along with apparently wounded wing in front of our bows. It is curious how these birds, especially the large Paradise-duck, all have the habit, even in the most unfrequented solitudes, and will act decoy to get one away from the little ones.
But the tide was turning, and unless we meant to sit six hours on a tide-flat, it was necessary to row across to the harbour.
We were very comfortable in our hotel, and the horses were in a good paddock, and it seemed a pity to hurry away; so we spent three very lazy pleasant days. We explored the foot of the Bluff beyond the signal-station, where the iron-black cliffs overhang a beach strewn with the tumbled fragments of the hills—where even in this calm weather the Pacific chafed and surged relentlessly. Fifty years ago this was the only possible road, and many a life was lost as man and horse struggled to round those Bluffs before the tide came up. Tired out, they stumbled along that inhospitable shore after a hopeless struggle with the equally inhospitable bush, only to find themselves cut off at the Bluff. No escape then from the rushing tide that sent up its long arms and picked off man and beast, and carried them to destruction in the irresistible back-rush.
When we, too, came to beach-riding later on, I always thought of the tales I had heard. Swamps were bad, and rivers were dangerous, but the Pacific was a worse foe than any. Over the Bluff I went one afternoon with the harbour-master’s
