ferry at the other end of the hike, where is situated the exit of the Pukaki River.
As we scraped over the sandy shallows and pushed off into deep-green water, my heart sank within me at the idea of having to cross the lake in its present rough state (for a strong nor'-wester was blowing) in our frail canoes, which were not built in watertight compartments, and were quite unsuited for the work. Every ten minutes or so I would have to stop paddling and bale for dear life with the lid of the 'billy,' and the craft would immediately swing round broadside on to the seas, which seemed to do their best to upset her.
At first we kept edging away for the southern shore, and about half-way down the lake succeeded in getting within reasonable swimming distance, which, to a certain extent, we retained for a short time.
In the distance we could make out the island close to the ferry, with some trees on it, and from our direction there appeared to be but three. My thoughts at once flew back to the island on the Lake of Geneva, which Byron has immortalised in his 'Prisoner of Chillon,' and on which poor Bonnivard would gaze with sadness and yearning for freedom and life.
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view.
A small green isle, it seemed no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor;
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze.
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing
Of gentle breath and hue.
