Doing and Daring A New Zealand Story

It was a glorious autumn day when the New Zealand bush was at its loveliest—as enchanting as if it were the fairy ground of the Southern Ocean, yet so unlike every European forest that weariness seemed banished by its ceaseless variety. Here, the intertwining branches of majestic trees, with leaves of varied hue, shut out the sky and appeared to roof the summer road which wound its devious track towards the hills; there was a rich fern-clad valley, from which the murmuring sound of falling water broke like music on the ear.

Onwards still a little farther, an overgrown creek, gently wandering between steep banks of rich dark fern and graceful palm, came suddenly out of the greenwood into an open space, bounded by a wall of rock, rent by a darkling chasm, where the waters of the creek, tumbling over boulder stone and fallen tree, broadened to a rushing river. Along its verge, the road continued a mere wheel-track cut in the rock, making it a dangerous crossing, as the driver of the weekly mail knew full well.

His heavy, lumbering coach was making its way towards it at that moment, floundering through the two feet of mud, which New Zealanders call a bush road. The five poor horses could only walk and found that hard work, while the passengers had enough to do to keep their seats. Fortunately, the coach was already lightened of a part of its load, some fares with which it started having reached their destination at the last stopping-place.