taxed to its utmost: that men would have to sleep in dining-rooms—even in bath-rooms and passages—while women and babies filled the upper rooms. Somehow, there was a spare room for me—somehow, we had a good supper, and not one of the crowd but was made welcome. The congestion was all due to the Westland Railway terminus booking everybody who wanted a Christmas ticket to Christchurch—without any regard to the number it was possible to convey. At that time the railway on the west only reached as far as Otira, some sixteen miles from this, while the eastern section stopped at Broken River, at least as far away again in the opposite direction. Between the two lay the long coach drive, across rivers unfordable for foot passengers; up and down over the ranges, which would one day all be tunnelled and the lines connected. But that happy day was still in the future, and here was a crowd of thirty odd, dumped on the top of the Bealey, while their friends waited for them in Christchurch. Four coach loads had already gone; some of the men had walked, and the rest must wait till the coaches returned. Yet not one of them was grumbling—they only praised the kindness of the hotel in providing for their wants, and sat about, chatting and laughing, nursing their babies.
We made up our minds to go on next day, and, fortunately for us, the weather proved fine.
We crossed the Waimakariri in safety, getting a beautiful view of snow mountains and glaciers
