all of us were off ashore, and kits and sacks went with us. I have no space, and I should like to imagine that I had the power, to describe that rare ramble. We peered down from the low cliffs through black boughs of pohutukawa trees, still starred here and there with blood-red blossoms, upon the great, green, glassy combers that rolled majestically inshore, to slip suddenly over, as they neared the yellow sand, in long crashing waterfalls of snow. We scrambled through undergrowth, fought through “lawyer,” waded through fern, jumped little creeks, apostrophised supple-jacks, and from time to time kept coming out upon some unexpected open glade. Green grass would spread it with the softest carpet, and in the middle of the grass there would be a tree or two, perhaps a little grove of trees, with the rosy gold of ripe peaches glowing between the leaves.
The early missionaries, I was told, had planted these trees, which now, in the little clearings from which all other sign of human occupancy has long since departed, still flourish faithfully, and bear fruit. “Missionary,” in the North Island is frequently an alternative spelling for “sweet-brier,” which is a pest. As a matter of mere justice, therefore, I am glad to take this opportunity of pointing out that it can also spell “peaches,” which are not. We found apple-trees, too, figs, and plums along the coast, all planted by the same long-quiet hands, and grapes, I was told, later in the year might be had also for the gathering.
One very pleasant half hour of the afternoon was spent in repairing our friend Mrs. Quin, the valiant struggle of whose fourteen stone or so through the
