Several horses, with remarkably long tails, stood patiently waiting beside a puriri tree a little way along the beach—the owners had ridden in from their scattered homes at the first word of the Tikirau’s approach; many of the women squatted in conversational groups upon the sand, and puffed at short black pipes; the younger men helped to bear the packages up the beach, the elders looked on and gave advice, and there was much excitement on the part of many dogs, of course including ours. The little Tikirau, riding so peacefully out yonder, had sent ashore quite a stir.
It was good to see that, with scarcely an exception, the children seemed to be in the best and bonniest of health; they were well-formed, well-grown, and plump. But among the grown men and women the ravages of tuberculosis were, alas! only too evident. One face I vividly remember. It was that of an old man. Pitifully emaciated, wrapt in a thick blanket for all the sunshine, which was by this time cloudless, and leaning over a stick, he stood a little aside from his active, eager neighbours and with hazel eyes paled by mortal sickness gazed wistfully, not at them, not at the bounty-bearing Tikirau, but away out over the empty sea to the void horizon—and beyond. Still in life, already he was not of it.
While the unloading, the squaring of accounts, and other general business thus proceeded on the beach, I took a tour round the settlement, Te Kaha by name. It was an excellent example of the type general upon that coast, therefore a brief description of it will be economical and save words about the rest. Its public buildings were three in number—
