hemmed in by bush, then we came to clearings. There were good grass-paddocks, with big trees left at intervals, and sleek cattle standing and lying down in the shade. Beyond that was the forest, closed in by purple mountains, and in the foreground some substantial outbuildings, painted red. Then the homestead, with the original little cottage standing close by. I walked up to the door, where flowers grew bright and gay on either side; and when I knocked, it was opened to me by a lady with a very puzzled face. But in a moment it changed to one of welcome, and she was pressing us to come in, and bustling about getting tea ready. She sent for her husband—Irish like herself. “What’s this you’re giving them?” said he; “where’s the whisky? Is it tea ye would be setting before them?” However, I was allowed to have my tea, and we sat for half an hour, hearing of the old days when they took up the uncleared land, and how they brought up their large family, all now married and settled. We talked of the old country, too, but they both said this was the better—yet there was a wistfulness as the old man spoke of that other green west coast so far away. “A man has a chance to better himself here,” said he, “and something besides his name to leave his children when he’s gone. I wouldn’t go back to the old country if I could—to live there.”
Transome left me here and returned for the horses, as we found we could cross the river now
