When I got a horse, my journey then on leaving the beach was up the river beds. On the Greenstone trip, the Teremakau had to be crossed no less than four times. The first and second fords were the worst, the bottom being very rough, with large and slippery boulders, and strong current. The second ford was the most dangerous, the river being ten feet deep in the middle, for ten or twelve yards, necessitating a swim. Each time I came to this ford, I looked at the opposite bank, and wondered if I would be fortunate enough to reach it. My horse—good little Nobby— evidently knew the danger as well as his master. As we reached the ford, he would cock his ears, and carefully feel his way, until he found the water over his back, when he would put forth his utmost strength, I keeping a gentle pressure on the rein, and his head well up stream, until he regained his foot-hold. Poor little Nobby, he was a good and faithful servant. When I gave over my perilous journeys he was sold to a butcher, and came to an untimely end, being killed by falling down a digger’s shaft.
