CHAPTER VII
WESTLAND
Could tints be deeper, skies less dim,
More soft and fair,
Jewelled with milk-white clouds that swim
In fairest air?
The soft moss sleeps upon the stone,
Green tendrils of the scrub vine zone,
The dead grey trunks and boulders red.
Roofed by the pine and carpeted
With maidenhair.
But far and near, o'er each, o'er all.
Above, below.
Hangs the great silence like a pall
Softer than snow.
At 4 a.m. on February 2nd a shadowy party assembled for breakfast in the dim light of the Hermitage dining-room—Mr. Earle, his cousin, Jack Clark, Peter Graham, Mr. Frind, and myself. Mr. Earle's party were off up the Tasman Glacier and we for the Copland Pass. It was a merry breakfast in spite of the ungodly hour. Professor Spencer, in scanty attire, graced its end, and with much handshaking and wishes of good luck we took our separate routes at 4.30 a.m.
The morning was perfect, and the well-known way up the Hooker gained a new charm at that early hour. The rising sun flushed the cold mountains to life and outlined the far blue foothills against a sea of crimson and gold.
