CHAPTER VII.
THE HAAST PASS.
Gone are the forest tracks, where oft we rode
Under the silver fern fronds climbing slow,
In cool, green tunnels, though fierce noontide glowed
And glittered on the tree-tops far below.
There, ’mid the stillness of the mountain road,
We just could hear the valley river flow,
Whose voice through many a windless summer day
Haunted the silent woods, now passed away.
My ferryman rode with me half a mile along a bit of newly-made road. He stopped in front of a house with wide verandah; a path led up to the door between gooseberry bushes and rambler roses, and immediately across the road the bush closed in once more, but for several acres round the house it had been burnt, and rich green grass grew between the blackened stumps. Here and there a giant totara or a rimu that had survived the fire, threw a pleasant shade for the cows and the many calves that strayed about. The house itself was scarcely finished, just a farm in the making, wrenched from what had been a few years back, dense bush. At the gate my guide, as a matter of course, lifted me off my horse; his brother Mr. Cron came to meet me from the house, while his wife stood smiling a welcome from the verandah. Introductions don’t take long on the Coast, but they were exceedingly
