiance of the sunset, and stands out in glorious relief againstthe purpling background of sky, framed in the glowing beauty of thenearer Puke Tapu. 

Such is our show-place, the "Sacred Soil, " where sleep the departedwarriors of the Ngatewhatua. The bell-bird and the tui sing a requiemover them by day, while the morepork and the kiwi wail for them atnight. And the wonderful loveliness of this spot, where they fought anddied, might well inspire a Tennyson to pen another "Locksley Hall. "

"Jee--roosalem!" sighed Dandy Jack. "Only put _that_ on canvas, and hangit in Burlington House, and what an advertisement it would be for us!"

Old Colonial goes on to tell the tale of Te Puke Tapu, in the intervalsof hauling up schnapper. He says--

"The boys call it 'The Burying Ground, ' because of the bones and skullsthat are lying about or stuck up in the trees. That's rather misleading, though, for it was never a wahi tapu, or native cemetery. This bay wasevidently the landing-place or port for Marahemo, and the subordinatekaingas on the ranges yonder. You can see it was naturally that. As suchthere would be constant traffic through it, even if there were no wharèsin the place itself. Now a wahi tapu was so sacred that no one but atohunga dared to approach its boundaries, even under pain of death anddamnation; so that such a place was always in some very out-of-the-waylocality, certainly never near a spot so much frequented as this wouldbe. 

"It's tapu enough now, though, and has been ever since the battle, which, I opine, must have been fought somewhere about 1825. The chiefswon't sell an inch of this piece to any one; and not a Maori dares gonear it. Lots of people have tried to buy it, and have even offered asmuch as five pounds an acre for its magnificent soil; but the Maorisare not to be tempted, and, what's more, say they'll have utu from anyPakeha that goes into it. 

"Once, some years ago, I was out pig-hunting, and killed a big one juston the top of that scaur. The carcase rolled down into the water, andthe tide carried it away down river. It was washed up at Tama-te-Whiti'splace, six miles below this. Now Tama, although he's an ordained parson, still retains most of the old superstitions, as all the older Maoris do. He was in a terrible stew when this pig, killed on tapu ground, andconsequently tapu itself, stranded on his beach. His wife and he cameout with long poles and pushed it into the water. Then they got intotheir boat, and managed to get the pig out into the channel and set itfloating off again. Afterwards they carefully burnt the poles that hadtouched the dreadful thing. Finally, Tama came up to me and demandedutu, which I had to pay him. If we had not been such good friends, andif Tama had not been more sensible than the other Maoris, I believe thedistrict would have been too hot to hold me. 

"Tama told me the whole history of the place; and gave me a graphicaccount of the battle, in which he took part. He is one of the 'last ofthe cannibals, ' one of the few survivors of the old fighting days, before the missionaries caused the abolition of cannibalism. 

"You know who Hongi was, I suppose? The great chief of the Ngapuhi, whowas so friendly with Marsden and the first missionaries, who went toSydney and then to England, was presented to King George and made muchof. When he got back to Sydney, this astute savage 'realized' on all thefine things that had been given him, and turned the proceeds intomuskets, powder, and ball. Then he loaded up a trading-schooner, chartering her with a promise of a return cargo of pigs, timber, andflax, and joyfully sailed back to New Zealand. 

"All his life, Hongi was very friendly to the missionaries, as well asto traders from Sydney. But the former never converted him. He remaineda ferocious manslayer and cannibal to the last. Yet it was owing to thischief that missionaries gained a first footing in the country. 

"Hongi's great idea was to make himself king of all New Zealand. Inpursuance of this plan he armed his fighting men with fire-arms, andwhen they were drilled in the use of them, he started on a grand maraudall through the island. His notion of kingly power seems to have been tokill and eat, or enslave, every other tribe but his own. He certainlyslew his thousands; and utterly depopulated the country wherever hewent. 

"The Ngatewhatua, whose country lay all round these waters, were theancient foemen of the Ngapuhi; consequently, they were among the firstto experience Hongi's new mode of civilizing. A great battle was foughtup on the Wairoa, where two or three thousand of our fellows werediscomfited by Hongi's army. The fugitives came down the rivers andrallied again. Every man of the Ngatewhatua who was able to bear arms, took up his merè and patu and spear, and went forth to fight for hisfatherland. They fought the invading Ngapuhi all the way down from theWairoa, as they marched through the forests between this and Mangapai. 

"But badly-armed bravery had little chance against the superiorequipment of Hongi's bands. Do all they might, the Ngatewhatua could notstay the progress of their foes. When, at last, the invaders drove themas near as the Maungaturoto bush, our tribe gave way in despair, andcame back to this place. They had still one hope, one refuge, thehitherto unconquered Marahemo Pa. 

"Into that pa, then, where we stood this morning, crowded the wholepopulation of the district--men, women, and children. Here they wouldmake their last despairing stand. The attack would come from thenorth-east, consequently this bay would be in rear; and in it the canoeswere drawn up for flight, if that were necessary. 

"Then Hongi and his ruthless army swept out of the woods, and rushedupon Marahemo. They surrounded the hill, and, advancing to thefortifications, poured in a hot fire. Frightful were the losses amongthe besieged; and little could they do in return, spears and stonesbeing their only missiles. Still, they held out for three days, theircrowded ranks gradually thinning and thinning. 

"At last, at daybreak on the third day, Hongi delivered a grand assault. The Ngapuhi came up in three columns on the eastern slope of the hill, where the principal gate of the pa was. The two outer flanksconcentrated all their fire on the point, while the centre, headed byHongi himself, wearing a helmet and breastplate that King George hadgiven him, constituted the storming party. 

"The struggle at the gate must have been terrific. At close quartersfire-arms were no longer of service, and the Ngatewhatua would be equalto their assailants. Both sides fought with all the fierce courage oftheir race. Tama says that the bodies of the slain lay in piles, andthat their blood flowed in streams down the hill. 

"Tuwhare was the name of the ariki or supreme chief of the Ngatewhatua;he was also a tohunga, or priest. A lion-like old man he seems to havebeen, from Tama's description. Seeing that all was lost, when theconquering Ngapuhi had forced their way into the pa, and weremercilessly slaughtering men, women, and children, he did the only thingleft to be done. He took from its perch the palladium of the tribe, anheitiki ponamu, or greenstone image, and, summoning around him theremnant of his men, together with some of the women, they fled from thewestern side of the pa, hotly pursued by the victors. 

"The fugitives came down through that little gully, here to the bay, intending to take to their boats, and escape down the river. Tama wasamong them, and he afterwards concealed himself in a tree, and, thushidden, was a witness of the final scene; for a band of Hongi's men hadcome along the beach, and had captured the canoes beforehand, so thatretreat was cut off. 

"But a short time was there to consider what should now be done. Thepursuing Ngapuhi were close at their heels. The sacred tiki was placedin the branches of a tree for safety. And as the yelling and elatedvictors came bounding down the gully, brave old Tuwhare and hisremaining warriors, with merè in hand and war-cry ringing through thewoods, hurled themselves against the foe. Overpowered by numbers, andby superiority of weapons, the grim fight was soon over, and the last ofthe Ngatewhatua were slain. But, beside their bodies, many a Ngapuhicorpse showed that the vanquished had died as warriors should. 

"The Ngapuhi who had slain Tuwhare, cut off the dead chiefs head, andplacing it in the nearest tree, rushed back towards Marahemo to summonHongi. Now Hongi was brave as man could be, but, like all Maoris then, he was intensely superstitious, and held all the Maori gods and devilsin the very highest respect. 

"Hongi and his principal warriors were led across the field of battle bythe lucky slayer of the Ngatewhatua chief, in order that they mightinsult and taunt Tuwhare's head, as was their custom. When they were allassembled round the tree, with the bodies of the dead lying about wherethey had fallen--'There! that's the place, to the left yonder, where thekoraka trees are thickest!'--the branches were drawn aside to expose thegrim trophy of the conquered chief. There it was, sure enough, justwhere the victor had put it, fresh and gory, with its white locks andrichly tattooed features. But, oh, horror of horrors! right above thehead, with all its hideous fluttering adornments of feathers andtassels, was the horrible, grotesque, and grinning idol!

"Chance had led the slayer of Tuwhare to put his head into the self-sametree where the dead ariki had, a short time previously, disposed thetiki. There it now appeared, stuck in a fork, just where he had put itfor safety. None of the Ngapuhi knew how it had got there, and to theirsuperstitious minds it seemed to have come by supernatural means. Andthis thing was tapu in the most deadly degree. 

"The mighty and terrible Hongi trembled and shrieked when he saw theunlooked-for wonder. He and his men turned and ran out of theamphitheatre of the bay as fast as they could, shouting, 'Te tapu! tetapu! The gods have taken to themselves the bodies of the slain!'

"So they left this part of the battle-field, not daring to carry off thebodies as usual for a cannibal orgy. A long time afterwards, Tama, andcertain priests of the almost exterminated Ngatewhatua tribe, venturedto return here. With much solemn karakia and propitiatory sacrifice, they tremblingly crept into the precincts of the bay. They placed theremains of their kindred in the forks of the trees, and hid the sacredtiki for ever from mortal eyes. Then they departed, and the ægis of aholy place invests for posterity Te Puke Tapu. 

"It is a charnel-house if you like, under those trees there, but a verybeautiful one as is evident. We ought to keep alive the memories thatmake the place romantic. It would be a pity if utilitarian axe and firewere to spoil the beauty of Te Puke Tapu. There is plenty of other goodland to be had. No need for us to covet this, fertile as it is; no needto make a commonplace farm out of that picturesque old battle-ground. May it long remain just as it is now--a lovely natural monument toancient Maori valour, a quiet undisturbed resting-place for the warriordead, the patriot chivalry of the Ngatewhatua!"

Such is our show-place and its tale. 

CHAPTER X. 

OUR NATIVE NEIGHBOURS. 

A great friend of ours, and a near neighbour, is Tama-te-Whiti, the oldMaori. He is not _the_ chief of the Ngatewhatua, but as he comes of theroyal stock he is _a_ chief. He belongs to the caste styled tana, orchieftains, a degree above that of rangatira, or simplegentlemen-warriors. In the old feudal times--for the ancient Maorisystem may be so designated--Tama would have held a delegated authorityover some portion of the tribe, just as a Norman baron did in the elderworld. 

Now the tribe is very small, having been almost exterminated by theNgapuhi fifty years ago. Three or four families form the section overwhich Tama presides. But civilization and European colonization haveabolished the old order of things, so that even a head chief's authorityis now more nominal than real. 

In his youth Tama was a warrior, having taken part in the battle whichended with the affair at Marahemo, as described in the previous chapter. A fugitive from his own district, his hopes of one day becoming a lordlyruler over some large kainga of his own being shattered by defeat, hefell in with Samuel Marsden, and by that Apostle of New Zealand wasconverted to Christianity. 

So now, in his old age, Tama is a worthy exponent of the newdispensation. Born to warfare, he is now an ordained deacon of theAnglican Church; instead of cannibalism, he has taken to thriftyfarming; instead of fighting, he preaches among his countrymen; insteadof leading a ferocious taua, he finds himself the venerated pastor of alittle community of earnest Christians. 

Tama's place is some seven or eight miles away, down the Arapaoa. He hasa very comfortable little kainga, a fenced-in enclosure, wherein areraupo wharès built in the best styles of Maori architecture, with littleverandahs in front of them, and curiously carved doors and fronts. 

Here reside Tama and his wife, and one or two others; while just acrossthe river is a larger kainga, where live the remainder of Tama's flock. Round about his wharès is a plentiful clearing, whereon are to be seenpigs and poultry, a few cattle, and a horse or two. On a well-selectedhill-side close by are his cultivations--some few acres of maize, potatoes, kumera, melons, taro, fruit-trees, and so on, surrounded by astrong stake-fence. A few yards below the kainga is the beach, where acapital boat shows that Tama prefers Pakeha workmanship to the nativearticle--a canoe that also lies near. Nets and other matters prove thathe reaps a harvest in the water as well as on land. 

A very "comfortable" man is our Maori friend, for he has a claim overmany hundred acres of good land around, some of which has already beensold to the Pakeha. Much of this is heavily timbered with valuable kauriand puriri. Bushmen cut on his land to a small extent, and pay him aroyalty of a pound per tree. We often say, jokingly, that the old fellowmust have a tolerably well-filled stocking somewhere. 

Tama is amazingly industrious. He and his wife together get through animmense amount of work. The produce of the farm is amply sufficient toprovide them with all necessaries. More than that, the surplus produceprobably pays for all the groceries, tools, and clothes required by thefamily. His seventy years weigh lightly on him. He is as strong andactive as most men of forty, and is never idle. He fully understands theduty that devolves on him of setting an example to his flock, as wellas of preaching to them. 

Tama's ordinary costume is much the same as ours, except that he prefersto go barefooted. On Sundays and occasions of state he dons the blackcloth and white choker of an orthodox clergyman; but even then he avoidsboots. Only on very special occasions, such as when there is a grandgathering at the township, or on the rare occurrence of an Englishclergyman's visit, only then does Tama put on boots; even then he bringsthem in his hand to the door of the place of meeting, puts them onbefore entering, and takes them off with evident relief directly hefeels free to go. 

Tama is about five feet ten inches in height. He is broad and square, very muscular, and without an inch of fat on him. His body is long andhis legs short; the usual Maori characteristic. His face bears theelaborate moku that denotes his rank, and is without hair. The hair ofhis head is grizzly; but his features, the shape of his head, and theexpression of his eyes, bespeak an intelligence superior to that of manyEuropeans who come in contact with him. 

Tama visits us very frequently, and often brings his wife with him. Sheis a pleasant, buxom body, with a contented smile always on her face. Though not young, being probably between thirty and forty, she has notyet grown at all hag-like, as Maori women generally do. She dressescleanly and nicely--cotton or chintz gowns being her usual wear--but sheleans to an efflorescence of colour in her bonnet, and has a perfectpassion for brilliant tartan shawls. I think I once saw her at theOtamatea races in a blue silk dress. But, both she and her husband havediscarded all the feathers and shells and pebbles that are purely nativeadornments. 

Astute and intelligent as Tama really is, it is, of course, to beexpected that he cannot comprehend all the novelties of civilization. His deportment is always admirable, and he would carry himself through adrawing-room without any sensible _gaucherie_. He would be calm, composed, and dignified among any surroundings, however strange to him;only his keen and roving eyes would betray his internal wonder. LikeMaoris in general, he is critically observant of every little thingamong his Pakeha friends, but, with true native courtesy, endeavours tohide from you that he is so. But the extraordinary mixture of graveintelligence and childish simplicity in him is perpetually leading tovery quaint little incidents. 

One day, when routing among the "personals" I had brought with me fromEngland, I discovered at the bottom of my chest an umbrella. Now, inEngland, I suppose most people consider an umbrella as quite anindispensable article of attire, and even in colonial cities its use isby no means uncommon; but I need hardly say that in the bush such athing is never seen. 

I brought out my relic of other days, and displayed it to the boys inthe shanty. It was received with great applause, and I was unmercifullychaffed. It pleases our community to regard all the comforts andluxuries of a more complete civilization as effeminacies; and it is thereceived theory among us that we live the purest and highest life, having turned our backs upon all the corrupting influences of an effete, old world. 

There is among us a party, headed by O'Gaygun, who take the position ofultra-conservatives; the object of their conservatism being the keepingalive of all the most primitive usages of the bush. To them anything newis an insult; the introduction of imported comforts and appliances ahorrible iniquity. It will be remembered how fierce was O'Gaygun's wrathon the occasion when forks and spoons were brought into the shanty. Now, his sublime indignation was roused to the utmost at the spectacle ofsuch an outrageous incongruity as an umbrella, in the pure and holyatmosphere of our shanty. An umbrella! Did it not convey an instantrecollection of all the worst emasculating tendencies from which we hadcome out? Why, it was almost as bad as that acme of horrors, achimney-pot hat!

"Smash it! Burn it!" he shouted. "Mother av Moses! f'what nixt?"

However, it was eventually decided that I should give the umbrella toold Tama, it being a handsome one, with carved ivory handle, silvermounting and crest, etc. This would ensure the removal of the obnoxiousinvention from the shanty; and, moreover, so O'Gaygun declared, the vilething would be an acceptable addition to a museum of Pakeha curiosities, which, he said, Tama was collecting. 

The next time that Tama visited us I formally presented him with theumbrella, giving him the minutest instructions concerning the spreadingand furling of it. He had taken a strong fancy to me; and was muchpleased with the gift. His first inquiry was, naturally, what I expectedto get out of him by such a splendid gift. Knowing that it would befutile to attempt to persuade him that I gave the thing freely, andwithout expecting any return, I said that, although the umbrella wasworth a merè ponamu, [6] at least, yet that I should be satisfied if hewould give me a kitful of taro in exchange. 

This thoroughly jumped with the old man's humour. Not only did he shakehands with me, but he also accorded me the nose salutation. The rubbingof noses is now disused; and when a Maori confers it on a Pakeha itmeans an extra display of feeling, almost a making brotherhood. It wasthe highest honour old Tama could pay me. 

I thought I had fully explained to the reverend gentleman the uses of anumbrella. I had over and over again hammered into him that it was meantto protect one from rain. But it appears that the idea failed to reachhis mind. 

When Tama left the shanty it looked threatening to rain, so I unfurledthe umbrella, and placed it open in his hand. He stumped off proudlywith it held above him. We watched him go down the clearing towards theriver, where his boat was moored. Presently it came on to rain inearnest. Then Tama seemed to hesitate, it evidently occurring to himthat something was wrong. In an undecided sort of way he inverted theumbrella, and held it handle upwards in front of him; but as the raincame thicker and faster, even this seemed unsatisfactory. 

At last he stopped altogether, having apparently come to the conclusionthat the wet would injure the umbrella. After a prolonged struggle, forthe catch was a mystery to his unaccustomed fingers, he managed toclose it. Then he took off his coat, laid it flat upon the ground, andplacing the umbrella upon it, wrapped that up in the coat. Lastly, hecut some strips from a flax-bush close by, and carefully tied up theparcel. Then he put it under his arm, and marched off in hisshirt-sleeves contentedly, evidently feeling that he had got the betterof the pouring rain. 

Tama keeps the umbrella stowed away in the recesses of his wharè. Heoften tells me, with a quiet, good-humoured sneer, as of one talking toa child, that it does not keep off the rain. His view is that I, in myincomprehensible Pakeha way, imagine the thing to be an anti-rainfetish; a notion which superior Maori wisdom has found to be erroneous. 

I saw that umbrella once again. It was a fine moonlit night, and two orthree of us were rowing up the river on a return from some excursion. Onthe way we passed a boat-load of Maoris coming down. In the stern oftheir boat sat Tama, and above him he held the umbrella open. As theboats crossed, he called to me:--

"It is not raining to-night. But it is not this thing that keeps it off;it is God only who does that!"

And so the good man went on his way, doubtlessly glowing at the thoughtthat he had fitly rebuked my folly; for, like some other Christians, though he might retain some superstitions of his own, yet those arereal, and all other people's false. 

On another occasion Old Colonial had been away in Australia. On hisreturn, Tama and his wife came up to welcome him home again. OldColonial had brought back presents for all our Maori friends; and he hadselected for Tama a silver watch, with a gorgeous guard and seals. Thispleased the old fellow mightily; and for three mortal hours did OldColonial strive to instruct him in how to tell the time, and how to windit up. He thought at last that he had thoroughly succeeded inenlightening the Maori about his new acquisition. Tama departed withill-concealed glee, stopping every now and then, as he went, to listento the watch ticking. 

However, the next morning, as we sat at breakfast, Tama appeared, with aserious and sad expression on his face. He would eat nothing; but, drawing Old Colonial aside, communicated to him the distressingintelligence that the watch had _died_ during the night. Withoutbetraying any amusement, Old Colonial wound up the watch again, andproceeded to give another lecture on its action to the ancient child. 

He went away apparently satisfied, and much lightened in his mind; butwe began to have a fear that the watch would prove an injudiciouspresent. The next morning Tama appeared again, with the same sad andserious aspect, this time complicated with a look of intense puzzlement. He contemplated Old Colonial's hands as he wound up the watch again andset it going. This was a total mystery to the old fellow. He said he hadbeen "doing that" to the watch all night long, talking to it, andtelling it not to die. We opined that he had not succeeded in openingthe case of the watch, but had sat twiddling the key about the outsideof it. 

The same thing went on day after day. Tama began to grow weak and ill. He was haggard with anxiety, spending his days in listening to theregular tick-tick of the watch, and his nights in trying to keep italive. In vain he sat up with it night after night, holding it in hishands, caressing it, wrapping it in warm clothes, and laying it besidethe fire, even, so he told us, reading the Bible and praying for it. Inspite of this generous treatment the watch invariably died about fiveo'clock in the morning. Then the miserable proprietor had to take hisboat and row up the eight miles of river that lay between his place andours. 

At last the old fellow began to get a better idea of the hang of thething. He essayed to wind the watch at night, but failed, and in someindescribable way managed to break the key. Then the charm wasdissolved. Feeling that his health was becoming impaired by his devotionto this Pakeha fetish, and that consideration finally overcoming hispride in its possession, he returned the watch to Old Colonial. He saidit was "Kahore pai;" or, as a Scotsman would put it, "no canny. "

Tama keeps the guard and seals to wear on festive occasions. But thewatch, no. He has had enough of such silly things. Henceforth, asformerly, the sun will suffice him for a timekeeper. That is not givento dying, nor does it require sitting up with at night and such likeattentions, and it manages its own winding up. 

We have other Maori neighbours besides Tama and his immediate following. There are several families living on the different rivers and creeksround about, and with them all we are on friendly terms; with some weare passably intimate, though with none quite so affectionately at oneas with Tama. Perhaps our next best friends would be found at Tanoa. 

Tanoa is a large kainga on the Otamatea river, and lies about sixteenmiles across the bush from our farm, or somewhat more by the water-road. It contains a population of two or three hundred; men, women, andchildren. This Maori town may be considered the metropolis of theNgatewhatua tribe. 

Tanoa is prettily situated, for the Otamatea, though a larger river thanthe Pahi, is very picturesque in parts. The kainga lies embosomed inorchards of peach and pear, cherry and almond, and extensivecultivations and grass-paddocks surround it. Most of the houses are, ofcourse, the usual raupo wharès, but there are carpentered frame-housesin the kainga as well. 

A Wesleyan mission has been established in this place for about a scoreof years; and an English minister and schoolmaster reside permanently atit. The former has great influence with his flock, who are ferventChristians to a man. The latter is bringing up the rising generation toa standard of education that would put to shame many a rural village ofthe old country. 

The ariki of the Ngatewhatua lives at Tanoa. He is between forty andfifty, if as much, a very tall and very portly personage. He is a greatman, corporeally certainly, and, perhaps, in other ways as well. AramaKaraka, or Adam Clark in Pakeha pronunciation, has had more Englisheducation than Tama, and is altogether of larger mind. Nevertheless, wedo not feel that we can like him quite so well as our dear oldbarbarian. 

Arama rules his little community in paternal and patriarchal spirit. Heunderstands the Pakeha better than many Maoris; and in most thingsaccepts the guidance of his friend, the missionary. He carries onaffairs of state in a manner blended of Maori and Pakeha usages. He is, of course, a politician, and takes a leading part in the localelections. But he adheres to Maori customs in their modified andcivilized form, and may be called a Conservative in such things. 

Arama has a pet theory, on which he often enlarges in picturesque styleto such Pakehas as he considers as of more than common note. Pre-eminentamong these is Old Colonial. Indeed, our chum is generally looked uponby the Maoris as a sort of chief among the Pakehas of the district. Hisexperience and acumen have made him a general referee among the Kaiparasettlers; and, in all important matters, he is usually the interpreterand spokesman between them and the natives. Moreover, he is now theoldest settler in the district; that is, he is not the oldest man, buthas been in the Kaipara longer than any other Pakeha, having come herebefore any settlement had been made in this part. And so he is an oldand intimate friend of the Maoris. 

To him, then, I have heard Arama discoursing on his project for theregeneration of the Maori race, talking as one chief among men may talkto another. For the ariki is thoroughly aware of the gradual extinctionwhich is coming for his race. He sees and knows that the Maori is dyingout before the Pakeha, and his great idea is how the former may beperpetuated. 

Says he to Old Colonial, for example, somewhat as follows:--

"Oh, friend! What shall be for the Maori? Where are they now since thecoming of the Pakeha? The forest falls before the axe of the Pakeha; theMaori birds have flown away, and strange Pakeha birds fly above the newcornfields; the Pakeha rat has chased away the kiore; there are Pakehaboats on our waters, Pakeha fish in our rivers. All that was is gone;and the land of the Maori is no longer theirs. God has called to theMaori people, and they go. The souls of our dead crowd the path thatleads to the Reinga. 

"Lo! the Pakeha men are very many. It is good that they should see ourmaidens, and it is good that they should marry them. Then there will bechildren that shall live, and a new race of Maori blood. So there shallbe some to say in the time to come, 'This is the land of our mothers. This was the land of the Maori before the Pakeha came out of the sea. '

"Oh, friend! send your young men to Tanoa, that they may see ourmaidens, and may know that they are good for wives. The mihonere and thekuremata[7] have taught them the things of the Pakeha. It is good thatwe should cause them so to marry. "

Thus does Arama propound his plan for a fusion between the races. Stillmore to further it, he proposes to endow certain young ladies of histribe with considerable areas of land, in the event of anyPakeha--_rangatira_ Pakeha--who may be acceptable to the tribe, offeringto marry any of them. We have tried to urge the Little'un, or the Saint, or even O'Gaygun into some such match; but they are shy, I suppose, anddo not seem to fancy taking "a savage woman to rear their dusky race. "Yet it would be unfair to call the brunette beauties of Tanoa savages. 

_Place aux dames!_ Let us get on to consider the ladies. 

Ema, and Piha, and Ana, and Hirene, and Mehere; there they are, the pickand particular flower of all that is beautiful, fashionable, young, and_marriageable_ in Tanoa. Bright and cheerful, neat and comely, pleasantpartners at a bush-ball are these half-Anglicized daughters of theNgatewhatua. They can prattle prettily in their soft Maori-English, while their glancing eyes and saucy lips are provoking the by no meanstoo hard hearts of Pakeha bushmen. 

Ah! live in the bush, reader! Live and work from month's end to month'send without even a sight of a petticoat, and then go slap into themiddle of a "spree" at some such place as Tanoa or Te Pahi. Then youwould appreciate the charms of our Maori belles. Under the influence ofmusic and the dance, supple forms and graceful motions, scented hair andflower-wreaths, smiles and sparkling eyes, the graces of nature notwholly lost under the polish of civilization, you would say our Maorigirls were very nice indeed. And so say all of us, _although_ the Saintand the Little'un and O'Gaygun hold aloof from matrimony--as yet. 

These Maori maidens are not to be thought of as savages. Far from it. They can read and they can write, in English as well as Maori. They canread the newspaper or the Bible to their less accomplished papas andmammas. They can cipher and sew; have an idea of the rotundity of theearth, with some knowledge of the other countries beyond the sea. Theyare fully up in all the subjects that are usually taught in Sundayschools. They can play croquet--with flirtation accompaniment--and wearchignons. Oh no! they are not savages. At least, _I_ should say not. 

But far pre-eminent among the young ladies of Tanoa is Rakope. She isthe daughter of Mihake, the nephew and heir of Arama, and who is himselfa great favourite and good friend of ours. Mihake is a jolly, good-tempered kind of man, very knowing in stock and farming matters, and a frequent guest of ours. His daughter, as Arama is childless, ranksas the principal unmarried lady of the tribe, and most worthy is she tobear such a dignity. 

O Rakope! princess of the Ngatewhatua and queen of Maori beauty! how amI to describe the opulence of your charms, your virtues, and youraccomplishments? How am I to convey an idea of what you really are tothe dull and prejudiced intellects of people in far-off foggy Britain?Yet have I sworn, as your true knight, O beautiful Rakope! to noise yourfame abroad to the four corners of the earth, with the sound of shoutingand of trumpets!

Prepare, O reader! with due reverence, with proper admiration, to hearof our Maori paragon. 

For she is a beauty, our Rakope; and more, her intelligence amountsalmost to what is genius, by comparison with her companions. You can seeit in her broad, low brow, in her large, clear, liquid eyes, shaded withtheir black velvety fringe of lashes. Her features may not be good, judged by Greek art standards; but what do we care about art and itsstandards here in the bush? We can see that Rakope is beautiful, and weknow that she is as good as she is beautiful. 

Her colour is a soft dusky brown, under which you can see the bloodwarming her dimpling cheeks. Her figure is perfection's self, ripe andround and full, while every movement shows some new grace and moreseductive curve. Her rich brown hair reaches far below her slenderwaist, and when it is dressed with crimson pohutakawa blossoms, theorange flowers of the kowhaingutu kaka, or the soft downy white feathersthat the Maoris prize, then it would compel the admiration of any Londondrawing-room. And what is it in Rakope's cheeks and chin, and rare redlips and pearly teeth, that makes one think of peaches and of rosebudsand of honey, and of many other things that are nicest of the nice?

Away, away with your washed-out, watery Venuses, your glassy-eyed Junos, your disdainful, half-masculine Dianas! Away with all your pretended andpretentious beauties of the older Northern world! We will have none ofthem. Give us our Rakope, our Rakope as she is, glowing with the richwarm colour, the subtle delicacies of form, and all the luxuriant beautythat is born between the South Sea and the sun!

And is she not clever? Words fail the schoolmaster when he attempts tosound her praises; for she has learnt nearly all that he can teach her. She is the apple of his eye and the crown of his labours. To hear Rakopesing is to believe in the Syrens; to chat with her and receive her looksand smiles, to dance with her--ah!

She is the pet of the tribe. Men and women, girls and boys are neverweary of admiring or caressing or spoiling her. She can coax and wheedleher father and Arama, mihonere and kuremata alike, to do almost anythingshe desires, and through them she may be said to reign over theNgatewhatua. She is the delight and darling of all the settlers round. She is the idyll of our shanty, and our regard for her approaches toidolatry. O Rakope, Rakope! I hope you will some day marry a Pakeharangatira, and endow him with your ten thousand acres; for if you matewith even an ariki from among your own people, your lot will be but ahard one when age has dimmed the brighter glories of your beauty!

There was a spree at the township; an event that had been looked forwardto by everybody for months past. English people are given to associatingthe idea of a "spree" with that of a bacchanal orgy. Not so we. With usthe word is simply colonial for a festivity of any kind, private orpublic. And whatever may be the primary object of the spree, it ispretty certain to conclude with a dance. 

On this occasion "The Pahi Minstrels, " who had advertised themselves forlong beforehand, were to give a musical entertainment, disguised asniggers. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to explain who these personageswere, since it will be remembered that our shanty was given to sendingout serenading expeditions. _We_ were the Pahi Minstrels; havinglaboriously trained ourselves in a certain _repertoire_, and having beenreinforced by one or two other amateur instrumentalists. 

In the bush a very little is accepted as an excuse for amusement. Thepublic festivities of our district are confined to two events in theyear--the Otamatea races and the Pahi regatta; so that any addition tothese is received with unanimous pleasure and applause. Our presentintention had met with a hearty reception. 

On the appointed evening, just about sundown and after, there was agrand gathering at the township. All along the beach boats lay drawn up, and the number of people walking about made the place seem quitepopulous. Of course, everybody was there from our own river, and fromPaparoa and Matakohe besides. There were people, too, from the Wairoasettlements, from the Oruawharo, even from Maungaturoto and distantMangawai. Our hearts sunk into our boots when we saw the prodigiousaudience that was assembling to hear our crude attempts at minstrelsy. 

Our Maori friends were there in full force. Rakope, Piha, Mehere, andthe rest of the girls, a blooming band of native beauty, escorted by alarge contingent of their male relatives. All the married settlers roundhad brought their wives, and--theme of all tongues!--there were actuallyas many as four young single ladies! This was evidently going to be aspree on a most superb scale. Dandy Jack fairly beamed with rapture, andthe gallant O'Gaygun almost burst with the overflow of his exuberantfeelings. 

The scene of the spree was, of course, to be our Assembly Hall, althoughevery citizen of Te Pahi township kept open house that night. TheAssembly Hall has been already mentioned, but must now be moreparticularly described. 

Although the township is all parcelled out into town and suburbanallotments, yet, for the most part, it remains in its originalbush-covered condition. There is a piece of flat land round the base ofthe bluff, and this is all under grass; the half-dozen houses of thecitizens, with their gardens and paddocks, being here. But all beyond isbush, with a single road cut through it, that leads up and along therange to Paparoa and Maungaturoto. 

When it occurred to us as advisable to build a hall, and when we hadsubscribed a sum for the purpose, a site was selected further along thebeach up the Pahi. Here there is a little cove or bend in the shore, and, just above it, a quarter-acre lot was bought. This was cleared, andthe hall built upon it. All around the little patch of clearing the bushremains untouched. A track connects it with the houses on the flat, about a quarter of a mile off; and the beach just below is an admirablelanding-place for boats. 

The hall is simply a plain, wooden structure, capable of containing twoor three hundred people. The Saint, when describing it in a letter home, said it was "a big, wooden barn with a floor to it. " However, we votedthis statement to be libellous, and cautioned the Saint on the misuse ofterms. The Pahi Town Hall is not to be rashly designated withopprobrious epithets. Such as it is, it serves us well, by turns aschapel, court-house, music-hall, and ball-room. 

On the night in question the hall was brilliantly illuminated withcandles and kerosene lamps. The benches were filled with an eagerlyexpectant audience, brown and white, who applauded loudly when the PahiMinstrels emerged from a little boarded room in one corner, and took uptheir positions on the platform at the end of the hall. Then, for twomortal hours, there was a dismal and lugubrious travesty of theperformances of that world-famous troupe which never performs out ofLondon. 

But our audience were not captiously critical, and received ourwell-meant but weak attempts to please them with hearty pleasure andvigorous applause; and when we finally took ourselves off down to theriver to wash our faces, every one declared we were a great success, asthey busied themselves in clearing the hall for the dancing that was tofollow. 

It is not my purpose to describe the entire spree. I have merely alludedto it in order to record one of its incidents, which may fittinglyconclude this brief account of our Maori neighbours; moreover, it is anillustration of something I said once before about caste and classprejudices. 

Of the four young English ladies who were present at the spree, threewere known to us as the daughters or sisters of settlers in thedistrict. The fourth was a visitor from Auckland, who was staying withsome friends in the district, and had come with them to the township. Miss "Cityswell" I will call her, the name will do as well as another. 

Now, it is the praiseworthy custom of settlers' wives in the bush, toask their unmarried lady friends from the city to visit them as much aspossible. There is a dearth of feminine society in the newer districts;and the most insignificant miss, on her travels from house to house upcountry, receives pretty nearly as much homage and attention as did theQueen of Sheba on her visit to King Solomon. If she be matrimoniallyinclined--and, to do them justice, our colonial ladies are not backwardin that respect--she has an infinite variety of choice among suitorseligible and ineligible. But on that head more anon. 

Every woman is a lady in the bush, and Miss Cityswell was, of course, noexception to the general rule. We were aware, however, that her fatherand mother were of the English peasant class, though he had prosperedand was now an Auckland magnate. She was a fairly educated young woman, passably good-looking; but her head was evidently turned by theattentions of which she was the recipient. Certainly, if mannerisms, affectation, vanity, and dress have anything to do with it, her claim tobe called a lady was a most emphatic one. 

Auckland city people know little or nothing of Maoridom. In fact, thegenerations born and bred in Auckland seem to be as ignorant about thenatives as people at home. They never come into contact with them. Theysee an occasional Maori in the streets, or perhaps witness a nativecanoe-race at the regatta. But as for knowing anything of Maori life andcharacter, past or present, that they do not. And they are generallyabsolutely ignorant of the history of the colony. They are given tolooking on the Maoris much as people at home regard gypsies--as quite aninferior order of beings, in fact. 

Miss Cityswell was naturally imbued with these notions. She regarded theMaoris who were present at the spree with sublime contempt and gatheredskirts. During the early part of the evening, she confined herself tosaying that she thought we took too much notice of our nativeneighbours. But when it came to the dancing, and when she saw the Maorigirls making ready to take part in it, then the storm burst. 

"Pray, are you gentlemen actually going to dance with those creatures?"

We intimated, mildly, that such was our explicit intention. 

The lady's indignation was almost too great for words. She regarded uswith mingled horror and disgust, replying--

"Well, all I can say is, that I shall certainly decline to dance withany gentleman who demeans himself by taking one of those brown wretchesfor a partner. "

Here was a terrible to-do. Expostulations, explanations, entreaties, allalike failed to move Miss Cityswell's determination. The matter began toassume a darker complexion as we thought it over. Under ordinarycircumstances, every gentleman present would consider it his privilegeto lead out the fair stranger for at least one dance, an honour he wouldnot concede on any account, and would fight and bleed for if necessary. But now we began to perceive that we were between the horns of adilemma. 

An eager and excited group of us withdrew to consider the matter. Something like _lèse majesté_ must be committed either way, that wasapparent. To give up the chance of a dance with Miss Cityswell was toforego a rare and exquisite moment of ecstasy; and yet, to qualifyourselves for it, we were required to put an insult upon, and toneglect, our beautiful Rakope and her sisters. Whatever was to be done?

Dandy Jack, O'Gaygun, the Fiend, and another, in spite of theirexuberant gallantry, declared themselves firmly for the belle of theKaipara, _versus_ her white and more sophisticated rival. Probably, these gentlemen were actuated by a sneaking expectation that MissCityswell would not be able to hold out against the advances of suchmagnificoes as themselves, all night. But the Saint, Yankee Bill, andWhangarei Jim headed a party who were all for the Auckland lady. Herslightest wish was to them an absolute law, for that evening, at least. They would dance with no one else, look at no one else, speak to no oneelse, if this heaven-descended apparition so desired it. 

Then there was a party of moderates, represented by Little'un, thePirate, Wolf, Dark Charlie, and the Member. These were all for acompromise of some sort. And at last they were inspired with a plan thatseemed the best that could be done under the circumstances, and that wasfinally, after much dispute, accepted as our line of action by allparties. It was this. Each one of us was to go in rotation and to leadout Miss Cityswell for a single dance; after that he would be free todevote himself to all and sundry. No one was to dance with any otheruntil he had had his turn with the haughty Aucklander. We hoped thatsuch homage to her would appease her pride; while we relied on the goodsense of all the other ladies, to put our singular conduct down to awhimsical desire on our part to pay a fanciful attention to a fairvisitor and stranger. 

But there was one factor we had entirely forgotten to reckon. As we wereproceeding in a body back to the hall, we met all the Maori girls comingout, and a high state of indignation they seemed to be in. Someofficious person had carried Miss Cityswell's dictum to their ears, andup went all the brown noses in the air as a consequence. _They_ were notgoing to stop in the hall to be grossly and gratuitously insulted! No, thank you! If they were not good enough for Pakeha men to dance with, they had no further business there! It was time for them to be goinghome!

Here was another nice little mess. All the Maori girls, from Rakopedownwards, were as wrathful as such brown darlings could be. They wouldgo straight home at once, they said, and never, never again come to aPakeha spree! And their masculine friends were siding with them, andalready making for the boats, though, for the most part, indignantlysilent, waiting to see what we would do. 

Several of the Pakeha ladies present tried to pacify the outraged Maorifeeling, but without avail. On the other hand, it appeared that MissCityswell was inwardly somewhat frightened at the turn things hadtaken, and at the excitement every one was in. She would not move fromher silly standpoint, however; but when Dandy Jack blandly, and withmany elaborate compliments, proceeded to lay our proposal for compromisebefore her, she eagerly grasped at it as an escape from the awkwardnessof the situation. 

So far that was settled, then; but how the Maori beauties were to bepacified it passed our understanding to conceive. Old Colonial was atlast discovered behind a flax-bush, deep in a discussion on beet-rootsugar-making with a stranger, and wholly oblivious of the row. He wasinstantly dragged forward into the light, and every one turned to him asthe one person who could save our honour and our partners. 

When the case had been fully explained to him, Old Colonial's eyestwinkled with fun. "I see my way to square matters, " he said, "but youmust leave me to do it by myself. "

He then went down to the beach, where the Tanoa ladies were sitting in agroup in the moonshine, waiting for the tide to turn before theyembarked to return home. He sat down amidst them, and after somedesultory chat, and flirtation perhaps, he brought the talk round toMiss Cityswell and her proceedings. 

"Yes, she's a niceish girl, " he drawled meditatively, "rather foolishand ignorant, though, I think. You see, she is a visitor up here, thisAuckland person; and we are bound to be hospitable and attentive, and toput up with her whims. "

His auditors assented to this, but intimated that _they_ were not boundto put up with Miss Cityswell's arrogance, and did not intend to. 

"Of course not, " returned Old Colonial, with a wave of his pipe-hand, ashe reclined at Rakope's feet; "of course not. But then, you see, " andhere he glanced cautiously round to make sure that no Pakehas werewithin hearing, "she's not worth thinking about, _not being rangatira_. "

"Oh!" cried Rakope, with round open eyes; and "Oh!" cried Piha andMehere, and all the chorus. 

"No, " continued he, lazily contemplating a smoke-ring in the moonlight;"her father and mother were only kukis, or something not far off it, andshe, of course, is not rangatira, not a lady. "

"Oh!" cried Rakope and the others briskly, and joyously jumping to theirfeet, "that alters the case. We thought she was a lady, and wereoffended at what she said; but as she is not, it does not matter--sheknows no better, and what she says is nothing. _We_ are ladies, anddon't mind what common persons say or do. "

So, back to the hall came the whole body, romping and laughing round OldColonial, the acute and wise diplomatist, who had made matters straightand pleasant once more. And we, standing in a body near the hall, heardthe rippling laughter of the merry band, and saw their white muslindresses and bright ribbons glancing among the trees. From within thelighted hall came the sound of fiddles and of stamping feet. We forgotall about Miss Cityswell; we left her to the care of Saint and WhangareiJim; we forgot the terms of our compromise. We rushed into the bush tomeet our partners, as they came up from the beach, with streaming hairand eager eyes. And presently twenty couples took the floor--we Pakehamen and the dusky daughters of the land; and Old Colonial and Rakopewaltzed fast and furiously at the head. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: A battle-axe of polished green jade. One of the most valuedof Maori possessions. ]

[Footnote 7: Missionary and schoolmaster. ]

CHAPTER XI. 

OUR SETTLER FRIENDS. 

I think I need hardly say that we are not æsthetic here in the bush. Inpoint of fact, we have no sympathy whatever with æstheticism or high artculture. We are, to put it shortly, Goths, barbarians, antithetics, whatyou will. The country is not æsthetic either; it is too young yet to useor abuse intellectual stimulants. There exists among us a profoundcontempt for all the fripperies and follies of fashion and civilization. We hold these things to be wrong--to be a sort of crime against manhood. 

In a measure we are Puritan; not altogether in a religious sense, but ina moral and social one, certainly. We regard our horny hands with pride, and talk about "honest labour" with something more than a virtuous glow. We are apt to be rather down on city foplings and soft-handedrespectabilities. All such people we despise with positively brutalheartiness. When we read of what is doing in London and Paris we swellwith indignation and contempt. We look upon the civilization we havecome out of as no fine thing. Life is a serious matter-of-fact businessto us, and we hold in stern derision the amenities of more sophisticatedcommunities. 

I think that we must look upon things at home much in the same light asthe Norsemen of old did upon the frivolities of Rome or Byzantium. Thespirit of O'Gaygun's philosophy pervades the colonial mind a good deal, and, possibly, we may be prone to cultivate it as a means of stiflingany regrets we may have after the old life. We are very natural men, yousee, very simple and childlike, unused to the artificialities of largerand organized society. Our characters have been reformed back to primaryessentials; and the raree-show of civilization dazzles and frightens ourprimitive nervous systems. We may have our little failings, but we askno pity for them from people whom we so utterly scorn, as we do thedenizens of the elder world. Art! Culture! Æstheticism! Bah! Pouf! Awaywith all such degrading, debasing, dehumanizing trumpery! We are men ofa harder, sterner, simpler mould than the emasculate degeneracies ofmodern England! We are the pioneers and founders of a new Britain, of astronger and purer life!

When describing our farm I gave some hint as to the causes which havekept us from building a better house hitherto. Some day we shall haveone, of course; or, possibly, we shall have more than one, for some ofour chums have been showing a tendency towards matrimony of late; and ifany of us marry they must have houses of their own, I suppose. We shouldneed a barrack else, you understand, for families _do_ run large outhere. 

Some of our neighbours live in very comfortable houses; and by visitingthem we are kept from becoming reformed into the uttermost savageryaltogether. Other people had more capital than we, or spent what theypossessed in a different manner. There are those who have laidthemselves out to render their homes more in accordance with the tastethat prevails among--I had nearly written _decent_ people, but will sayworldly instead. They have got nicer domiciles than our shanty; but, then, it takes a woman to look after things. There must be a mistress ina house that is to be a house, and not a--well, shanty, let us say. EvenOld Colonial is sensible of that. 

A frame-house here is built upon exactly the same plan as ours, so faras regard the piles, framework, outside wall and roof; but the plan ofit varies much. Every man is his own architect, or at least thatbusiness lies between him and the carpenter who builds for him. One seessome very singular examples sometimes. Rows of isolated rooms connectedby a verandah; houses all gable-ends and wings; all sorts in fact. 

A good house will have the outside walls boarded up and down, withbattens covering the chinks, instead of weather-boarding like ourshanty. The inside walls and ceilings will be lined with grooved andjointed planking, so as to make the house what is styled bug-proof. There is a broad verandah round the whole or part of the house. Thereare brick chimneys inside the house, though, as they are usually an itemof considerable expense, this is not invariable, and chimney out-putslike ours will be seen not infrequently. There are various rooms, andpossibly an upper storey, which may or may not have a balcony above theverandah. It is a common practice to have French windows, opening uponthe verandah, instead of doors. 

Such houses can be made very elegant as well as comfortable. They arepainted and decorated with carvings outside, and the inside walls may bepainted, papered, or varnished. Furniture and upholstery of all kindsis, of course, procurable in Auckland; so that one can have all thecomfort of an English home, if one is able to pay for it. 

Necessarily, the cost of house-building will vary considerably, according to the style and size of residence. A cottage with two to fourrooms will cost £100, or less. The average price paid for houses in ourdistrict--large roomy houses for prosperous family-men, contracted forwith a carpenter, to build, paint, and thoroughly finish off--runs from£250 to £500, or something like it. Kauri timber is used almostexclusively in the North, so that we may say we live under the shadow ofthe Kauri pine. 

We keep up the usages of society so far as to pay visits occasionally, especially to houses where there are ladies. You have got to live in acountry where petticoats are few and far between, where there is not onewoman to twenty or thirty men, as is the case here, in order tothoroughly appreciate the delights of feminine society. People at homedon't know how to treat a lady; they are too much used to them. Why, there are actually more women than men in England!

We treasure our ladies, because they are so rare among us in the bush. Good creatures they are, these settler's wives. How kind and benevolentthey are to us, to be sure! And how they do delight to "boss" us about!But we like it, we enjoy it, we revel in it. We would lay ourselves downfor them to trample on us, and be truly grateful for the attention. That is our loyal feeling towards the married ladies resident in thedistrict. Conceive, if you can, how much more extravagant is ourgallantry when certain other persons are in question--young ladies whomthe irreverent covertly term "husband-hunters!"

Those good lady dwellers in the bush--how it does delight them topromote the matrimonial felicity of others! How they do enjoymatchmaking!

Every settler's wife, so soon as she has got over the exclusiveness ofhoneymoon happiness, does her best to induce her girl friends from thecity to come and visit her. She is so lonely, she says--poor thing! Noone but her husband, and his neighbours and workmen; her devoted slavesevery one of them, but still, all rough men, you know. She pines for acompanion of her own sex. Oh yes; very much so! It would be a charity, indeed, if dear Ada or Fanny would come and stay with her a bit. 

Dear Ada or Fanny is only too glad of the opportunity. She did want tosee what the bush was like, for she has never been out of Auckland yet, except a trip to the hot lakes, or so. In fact, her school-days arescarcely over yet. And then she is so sorry for her friend's loneliness. It must be dreadful to be isolated in the bush like that. She willcertainly come and see her. 

So Miss Ada or Fanny packs up her box. Sweet, amiable creature! Sheflies to alleviate her friend's hard lot. She constrains herinclinations, and sets out bravely for the bush, solely at friendship'scall; for, of course, there is no _arrière pensée_ in her mind. Oh no;how could there be?

The young lady was not considered exactly a belle in the city, perhaps;but the bush receives her as an incarnation of Venus herself. Directlyshe gets beyond the confines of the city, into the rough, primitive, andinchoate wilderness, she finds herself elevated to a rank she never knewbefore. Coach-drivers, steamboat-captains, hotel-keepers treat her witha deference and attention that is quite captivating, rude examples ofmale humanity though they may be. 

Some settler is introduced, or introduces himself, who is travellingtoo. He will be delighted, honoured, to be permitted to act as herescort. Perhaps he has been deputed by her parents, or by her friend, tolook after her. Whether or no, he almost suffocates with importance ifshe graciously accords him permission to act as her courier and footman. 

Other men who are journeying on the roads or rivers somehow becomeattached to Miss Ada's luggage. It appears that they are going in thesame direction. They say so, at any rate. They form themselves into asort of bodyguard to look after this wonderful visitant. Mysteriousdangers, not to be explained, are darkly hinted at, in order that causemay be shown for their attendance. They are necessary as porters to lookafter her traps, as purveyors to fetch her milk and fruit, and so on. 

Miss Ada may not unnaturally be a little timid at first, but she soongets over that, finding that these big, bearded men are a good deal moretimid of her. Some of them actually colour up when she looks at them. She discovers that she is a wit; her little jokes being applaudeduproariously, and repeated by one of her bodyguard to another. Every eyeis upon her, gazing at her with undisguised admiration; and every ear ishumbly bent to catch the slightest whisper that falls from her lips. Really, these bushmen are very nice fellows, after all, in spite oftheir rough looks. Quite different from the affected young fops of thecity. 

As the young lady journeys onward her train swells, like a snowballgathering snow. Somehow or other, it seems that the whole district ismeditating a visit to the place that is her destination. And everybodyis so polite to her, so embarrassingly attentive, and so determined sheshall enjoy her trip, that she begins to think the bush is the mostdelightful part of the habitable globe; while the scenery grows more andmore enchanting every minute. 

By-and-by the end of the journey is reached. The settler's wife comesout to meet her guest, while a long procession files up from the river, actually quarrelling for the privilege of carrying Miss Ada's variousimpedimenta. The ladies are embracing and kissing with effusion, to themanifest discomfiture and perturbation of the crowd, who try to lookindifferently in opposite directions. 

"_So_ good of you to come, dear, to these far away solitudes; so _kind_of you, and so _disinterested_, for I'm sure there's nothing here toattract you in the _least_!"

"Oh, I think you've got a _charming_ place! And the gentlemen have been_so_ kind. I didn't mind the journey at _all_, I assure you. And, ofcourse, I would come to keep _you_ company, you poor, banished thing!"

Thus do these innocent creatures chatter to each other in theirhypocritical fashion. But the wife just glances slyly at her husband, and he looks guiltily away at the far horizon; for the dear schemer hasbeen making a confidant of him, for want of a better. 

And Miss Ada's tail makes itself at home, after the free hospitablemanner of the bush. And the men are received with greater unction thanever on the part of their hostess; albeit they profess to have calledcasually, on some mysterious business or other with her husband. Andthey are housed for the night, at least, and to each of them separatelythe good little woman finds an opportunity of saying--

"Isn't she a sweet, pretty girl? And such a capital manager, I do assureyou. Be sure you come up on Sundays, and every other day you can spare, while she is with us. It will be so dull for her, you know, coming fromall the gaieties of the city!"

Rumour flies about the country, apprising it of the fact that a younglady visitor is stopping at So-and-so's. The district incontinentlythrows itself at her feet, and worships Beauty in her person. Each ofthe few married ladies round invites the stranger to come and stop with_her_, after a bit, and to lighten _her_ heavy load of solitude, and_her_ craving for a companion of her own sex. And Miss Ada finds itimpossible to refuse these invitations; and so the district entraps her, and keeps her in it. 

What wonder that when she does return to the city, it is only to makeready for an impending event; for she was really obliged to take pityon one of those poor bachelors, you understand. And the bush is socharming! And she will be near her dear friend! And so--it comes aboutthat there will be one "husband-hunter" the less. 

One season there had been an entire dearth of lady visitors. In ourshanty people were going melancholy mad. The district was losing itscharm for us. We had not set eyes upon any young lady of flirtableestate for months and months. Old Colonial and the Saint had taken tomaking their cattle-hunting expeditions invariably lead them to Tanoa;where they said they went to talk to Mihake about stock, but where, itwas remembered, too, pretty Rakope and her sisters dwelt. O'Gaygun'sconversation was burdened with constant reference to "purty gurls, " whomhe had seen in former days; and he became so violently attentive to thewife of one of our neighbours, that, we began to think he would have tobe seriously expostulated with. Dandy Jack was restless, betraying lessinterest than usual in his personal appearance, and talking of going toAuckland for a spell. All of us were getting gloomy and dispirited. Ourlife didn't seem to be so glorious a one as usual. But relief came atlast. 

One Saturday, the Fiend had been over to the township, taking our weeklyconsignment of butter, and bringing back such news as there was, andsuch stores as we required. He returned with intelligence that set ourshanty in a ferment. A young lady had come up from Auckland on a visit!

The Fiend had found a note at the township, left there for our communitygenerally. It was from the wife of a settler whom we speak of as theMember. She informed us that her friend. Miss ---- Fairweather, let itbe, was on a visit to her; and she invited us to go there on Sunday, thenext day, and whenever else we could. The epistle concluded with someadroit reference to the charms and graces of her guest, conveyed in thatvague and curiosity-exciting manner so peculiarly feminine. 

Full parliament of the shanty was instantly summoned, and we proceededto discuss the matter. It was decided, without opposition, that weshould accept the invitation, and should spend the following day at theMember's. Not a dissentient voice so far as that was concerned. Thewhole parliament would pay its respects to Miss Fairweather, somehow orother; no question about _that_. And then we had to take intoconsideration the important subject of dress. 

Every one wished to make the best appearance he possibly could, and OldColonial peremptorily commanded that we should turn out in our bestattire. But our best was a poor thing. 

The common wardrobe of the shanty was overhauled; and it became evidentthat we were worse off than we had at first supposed. Under ordinarycircumstances, not more than two or three of us would require ago-to-meeting rig-out at one and the same time. Even a full change ofgarments was scarcely ever called for by the whole party at once. Commonly, when going to visit one of our married neighbours, we thoughtit enough to clean ourselves a bit and put a coat over our shirts; thatwas all. But something more killing was needful on this occasion; and, to our consternation, we found we had not got a square change of clothesto go round. 

It was too late to go to the township to buy some additional clothes;besides, we could not afford such extravagances just then. Three or fourof us might have turned out pretty decently, perhaps, but not the wholecrew. And no one would hear of any plan that might keep him at home. Wewould all go, making shift as well as we could. 

All other work was at once put aside, and we were soon briskly at it, washing out shirts and trousers. A roaring fire was kindled outside theshanty, for the purpose of quickly drying the cleansed integuments; for, some two or three were reduced to the temporary necessity of drapingthemselves in blankets, _à la_ Maori, while the only clothes they hadwere being washed and dried. 

Two of the boys had canvas breeches, that were supposed to be white whenthey were clean. Now canvas goes hard and stiff when wet, and istherefore not readily washed. Our chums were dissatisfied with thestained and discoloured appearance their nether garments presented, after all the washing they could give them. Pipeclay was suggested, butof pipeclay we had none. In lieu of it the boys got some whitelimestone, which they first calcined, and then puddled up into a pastewith water. This mixture they rubbed into the fabric of their breeches. 

The effect of this could not be very well made out by firelight, andnext morning there was no time to alter it if it did not suit. However, the ingenious whitewashes were satisfied. They had what Dandy Jackcalled "stucco breeches, " which had a dazzling effect at a distance, certainly. The worst of it was that the plaster cracked and peeled offin flakes, and that the four whitewashed legs left visible traces uponeverything else they touched. Still, we do not go courting every day, you know, and some little variation from conventional routine isexcusable when we do. 

We had all to take to tailoring, sewing, mending, and cobbling. Everything we had was tattered and torn; and had to be patched andrepaired somehow. We could not confront the gaze of Beauty with greatrents in our shirts. This was a fearful business, the materials foreffecting it being exceedingly limited, and our fingers unused to thework. It was a sight to see O'Gaygun, his philosophy and gallantry atwar with one another, sewing blue flannel patches on a red shirt, andgroaning lamentably over the task. 

Old Colonial officiated as barber, and, one by one, we all passed underhis hands, he himself being operated upon by the Saint. With a pair ofwool-shears, and the relics of the common comb, he clipped our flowingtresses close to our heads, reducing the unruly touzles to somethinglike order; and he trimmed our beards to a uniform pattern, such as heconsidered was neat and becoming. We did not want to look like savages, he said. 

Unfortunately, the Saint was not such a good hand at the hair-cuttingbusiness, so Old Colonial looked rather singular, the white scalpshowing in patches among his raven curls. But the boss could not seethis himself, and no one mentioned the matter to him, out of mercifulconsideration for the Saint. 

Then Old Colonial manufactured pomatum out of lard and beeswax, scentingit with lemon-peel and a sweet-smelling leaf. This stuff he styled "TePahi Brilliantine, " and with it he plentifully bedaubed our hair andbeards. 

As a customary thing we never dream of cleaning our boots. It isaltogether a waste of time, and it would be entirely useless to do it. Moreover, our boots are of rough hide, and not adapted for blacking. Wemerely scrape the mud off them with a shingle; that is quite enough. But, on this unusual occasion, it was decreed that we should black ourboots and leggings. The tide would be full when we started in our boat, therefore we could get on board in the creek; and, not being under thenecessity of plodging through the deep mud that is laid bare at lowtide, we should reach our destination with passably clean feet. 

Blacking we had none, of course; that had to be made. We did not knowexactly how to do it, so we tried various experiments. We preparedcharcoal, and we scraped soot out of the top of the stove. We mixedthese with kerosene oil, and, as some one said there ought to besulphuric acid in blacking, we put in some vinegar instead of it. Thismess was held to be the most effective, and was consequently used. Ourfoot and leg-gear was ridded of the mud of many weeks, and was smearedwith the newly invented blacking. 

Behold us next morning ready to start! A line of nine ruffianly-lookingscarecrows, under review by Old Colonial, head-master of the ceremonies. Our shirts are clean, though elaborately embroidered in many colours. Our trousers ditto. Our boots, whether high ankle-jacks, or lace-ups andleggings, are black, if not polished. Each man wears a coat. Ratherragged, rather ancient are these coats, originally of very varied kinds. But the etiquette of the bush does not demand much in coats. So long asyour shirt is clean and whole, your coat may be a little off colour, soto put it. People are not so particular about the coat. It is anexcrescence, not an essential garment like the shirt and breeches. 

There is one coat short, but Dandy Jack gracefully waives any claim hemight have had, and goes without. He can well do so. Such is the forceof habit, that, somehow or other, he looks more elegant than any of us. He is even well dressed, as we estimate that condition. It isaggravating, because----But no matter!

There is one garment that has been the cause of introducing "hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness" among us. It is a coat of brownhemp-cloth, faced with leather. A coat of English make, with manypockets, such as sportsmen and gamekeepers wear sometimes. It had beenthought too good to be used, and had been stowed aside in the library. Such as it is, it is the best garment we have got. After much wranglingwe had to draw lots for it, and, much to his satisfaction, Old Colonialacquired the right to wear it. 

A box of paper collars had been discovered, so our unaccustomed necksare all tightly throttled in them. They do not fit, of course, and haveto be fixed up with string and slips of flax; still, the effect isdazzling. The wet had got into the box, however, and a brown patchappears on the left side of each collar. This does for a trade mark, orbadge of the shanty. Scarves or neckties we have none, nor anysubstitute or apology for them. 

Our newly-cropped and pomatumed heads are thatched with strangelyancient and weather-worn hats. These are of three general varieties, orwere, when they were new. First, come soft felt wide-awakes, broad-brimmed and steeple-crowned, now presenting every diversity ofslouch. Next, are hats of the same original shape, made of coarseplaited straw or reeds, now very much broken and bent. Finally, thereare the remains of one or two pith helmets and solar topees. 

We have striven to make our head-gear look as jaunty and fresh as waspossible. We have blacked the hats or whitewashed them, and have stuckfeathers and flowers in them to give an air of gaiety to our otherwisesombre and sedate aspect. And thus we stand, while Old Colonial examinesthe regiment, giving a finishing touch here and there, where he deems itrequisite. Then he draws back and proudly surveys us, and, bearing inmind the contrast we present to our customary everyday appearance, hesays--

"We shall do, boys! Proceed to victory, my Pahi lady-killers!"

We have a good distance to go, for the Member's place is fully twentymiles off; but we have plenty of rowers, and have wind as well as tidein our favour. Locomotion by water being our customary means of gettingabout, we think nothing of the distance, and get over it in fair time. 

The Member's place is a very different style of thing to ours. He hasbeen some years longer here than we have on the Pahi; and has had plentyof means to enable him to do as he liked. In former times some of usworked for him, and we are all very good friends. But it is a year ortwo since most of us visited here, and so we are much struck with theimprovement that has been effected since we last saw the place. 

To begin with, we land upon a little wharf or causeway of planks laidupon piles, which runs out over the mud to low-water mark, and enablespeople to land or embark at any time, without struggling through the mudfirst of all. For, on all these rivers, mud is the general rule. Shingleand sand appear in places, and there is often a belt of either abovehigh-water mark; but below that, and as far as the ebb recedes, isalmost invariably a stretch of greenish-grey sticky ooze. It is in thisthat the mangroves flourish, and it contains the shell-fish which theMaoris largely eat. Our boats are usually built flat-bottomed, so thatthey may be readily hauled up from, or shoved down to the water on theslippery surface of the mud, as may be required. 

The Member's house stands close to the beach, but on a little elevationjust above it. It is placed in an irregularly shaped basin, that opensout upon the river. Round the basin run low ranges, covered still withtheir original bush. But all the undulating extent between them and theriver, some seven hundred acres or so, is under grass or cultivation. Itis all enclosed with a boundary fence of strong pig-proofpost-and-rail, and divided off by well cared for hedges, or wire fences. There are other and newer clearings beyond the ranges and out of sight, but here all that is visible is very much trimmer and neater inappearance than our farm. 

Over three parts of the basin the plough has passed. About one-half isunder wheat, maize, and other crops, while the grass on the remainderlooks wonderfully rich, freed as it is from stumps, drained, and, to ameasurable extent, levelled. Cattle, sheep, horses, and pigs are feedingin the paddocks. 

We eye the scene with great admiration, and even envy. This is the sortof thing our farm ought to be, and will be. It is what it might havebeen already, perhaps, if we had been capitalists. But then we weren't. 

The Member has got beyond the stage where we are still stuck. He isscarcely a pioneer farmer any longer. He has made his home, and abeautiful home it is, though shut out, seemingly, from all the worldbeside. The ranges, dark with woods, sweep round the fertile fields, theriver flows below, and beyond it the untouched virginity of forest isagain picturesquely apparent. 

But we are in a hurry to get up to the house, and so we walk at oncefrom the landing-place. A well-made gravelled path leads up from thewaterside, not straight to the house, which is rather to the right, butalong a neat paling, which encloses the gardens round it. On the left isan orchard of some extent, within which we see a great many morefruit-trees than we possess ourselves; they have been grown with care, and the varied produce of that fruit-yard would be a mine of wealth inCovent Garden. 

Beyond the orchard, which is divided from the path by a hedge of orange, lemon, and quince, cut down into a dense shrubbery, we catch a glimpsethrough the trees of several labourers' cottages, and some barns orwool-sheds. The path is shaded by an avenue of fine trees, very largeconsidering how young they are. Among them may be seen English oaks andbeeches, American maples and sumachs, Spanish chestnuts, Australianblue-gums, Chinese and Japanese trees and shrubs, tropic palms, and someof the indigenous ornaments of the bush. 

A hundred yards up this avenue, and we pass to the right through a gatein the garden paling. There we find ourselves in enchanted ground, forthere is surely no garden in the North, except, perhaps, that of theHorticultural Society at Auckland, which is superior to this. It isbeautifully laid out, and to us, fresh from the uncouth barbarism of ourshanty and its surroundings, this place seems to breathe of the "ArabianNights. " And is there not a certain princess within, into whoseseraphic presence we are now entering? We inhale a new atmosphere, andtread lightly, almost on tiptoe, speaking unconsciously in whispers, andwith the blood running quicker through our veins. 

The Member has money, as I have mentioned, and here, as elsewhere, moneyis a magician's rod that will work wonders. To the Member labour and thecost of it bear other relations than they do to us. He is able to lookon life in a different light, and may expend toil on other matters thansuch as are of bare utility. And he has done so, wisely and lavishly, and so his home is what a home should be in this fair land--an Eden ofnatural beauty. 

In this garden there are smooth lawns and dainty flower-beds, windingwalks and blossomy banks, trellised arbours and shady groves. Taste andelegance are manifest all round us, from the scented rosery to thewell-kept melon-patch. The rich and splendid hues of countless flowersdelight our eyes, while their unwonted sweetness sends a mildintoxication into us with every breath we draw. We pass up to the housealong a straight, broad path, smooth and white with shell-gravel. Thepath divides the garden in a part of its length, and has a hedge oneither side. But these hedges are of ornamental rather than useful kind. One is of geranium and the other of fuchsia. Here those beautifulplants, which are guarded so carefully in English conservatories, growinto trees in the open air. These geranium and fuchsia hedges arecomposed of many varieties of both. They are about eight or ten feet inheight, and are constantly and carefully pruned to keep down their tooexuberant tendencies. They are loaded with blossom, while the fuchsiafruit is a palatable addition to the many dainties of garden andorchard. 

The house before us carries about it the same air of comfort and ease asthe garden, not to speak of elegance. It is a large villa, similar tosome of the mansions one may see about colonial cities. Of what styleits architecture may be I cannot say. It appears to partake of thecharacter, externally, both of a Swiss châlet and a Norwegian countryhouse. 

Of course, the material of the building is entirely kauri timber, withthe exception of the chimneys, which are of brick, and the piles, hiddenfrom sight, which are of puriri wood. There are many angles, corners, gables, wings, and outputs, designed for utility as well as appearance. Round the whole house runs a broad verandah, following theirregularities of the edifice. Above it is a balcony, forming a verandahfor the upper storey, and the high, steep roof extends evenly over this. Between the pillars of the verandah is a light rail or trellis, uponwhich flowering creepers are twined, passion-flowers, with theirhandsome blossoms and refreshing fruit, conspicuous among them. Openingsgive admittance from the garden here and there; while light staircasesconnect the upper and lower verandahs outside the house. 

There has been some care in the ornamentation and finish; suitablecarvings and mouldings adding beauty to the general design. The wallsare painted white, picked out with green, while the shingled roof, beingcoloured red, looks passably like tiling. Altogether, the Member is tobe congratulated on his domicile. It is a very different affair to ours. It would be honestly called a mansion in any country. 

This is the sort of house _we_ intend to have, we say, as we walk up toit. And this is the kind of garden we will have round it, too. O'Gaygunsniffs at the flowers with pretended disrespect, and mutters somethingabout "taters" being more useful and to the purpose. But even he is alittle quelled by the surroundings, and we hear no more of his barbaricphilosophy for a time. 

Still, mark this, there is an air about the place that makes itdifferent from so many old-country habitations. You do not feel that youmay look but mustn't touch. You are not reminded that everything is forshow, and not for use. There is no primness in the garden. There is anhonest degree of orderly disorder, and an absence of formality. You donot feel as if you ought not to walk on the grass for fear of hurtingit. There is no artificiality apparent; no empty pretences whatsoever. 

The house partakes of the same characteristic. It looks homely, and asif it was meant to be lived in. As we reach the verandah we notice asaddle or two carelessly slung over the rail; we see a hammock hung inone corner; and some clothes drying on lines in another. A couple ofcolley dogs come barking to meet us from their kennels on a shady side;and various other slight details betoken that we are still in theunsophisticated bush. 

We tramp heavily along the verandah, a formidable gang of uncouthbarbarians. Old Colonial, at our head, gives a gentle coo-ee to intimateour arrival. Then out pops our hostess from somewhere. A merry, bright-eyed little woman is she, such as it does one's heart good tobehold. She comes forward, with two of her children beside her, not awhit dismayed at the invasion. She gives us a hearty welcome, shakinghands religiously all along our lengthy line. 

This is one of those women who always make you feel gratified andcontented with yourself and all the world, after you have shaken handswith or spoken to her. "Magnetic, " some people call it. She is everyone's sister, and you feel an instinctive affection for her, of thatsober and yet warm kind which may be termed loyalty. She is queen in theKaipara; and all of us think it the greatest pleasure in life to obeyher behests. 

Chatting gaily, our hostess leads us through an open French window intothe drawing-room, and we follow her, with a pleased and yet bashfulsense of expectancy. Into the drawing-room, mark you! and a realdrawing-room, too; not a visible make-believe, like the library in ourshanty. This is a large room, furnished as people do furnish their bestreception-chamber in civilized lands. Pictures hang on the varnishedwalls; books and book-cases stand here and there; tables loaded withknick-knacks, vases of flowers, workboxes, albums, and so forth; chairsand sofas and lounges; ornaments, statuettes, brackets, and variousetcetera, betoken a life of greater ease than that of our shanty. 

We sit around in an uncouth semicircle, awkward and somewhat ill atease, for we feel ourselves a little out of place in that room. Onecannot live the life that we have lived for years past, without feelingstrange and uncomfortable when once again brought within the influenceof refinement. So we look at our boots with a sense that our hobnailsdo not match with the white Japanese matting that covers the floor; andwe sit on the edge of our chairs just as other rustics would do at home. Our hats removed, the results of Old Colonial's tonsorial operations aremade fully apparent. Our hostess surveys us with a puzzled air. I thinkshe is struggling with a desire to laugh at the quaint simplicity of thecommunal wardrobe of our shanty, as it is now displayed on our personsbefore her. 

We have been petting the children, and, like other children, these are atrifle too observant. One of them, who is sitting on Old Colonial'sknee, suddenly becomes aware of the state of his poll, and, pulling hisbeard to attract attention, asks--

"What made you cut your hair off?"

Old Colonial looks across at the Saint; and then, catching Mrs. Member'seye, he and she and all of us go off into peals and roars of laughter. In the midst of this the door opens, we catch sight of another ladyentering, and we stumble confusedly to our feet. It is _she_!

Miss Fairweather comes forward, escorted by the Member, and followed bya straggling crowd of half a dozen men, similar barbarians to ourselves, who have got here before us. She is a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, would be considered so anywhere. Here, in her dainty elegance ofcostume, to our rude senses she appears almost too beautiful. Shedazzles us altogether; we know no longer whether we are standing on ourheads or our heels. 

We are being severally introduced with all due ceremony. The littlebeauty is not by any means disconcerted at the ordeal; she is evidentlyused to the position she occupies; used to being regarded with awe as asuperior being by ranks and regiments of bearded bushmen. She receivesour reverential bows with an amused expression in her blue eyes, andshakes hands with us, one by one, with the air of a princess accordinggracious favours to her subjects. And a funny little incident occurs. 

Miss Fairweather remarks to the Little'un that she thinks she has methim before; in Auckland, probably. Either she is mistaken, or, theLittle'un has forgotten, and is shamefaced. He blushes the colour ofbeet-root. His huge frame wobbles in confusion; and, awkwardly trying toshrink out of sight, as his bashful habit is, he steps backward, andplants a giant heel upon O'Gaygun's toe. That outraged individualstartles the assemblage with the sudden exclamation, "Gosh!"Endeavouring to extricate himself, he lumbers against the Saint and DarkCharlie, whom he sends flying into a centre-table. The table overturns, of course, and Dark Charlie's short, thick person sprawls and floundersheavily over it. 

The ice is now thoroughly broken. The ladies fall into seats, fairlyscreaming with laughter, and all of us, except the unlucky ones, beginto feel more at home. Then Mrs. Member tells her friend all sorts ofwild legends about our shanty, such as obtain among the feminine publicof the district. She says we are just a pack of overgrown schoolboys, who are rapidly turning into absolute savages. And they banter usdeliciously to their hearts' content. 

But we are not noisy visitors, you know, on such occasions as these. Onthe contrary, the ladies do most of the talking, as some of us areabsolutely tongue-tied. We can do nothing but sit and gaze at the younglady in our midst with all our eyes. She is a houri straight fromParadise, and we poor mortals just get a glimpse from beyond the gate, as it were. 

Then more arrivals keep dropping in by twos and threes, neighbouringsettlers and chums of ours. So at last a circle of some thirty more orless rough-looking men form a court about those two ladies. Then we goto dinner in another room. Most of us dine chiefly off Miss Fairweather, devouring her with our admiring gaze, listening enraptured to her chat, and pulsating with wild joy if she do but smile or speak to uspersonally. Many can hardly eat anything; they are too love-sickalready. 

After dinner our shyness has disappeared, and our native manhoodre-asserts itself. The men of the Pahi must not be cut out by rivalsfrom other rivers. They must do all they know to find favour in thosebeautiful eyes. We go strolling about the place in little knots, admiring the garden, eating fruit in the orchard, visiting the paddocksto see the stock and the crops, and generally enjoying ourselves afterour manner. 

Each of our ladies has a little group around her, which goes offseparately. The component parts of Miss Fairweather's immediate trainmay change from time to time; men may come and men may go, as it pleasesher; but the gallant O'Gaygun, the devoted Dandy Jack, the obliging OldColonial, and the fascinating Fiend are ever hovering around her, deferent, attentive, and adoring. Whether she is strolling or sitting, walking or talking, one or all of them seem to be by her side. They willnot leave the field open to their numerous rivals, not for one minute, if they know it. 

How it was managed I cannot tell, but I have the fact on the bestauthority, Mrs. Member's in good sooth, that something happened verymuch. That is to say, my informant tells me that the young ladyreceived no less than sixteen distinct proposals of marriage that day, nearly all of which were renewed on subsequent occasions. It can onlyhave been for the barest fraction of a minute that any gentleman couldfind himself alone with her. But, whenever any one did get the chance, he must have jumped at the opportunity. 

You see, it is the custom of the country, of the bush at all events. Wehave no time for courting, scarcely any opportunity for it. We proposefirst--marry first if we can--and do the courting afterwards. We have tobe spry about these things if we ever intend to get wedded at all. It isthe result of competition. A great many men are hungering and yearningfor wives, and there are very few girls for them to choose among. Somatches are made without very extensive preliminaries. The ladies appearto like this celerity. Perhaps they are unwittingly philosophic, andreflect that, with months of courting, they can really know little moreof a man than they did the first hour they met him, because he isnaturally on his best behaviour then. Marriage is a lottery any way youcan work it. It is only afterwards that each partner can obtain a trueknowledge of the other. And I am bound to say that you will not findbetter wives or better husbands anywhere, than you will in the bush. 

So, as I have said, Miss Fairweather received sixteen offers that day. In point of fact she took all hearts by storm. Not a man in the Kaiparawho would not have laid down and died for her. Not a bachelor among uswho would not have felt exalted to the seventh heaven if he could havewon her for his wife. But I dare say no more on this topic, and no moreabout the dear little beauty either, lest the too fortunate andever-to-be envied gentleman, who now calls himself her husband, shouldcome after me with his stock-whip. 

When the sun has set and evening has come, supper over, we sit in thelamp-lit drawing-room, enjoying the sweet intoxication of the ladies'presence. Or we lounge on the verandah outside the open windows, listening to the chat within, hearing around us the whispers of theforest, or the ripple and risp of the moonlit river, gazing at theprofound shadows of the wooded ranges opposite, and inhaling thefragrant sweets of the sleeping garden. Peaceful and silent is thatstarlit night in the bush. 

Then, it being Sunday, the Member gives us service. And as the pianosounds, and we all join in singing the 23rd Psalm--

 "In pastures green, He leadeth me, The quiet waters by, "

I think, that to even the most irreligious or most careless among us, the words, under the influences of our situation, come fraught withhomely inspiration. 

Later, we are rowing back home with the tide. But we carry with usrenewed hope and energy for our daily toil; for we have had, as it were, a foretaste of what is to be ours, some day, not so very far hence. We, too, shall have a home like that, as a reward for years of toil andhardship. And, God willing, it shall be graced for each of us with awife like--_her_. 

CHAPTER XII. 

A PIG-HUNT. 

It is a beautiful morning in March, when an unusually large partyassembles at "our shanty. " The sun is just rising, and is not yetvisible above the sheltering ranges which hem in the central flat thatforms the farm. The sky is cloudless, the air still and fragrant withthe odours of the awakening woods. 

Day-dawn is always the most beautiful time in New Zealand. It isespecially so on this occasion, for a few showers had refreshed thethirsty earth on the previous day; and to us, as we emerge from ourblankets eager with expectation, all Nature seems to wear a fresher andmore blooming aspect. 

Half a mile below the shanty rolls the river, broad and blue, while thewooded shore opposite seems scarcely a stone's throw distant. The smokecurls lazily up from the fire within the shanty, where men arebreakfasting and girding themselves for the fray. 

Outside on the clearings the hum of the crickets is as yet scarcelyperceptible, but a party of turkeys can be seen advancing across thegrass in line of battle, commencing their day's onslaught on the insecttribes. Cattle and sheep, pigs and poultry, have withdrawn from theimmediate neighbourhood of the shanty, and are assembled in groups at arespectful distance, wondering and frightened at the unusual gatheringof the human species. 

For with the sun come settlers and Maoris from all sides, some broughtby boats and canoes upon the river, some galloping on horseback alongthe beach, others on foot struggling through the woods and across theranges on either hand, all converging upon the shanty with shoutingsalutations, that are responded to with loudly demonstrated welcome. 

A rough and wild-looking assemblage we are, I make no doubt, yet fittingwell into the foreground of the scene, with its rude and incipientcivilization insulting the dominant wildness of Nature all around. Longbefore the sun has had time to climb above the ranges our muster iscomplete, and a larger party assembled than a stranger would imagine itpossible to gather from so sparsely populated a district. Some thirty, settlers and their workmen, are there, together with about twice as manynatives. 

All are equipped for the hunt in the lightest possible marchingorder--shirt, trousers and belt, boots and leggings, with an apology fora hat to crown the whole--such is the costume; a sheath-knife andtomahawk the weapons; with a store of food, tobacco and matches, toprovide against all emergencies--such is the provision. Our nativeallies are attired in much the same guise, only slightly more ragged anddirty--if that be possible--and, generally speaking, barefooted. Theyare in a state of suppressed excitement, shown by their gleaming eyesand teeth, and in their wild exclamations and gestures. 

And I must not forget the most important members of the huntingparty--the dogs. Some two dozen have been collected for the occasion, most of them belonging to Maoris; of no particular breed, but all largeand heavy, strong-jawed and supple-limbed animals, wolfish-lookingfierce creatures, but all more or less trained to the work before them. Good pig-dogs are not easily met with, and in the bush they are esteemeda prize. Our lot are a scratch pack, made up of any that can be inducedto seize a pig, and have weight sufficient to hold on to him; a few arethought to be more experienced and capable. 

The men, on assembling, mostly go into the shanty to get somebreakfast, in the shape of tea, bread, smoked fish and pork, and thenstraggle about the place, smoking, chatting, and waiting for the orderto start. Picture the rough grassy slopes, covered with the standingstumps among the new grass, the rude shanty in the middle of the lowerground, as I have described it, the background of bush-covered heights, with the sun just coming up from behind them into the brilliant sky; andpeople this scene with the groups of men--Maori and Pakeha, uncouth inappearance as the shaggy cattle that are looking on from a corner of theclearing, or as the clumsy-looking but savage dogs that roam about, orare held in leash by their owners. Such is a "meet" in the bush. 

"Rather a different affair from the last meet of the Pytchley that youand I rode to, " remarks one brawny, blue-shirted and ankle-jacked giantto another, as they squat on a log, comfortably enjoying an early whiffof "Venus" from their short, black clays. 

"What would they say at home, if they could see us now?" replies hisfriend, pushing back the battered relic of a "topee" from his unkempthair and somewhat dirty face. Truly, the pair would scarcely appear toadvantage in an English huntingfield, in their present trim. 

And now, while the last preparations are being made for the start, letus see what it is we are about to attack. The New Zealand wild pig ofthe present day is the descendant of animals introduced by Captain Cookand other of the early voyagers from the old countries. These peoplegave pigs to the natives with whom they opened intercourse, and theMaoris, not being used to live stock, lost a good many of their newacquisitions, which ran away into the bush and easily eluded pursuit inits dense coverts. Here they bred and multiplied to such a degree thatimmense droves of them are now to be found in all parts of the islands. In the fern-root and other roots of the bush they find an endless supplyof food, which, if it does not tend to make their meat of good quality, at any rate seems to favour an increase in their numbers. 

Whatever may have been the original breed of these animals, the presentrepresentatives of the race are neither particularly good-looking oruseful. They are lank and lean, with large heads and high shoulders, narrow, spiny backs sloping downwards to the short hind legs; hams theyhave none. They are thickly covered with bristles, and are mostly black, brown, and grizzled in colour. The mass of them are not large, but thepatriarchal boars attain a great size, some of them standing over threefeet in height. These fellows have enormous tusks curling on each sideof their massive jaws, sharp as razors and strong as crowbars. 

Wild pigs are usually shy, and keep well out of the way of humaninvaders of their solitudes; but boars have occasionally been known to"tree" some incautious wayfarer, while, when hunted, they becomeexceedingly ferocious. One of our stockmen, out riding on open ground, was attacked by a boar that suddenly rushed upon him from a thicket; hishorse was ripped up in a moment, and he only escaped by nimbly climbinginto a tree that was fortunately near. 

In hunting the pigs it is necessary to go afoot, on account of thedensity of the bush, and accidents sometimes occur. Some dogs are sureto be killed; while now and then a too rash hunter may get the calf ofhis leg torn off, and might be otherwise injured, even fatally, though Inever knew of any case of so grave a nature. 

Settlers regard wild pigs as vermin, only made to be exterminated; andthey have, I think, considerable reason for their hatred. The pigs arecapable of doing a great deal of damage. Fences must be strongly andclosely put up to keep them out, and they must be continually examinedand carefully repaired when necessary; for one rotten stake in a fencehas often been the cause of a loss of great magnitude. In a singlenight the wild pigs may devastate many acres, if they once gainadmittance, and destroy tons of potatoes, maize, or any sort of crop. 

But there is also another way in which they are prejudicial to thefarmer, and peculiarly so to the newer settler. I have said that theyare excessively lean and ill-shaped beasts, and I may add that theirflesh is not only very tough, but it also has a strong smell, and apeculiarly nauseous flavour. The old pigs, both male and female, areabsolutely uneatable in any part, though very young sows are appreciatedby the Maoris--when they cannot get domestic-bred pork--and are eaten ona pinch by settlers and bushmen, whose vigorous appetites overcome allfastidiousness. 

Pork--fresh and salted, bacon and ham--is the natural and invariablefood of the settler. Beef and mutton are too valuable as marketablesteers, dairy cattle, and wool-growers, and are not so convenientlyprepared into keeping forms; hence the pigs he breeds on his clearingsare looked upon by the bush-farmer as the regular source whence to drawhis household provision in the meat way. Now, if the wild boars out ofthe bush get among the brood sows upon the clearings, the result isdeplorably manifest in the next generation, which will display more orless of the evil characteristics of the wild race. Thus, both the olderfarmer and the newest settler are nearly touched, and both unite in acommon warfare with the enemy. 

It is often possible to stalk down and to shoot individual wild pigs onopen ground, but that is looked upon merely as a cheerful interlude ofsport; it has no deterrent or scaring effect upon the bulk of thedroves, and is a waste of time, so far as regards the clearance of adistrict. A grand and well-organized drive, such as that we are about tosee, will often result in not a single wild pig being visible in thedistrict for six months and more afterwards. It is good sport, too; veryarduous, since the hunter has to run and scramble through miles offorest. It has in it a good spice of danger, such as Britons love, andis, on the whole, pretty popular. Pig-hunting may be described as a sortof national sport in New Zealand. 

But here is Old Colonial issuing from the shanty, and a start seemsimminent. The plan of campaign has been arranged between him and MihakeTekerahi, the Maori, and another settler from a neighbouring river. Thestraggling groups of men and dogs are divided into three bodies, two ofwhich will proceed to right and left respectively, and the third will godirectly "back" from the farm. All the parties will become subdividedinto smaller gangs, in the course of the day, but all will converge upona given point in the bush, which will be the limit of the hunt. 

The block of land on which we are lies between three large rivers, and, owing to the conformation of the country and the winding of the rivers, its fourth side is a narrow neck of land not more than a mile and a halfwide. Here there is a very lofty and rugged range, and it is the spotagreed on as our final rendezvous, being some fifteen miles distant fromour shanty. 

Besides the men who have met at the farm, there are several parties whowill start from more distant places, and who will also make for therange as their terminal point. We hope, by this concentrated drive, tokill as many pigs as possible, and to cause the rest of them to retirebeyond the narrow space between the rivers; then the whole of our blockwill be free from them for some time to come. We have thought of runninga fence across from river to river, but the rough nature of the ground, and the absence of suitable material quite close to the required spot, would make this rather too arduous--and therefore too expensive--a workfor us to perform just yet, in our incipient stage of settlement. So wecontent ourselves with an annual hunt on a grand and conjoint scale, and with such minor forays as it pleases individuals to make from timeto time. 

Our way at first--I speak of the band which regards Old Colonial as itschief director--lies up the clearings, through the bush above, and so tothe elevated ground behind the shanty. Here a halt is called, and ourband is again subdivided into two divisions, which are to take along thetwo ranges that commence from this point, hunting the gullies on bothsides of them as they go. Then there is a loud fire of coo-ees, toascertain the position of the brigades that started under Mihake and theother man. Their answering coo-ees come faintly but clearly out of thedistant bush on both sides of us, denoting that they have severallyreached their appointed starting places. 

And now the work begins in earnest. There is a tightening of belts, aputting out of pipes, and a general air of alertness on every face. Fora time we go plunging on among the trees and brushwood, encouraging thedogs that are hunting the gullies below with frequent shouts of "Hi, there, Rimu! Go in, Shark!" and so forth. We have not yet started anypigs, though here and there we pass tracts of ground ploughed up bythem. 

But, soon, there is a sudden burst of barking from the right, and someof us rush frantically off in that direction. But the loud voice of OldColonial is heard calling in the dogs and shouting--

"Ware cattle! Ware cattle! Keep back there, it's Red Spot's mob!"

And presently, with flying tails and tossing horns, a score of greatbeasts go lumbering and crashing by, pursued by that ill-conditionedShark, who never will remember his duty, and persists in chasing pigswhen his business is to be after cattle, and so, to-day, is earnestlyand conscientiously driving cattle when he ought to give his mind onlyto pigs. 

All the roaring and swearing that goes ringing through the trees onlyserves to convince Shark that he is in the right; and he is only stoppedin his wild career by the fortunate fact that the Saint, who has laggedfar in the rear, steps in the way, cajoles Shark into listening to hisadvice, and, with a big stick and a few of the most gorgeous expletivesof which he is eminently the master, persuades the errant hound of hismistake. Deep and dire are the maledictions heaved at the unhappy Shark, and in which his companions, Rimu and Toto, Wolf and Katipo, haveunjustly to share. For the row occasioned by the episode has been enoughto scare away all the pigs in the district; or, as a Maori near memysteriously phrases it, "Make te tam poaka runny kanui far hihi!"--asentence that I put on record, as a specimen of the verbal excesses towhich education may lead the once untutored savage. 

However, the most knowing may sometimes be mistaken, and so it luckilyproves in the present instance, for scarcely have we recovered from ourdisgust at Shark's misconduct, and resumed our hunting operations, thanagain the canine music breaks merrily out, followed by shouts in a dozenvoices of--

"Pig! pig! Lay up there, dogs! Good dogs! Lay up there, Rimu, Rimu, Toto! At 'em, boys! At 'em! Lay up! Pig! pig!"

And then the hot excitement seizes upon us all, and, as we hear theunmistakable grunting, squealing, and hough-houghing of pigs, we plungemadly down to the scene of action. It is no time for considering one'ssteps; we go straight for the point where the noise leads us, crashingagainst trees, stumbling over logs, regardless of every obstacle. Wepitch headlong into holes hidden by treacherous banks of ferns; we swingover little precipices by the help of supple-jacks and lianes; we pressthrough thorny bush-lawyers, heedless of the rags and skin we leavebehind us; we splash through mud and water up to our waists; hot andbreathless, torn and bleeding, bruised and muddy, we come tumbling, crashing, plunging, bounding down the sides of the gully, mad with thefierce excitement of the moment. 

A number of pigs are rushing wildly about among the flax and fern-trees, not knowing which way to escape. The dogs are at them gallantly, seizingthem by the ears, laying up against them flank to flank, and holding onlike grim death. The din is terrific, every one is shoutingencouragement to the dogs, or to himself; the pigs are squealing andcrying as only pigs can. 

Half a dozen dogs have fastened on to as many pigs, growling andworrying, but holding fast in spite of the twisting and shaking of theirprey, in spite of the clashing of tusks and the savage snorting of oneor two boars among the drove, in spite of being dragged and scrapedthrough brushwood and timber, keeping always flank to flank with thepigs they hold, like good dogs as they are. 

I see Old Colonial bounding on before me, after a huge pig that isdragging the great dog on his ear as a bull-dog would drag a rat in asimilar position. The pig heads up the bank, but Old Colonial is uponhim; he grabs at a hind leg and seizes it with both hands. 

He is down, and is also dragged on his face for a moment; but he stillkeeps his grip in spite of kicking and struggling; keeps a firm, hardhold, regardless of the bruises and scratches he is getting; neverleaves go till he gets his opportunity, till he can put foot to theground; and then, with one mighty heave, over goes the pig on his back. Then triumphantly does Old Colonial put his knee on the boar's belly, calmly he presses back the snout with one hand, while, in the other, hisknife glitters for a moment in the sunshine, and is then driven wellhome. 

In another minute, with Old Colonial's whoop of victory ringing in myears, I, too, am engaged. A great, heavy sow passes close before me, with Katipo tearing at her ear. Simultaneously a couple of Maoris andmyself charge after her. One of them stops behind to tomahawk such ofher litter as he can catch; the other man and I hurl ourselves down uponthe animal, after chasing her a hundred yards or so among the scrub. 

I seize at a leg and am thrown violently to the ground, getting a kickin the face that sets my nose bleeding. The Maori comes to my aid andgets a hold, and together we are rolled over on the ground. 

Alas! we have not between us Old Colonial's knack and activity, nor arewe endowed with muscles of such steely fibre. We keep our clutchdeterminedly, desperately, and we are flung and bumped among thetree-roots and brushwood. The pig is screaming like a hundred railwayengines; kicking, plunging, stamping, tearing, twisting from side toside in a vain endeavour to rid herself of us, or to get at us withthose formidable jaws; shaking Katipo--a big mastiff-like cur--about, asa cat would shake a mouse. But still we two men hold on to that hind legof hers, careless of our hurts, prone on our faces, but straining everymuscle to keep the grip. Presently we get a chance; together we get ourknees upon a log, together we put our backs into the effort, and heave. Over she goes. 

Hurrah! On to her at once! Sit on her belly and keep her down! Nevermind the kicking legs in the air! Get a hand between the strugglingforelegs, gently, along the neck! Now then, out with the readysheath-knife, and dig it in! There! Right to the heart, till the bloodspurts out over us! Hurrah! Good! There's another mother of a family theless!

And now we may take breath for a minute or two, praise old Katipo, andcut off the pig's ears as a trophy. Only for the shortest possibleminute, though, for the hunt is going on with headlong haste and hurry. We must be up and off after more pigs, and must rejoin the rest of thescattered party, whose shouts may be heard in various directions; theremust be no loitering when pigs are near, for _they_ will not wait, wemay be sure. 

As we run and scramble on through the scrub, making way upwards alongthe gully, we pass several dead pigs at intervals, which show that therest of the boys have been well employed. Presently we come upon theSaint, in the midst of a gloomy thicket of birch, sitting astride of agreat dead boar, and employed with his tomahawk in endeavouring to chopout the tusks. 

Then Katipo discovers a small family of pigs comfortably stowed awayamong the dense vegetation of a little marshy hollow. These give thethree of us some diversion; we manage to kill two of them, and drive outthe remainder upwards through the bush. Following them up hotly forabout a mile, Katipo lays hold of one after another, which we turn overand stick as we can, killing two or three more in this way. 

But the work is very arduous, and the day is wearing towards noon, andis consequently very hot--March being here equivalent to an EnglishSeptember, but much warmer and drier. We are dripping with sweat, ourshirts torn and muddied, blood all over us--both pigs' and our own--andwe feel well-nigh exhausted for the time being by the tremendous andviolent exertions we have been making. 

After the next pig is finally, and with desperate fighting, slaughtered, there seems to be a general tacit advance towards taking a rest. Katipoand another dog that we have picked up have taken to lapping at thecreek in the gully, and laying themselves down near the stream, seeminclined for a brief snooze. The two Maoris are hacking at some nikaus, and extracting the pith therefrom; and the Saint and I think it well todo likewise. 

After munching away at the refreshing stuff for a considerable while, weguiltily put on our pipes; guiltily, for we know that our earnestleader, Old Colonial, will persevere with unflagging zeal and untiringenergy, and will continue the chase without a moment's cessation. Manyof the settlers will do the same, though probably but few of thenatives, for they have not a fine power of endurance, and it pleasesthem usually to do things by spurts. 

However, we are all the better for the temporary relaxation, and pursueour course with renewed vigour. We have now reached the recesses of theheavy forest, after passing through various gradations of lighter bush. Here and there, on our way, we have come across stretches of openfern-land; but in this district bush is the most prevalentcharacteristic of the vegetation. 

Now and then we come upon some gully or flat that has been fired at someprevious period, either by Maoris or settlers. These old burns are nowcovered with a dense and uniform jungle of ti-tree second-growth, through which it is often not easy to pass. The cane-like stems of theyoung ti-tree grow close together, like a field of corn, bearing afeathery green foliage and a white flower, and having a pleasantbalsamic odour. High above the soft green surface of the second-growthare lifted the bleached trunks and skeleton arms of dead trees, standinggaunt and grim at intervals among the younger growths below. 

These ti-tree coverts afford very close harbourage for pigs. In thempigs may hide so well that the hunter might touch them before he sawthem; nay, cattle even may hide as closely. Through the ti-tree therefrequently run narrow paths, or irregular tracks, worn by pigs andcattle; and, as the wayfarer passes along any one of these tracks, hehas the pleasant excitement of knowing that at any moment he may comeface to face with a boar, in a position where the boar naturally has allthe advantage, if he chooses to avail himself of it. 

In the course of the day our little party makes way onward through thebush, in the direction of the general rendezvous. Occasionally we startup pigs, sometimes losing them, and sometimes getting one or two; butthe details of the capture and sticking of those we manage to catch donot differ very much from the account already given, except that we havenot killed any pigs of particularly large size. 

About noon, or somewhat after, we make a decided halt for the purpose ofgetting our dinners, of which we begin to feel very much in need. Unhappily, no one has brought a tin pannikin along with him, so wecannot make ourselves any tea; but we light a fire at the bottom of ashady gully, beside some running water, and commence to cook our repast. 

Each man has got his little parcel of bread or biscuit and meat, tied upfirmly in flax, and fastened to his belt; but besides this, the bush isaffording us other kinds of tucker. Katipo killed a kiwi in the courseof our morning's hunt, and this bird is now being skinned, cut up, androasted on sticks. We wish it had been a weka, or bush-hen, as that ismore succulent eating; but we have hearty appetites, and will do justiceto the kiwi, anyhow. 

Then the Maoris have cut out the livers of a couple of young pigs, andthese are toasted in strips, and are not such bad eating after all. Byway of desert we have some berries from the trees around, that provevery nice. 

After our appetites are satisfied, and the digestive pipe duly smoked, we resume our hunting operations. But luck is no longer with us, andwhen, after walking and scrambling for two or three miles, and feelingthat the time is fast slipping by, we do come upon pigs, we getseparated in the chase that ensues, and I find myself very shortly afterthat completely alone. 

I keep walking on, however, in the direction I judge will bring me outupon the place of assembly; and, after an hour or two, I begin to hearsounds of life. I am on somewhat high ground, which gradually slopesdownward in the direction I am taking. It is all heavy bush in thispart; huge trees, covered with ferns and creepers, soar upwards on allsides. The sunlight falls in patches here and there, through the canopyof branches far overhead, and occasionally there occur little glades anddells and openings, quite open to the light. 

Below the great trees are many smaller ones, among which I noticenikau-palms, cabbage-palms, fern-trees, and tingahere, attracting theeye with their stranger forms. Below these, again, is a thick jungle ofshrubs of many species, masses of creeping-plants matting the bushestogether, or depending from the trees and ferns in infinite profusionand luxuriance. 

The late afternoon sun is slanting from behind me, so that when its raysshoot through the branches they light up the scenes in front, and thusthe picture I presently witness comes before me with proper artisticeffect. I hear sounds of life coming through the trees in advance ofme--the sounds of men shouting and yelling in excitement; the noise ofdogs barking and yelping; and through it and above it all, clearer andclearer heard as I run hastily forward, the horrid hoarse"hough-hough"--that sound so hollow and booming as heard in the "echoingwoods, "--with the sharper metallic clashing of savage jaws, that I knowcan only proceed from some patriarchal boar. 

A minute later and I come out upon the scene of action. It is acomparatively open glade, surrounded on all sides by the dense forest, and having, near the opposite extremity, a small, abruptly-rising knoll, that is crowned by a single gigantic rata-tree. The little glade is fullof unwonted life; nigh a score of the hunting party, and eight or tendogs, are making things pretty lively within it. 

The cause of all the uproar and excitement is seen among the spreadingand massive roots of the rata; it is a boar, one of the largest any ofus ever saw, and he is now "bailed up" below the great tree. 

To say that he seems as big as a donkey but feebly expresses theapparent size of the beast. His stern is set back against the tree; butthe mighty and ferocious head is turned full upon his foes. Everybristle on his crest stands erect with rage. The small but fierce eyestake in every movement, and survey dogs and men with desperate andfiend-like animosity. The long snout is pointed straight forward, showing the gleaming teeth below it, while the great tusks, curving upfrom the jaws, shine like scimitars. 

Nor is the huge brute one moment still; his fore-feet are pawing andtearing at the ground; his head is turned first in one direction andthen in another; his whole body is quivering and shaking; foam fliesfrom his grinding jaws; while his continued snorting, with its roaring, bellowing, and shrieking intonations, is horrible to hear. 

Yet as this savage king of the forest stands there at bay, there is asomething grand and majestic about him, something of barbaric andunconquerable pride and courage, despite his demoniac and ogre-likeugliness; but, I am afraid, no one sees anything but a big fierce pig, who must be slaughtered as speedily and cleverly as possible. 

Most of the men keep at a respectful distance, not caring to get tooclose to those formidable tusks; but they are actively employed inshouting and brandishing knives and tomahawks. Close in front of thepig, amid a whirling circle of barking dogs, Old Colonial, O'Gaygun, andone or two Maoris appear to be performing an exciting kind of war-dance. They are endeavouring to urge in the dogs, and are trying to draw thepig out from among the tree-roots; while, at the same time, they arespringing actively about in order to avoid each fancied and expectedrush of the boar. 

But the boar is not to be drawn out from among the high branching rootsthat protect his flanks and stern. At every near approach of dog or manhe feints to charge, lowering and tossing his head, uttering yet fiercernotes of wrath, or tearing up the ground, and sending splinters flyingfrom the tree with blows from his tusks; such threatening movements onhis part effectually deterring his foes in their advance. Sticks andstones, large and weighty, are hurled at him from all sides. What doeshe care for such puny projectiles? Even a well-aimed tomahawk, thatstrikes him full and fairly, fails to hurt or penetrate his armour ofbristles and tough hide. Like Achilles, his weak place is in hisheels--his rear, and that is well protected behind him. 

But another foeman to the swinish champion now appears upon the scene. Aman, whom I have come close to in the hurry-skurry, suddenly calls tome--

"Look at old Tama up there behind the tree!" Then he shouts instentorian delight--

"Te toa rere, te toa mahuta! Go it, Tama, old boy! Hopu te poaka! Jumpin and kill him!"

Looking up at the great trunk of the rata, with its extensive pedestalof gnarled and twisting roots, that for six or eight feet from theground branch down all round its base, I see peering round the stem, andfrom above the roots, a face that I know well; it is that ofTama-te-Whiti. He has made a circuit, got behind the tree, and is nowclimbing over and among the extended roots, cautiously and silentlystealing upon the pig, with intent to drive it out of the cover of thetree. 

Old Tama's grey hair hangs loosely over his brows; his elaboratetattooing looks unusually conspicuous; his arms are bare to theshoulder; and, as he gradually draws himself into our view, we see hisbody is almost bare, except a few fluttering rags of shirt that stillremain about him. The other day I saw Tama at the township, elaboratelyattired in black broadcloth and white linen and all the rest of it, looking a perfect picture of smug respectability and aged innocence. Now here he is, grasping a tomahawk in his sinewy hand, with a knifeheld between his teeth, and--albeit 'tis only a boar he isattacking--with a fire dancing in his eyes like that which shone therein his hot youth, when, here in these self-same woods, he and the youngbraves of his tribe met in deadly conflict with the invading Ngapuhi. 

The boar is unconscious of Tama's approach; he is occupied with hisadversaries in front, who are redoubling their efforts to attract hisattention. And at this moment another of the hunters is seized with anheroic impulse. 

It has at last come home to the mind of that impetuous and muchobjurgated dog, Shark, that his destiny in life is to be a boar-hound. Hitherto, his experience of the manners and customs of pigs has not beengreat; but the conviction has come to him that he knows all about thebusiness; and, too, he is probably anxious to retrieve his disgracefulconduct of the morning. Shark is a fresh arrival on the scene, havingjust come in with one of the straggling parties. He is not contented tojoin his canine companions, who are warily waiting their opportunity todash in on the boar's flanks and rear; but, like all high-couraged andimpetuous youth, Shark dashes, barking, to the front, and blindly, quixotically, and madly, he charges on the boar. 

Alas! poor dog! great as was his bravery, his size, his strength, whatcould they avail in such foolhardy strife? One jerk of the black snout, one flash of the white tusks, and, with a last yelping scream, the bodyof poor Shark goes whirling up into the air, and falls a bleeding, bisected, lifeless lump. Poor Shark! with all his faults, I think weloved him well!

But even in his death he is avenged. The boar darted a few feet forwardin his onslaught upon Shark, and the opportunity has been seized upon. The war-cry of the Ngatewhatua goes echoing through the forest, as oldTama springs down in rear of the boar; his swinging tomahawk inflicts agaping wound, and he seizes a hind leg of the pig before that animal canback itself among the roots. 

Other Maoris, Old Colonial, and more of the party rush to his aid. Dogsseize on the boar's bleeding ears. For a minute there is a scene ofdireful confusion, an indescribable struggle in which men, dogs, and pigare mingled in a twisting, shouting, panting, wrestling heap. Anotherdog gets his flank slit up, a man has his legging and trouser torn offhis leg, and then the giant brute is conquered. Overturned andshrieking, kicking, biting, struggling desperately to the last, tillhalf a dozen knives are buried in his heart. 

With the slaughter of the monster boar the day's hunt comes to an end. The spot is close to the rendezvous, and most of the parties havearrived, or are not far off. There is an interchange of gossip over thedoings of the day among the various groups; and, by-and-by, a count upof the number of pigs killed. Ears and tails are produced as vouchers, and about three hundred and fifty pigs, big and little, are thusaccounted for, while half a dozen pair of tusks, of more than ordinarysize, denote the killing of as many large boars. The tusks from the lastslain monster become the property of Old Colonial, and, gaily mounted insilver, they may now be found among the ornaments of an Englishdrawing-room. 

But now evening is upon us, and many of the party are tramping homewardsin divers directions through the bush. Others make their way to a pointon one of the rivers, a mile or so from the rendezvous, where boats havebeen brought up, and whence they will have a long row to their variousplaces. But by far the greater number are too much fagged out with theexertions of the day to move from their present resting-places. 

So a camp is formed in a suitable spot, and one or two of the leasttired set about getting some supper ready, and gather fern forbedding. And when night deepens overhead, and the shadows of the forestfold round us, recumbent forms are stretched around the roaringcamp-fire; supper, rude and rough, but hearty, has been eaten, pipes arelighted, and while some are snoring, others are lazily recounting theirdoughty deeds, and enjoying to the full the well-earned rest that fitlyterminates a pig-hunt in the bush. 

END OF VOL. I.