of the women said to me: “It’s almost the same thing as having neighbours and living in town; we can talk to each other in the evenings—they let us keep the wire as long as we like. Oh, I don’t mind the bush now we’ve got the telephone!”
But the afternoon sun was drawing towards the west, and we mounted once more, and rode away on the lonely road skirting the foot-hills that always reminded me of the coast of a yellow sea. Here it was part marshland, part good grazing—surely when the plain is drained it will wave with golden crops and raise the finest cattle in the West. Late that evening we came to Lake Whahapo—a silver mirror, where a crested grebe made its slow way across in an ever-widening V of ripples. Tiny lamps of phosphorescent light glowed under the ferns that bordered the track—tired as I was, the peace and beauty of it all held me in its spell. Just as it grew dark we reached the Forks Inn. There was light enough to make out the stables across the road, and to recognize Mr. Heveldt, the host, who came and led away the horses, while his jolly Irish wife gave us hearty welcome. It was a merry household, and as Transome washed at a tin basin in the kitchen, I could hear peals of laughter as she entertained him the while—interlarding her remarks with threats to “Kill Baby Franz Josef, if he wasn’t a good boy!” She called the baby after the glacier—not the Emperor.
All night a torrent outside roared and tumbled. Whenever I awoke I heard its never-ceasing voice
