Page:Through South Westland.djvu/147

a bad river is the Haast, and it’ll sweep ye away.” We promised caution, and set forth. We crossed the flat and entered a narrow path where high grasses brushed our knees as we rode past, and every few yards streams ran across it in inverted culverts of punga logs. Now our companion's horse was used to these novel kind of drains and took them in his canter, while ours pulled up at every one they came to, slipping about on the rounded logs, so that we soon were left far behind. However, we got out of this into open country, more like a moor than anything we had seen. The mountains falling back into the distance seemed much lower. The Paringa river was easily crossed, the water but reaching to the saddle-flaps; then on we went across a wilderness of tall flax and scrub, where a bittern rose and flapped away down stream. This bird will stand for hours, his long bill pointed heavenwards, quite invisible among withered grass and reeds—his fawn plumage and darker markings blend so perfectly with his surroundings, hat if he did not rise one would never see him. Here was a little house where dwelt two old brothers, who carried the fortnightly mail on pack-horses to the Haast. One of them was very ill, and I went with our guide to visit him—she had brought him a big bottle of milk and some other things. We found him sitting in the house they built themselves years ago, when they came from County Waterford, and we were soon deep in talk of the Old country.