And as the soft air fanned the clouds apart, and the sun conquered the mist, blue sky spread above us, and warm beams shot through the trees, waking the forest to a new day. It grew more beautiful as we went on. Sometimes the rocks were of mica, which shelled off in flakes, and then it was like riding down a shining pathway of silver, under trees and ferns all hung with diamonds. The forest parrots resented our intrusion into their solitude, and swooped about our heads with harsh cries. These birds, the ka-kas are slenderer in build and have smaller beaks than their relative, the sheep-killing kea of the eastern slopes. Their brownish-olive and red plumage is so dark it seems black among the trees. The tuis were going mad with delight; cheerful birds, dressed in sober black, with two white feathers at the throat, earning them the name of the “parson-bird.” They whistle two or three notes out of the fulness of joy, and break off to chuckle in the middle. I always wished they would finish a song whose first notes are so delicious, but they never do.
Gradually the fresh, cold air up here waked up our energies, and I began to forget the tired feeling induced by trying to sleep in one’s boots and gaiters in “Mosquito Hut.” When Transome teased me by reviling the forest for its lack of human interest, enough spirit returned to contradict; but, in very truth, that is just what
