A year had passed since we four—the horses and ourselves—had gone on the long trail together, and well they knew when the packs and oilskins were strapped on, it meant long days on the hills, pleasant rests by streams where juicy lush grass grows, and every inn and stopping place was a well-remembered landmark.
Only yesterday we were in the City of the Plains. We had left those sun-scorched yellow plains behind, with their formal clumps of dark fir and light green poplars. At Timaru we changed into a dawdling little train with its toy engine, which brought us the forty miles up among green pasture hills, by a wide valley where wheatfields waved all golden, where we slowed down and threw out Christmas parcels to waiting horsemen, and drew up at little stations where a buggy or two, or a horse tied to the fence, awaited friends coming to spend their Christmas in the country. Nobody hurried, least of all the engine-driver, who frequently had to get down for conversation with his acquaintances, and it took us till seven o’clock to cover forty miles, and we had started at 4.15! The day had been sultry though, fortunately for us, it had been cloudy, and now we felt we were really at the beginning of our journey. All the rest must be done on horseback, and before us was nearly a week of travelling, for we should not try to do more than thirty miles a day. We found the horses looking well and happy in a good grass paddock whither they had been sent some days
