I and my last remaining shipmate certainly came out here without any very clear idea of what we were going to do. We came to make our fortunes, of course, after the manner of all new-chums, but as to how we were to set about it, and what were to be the first steps we should take, we had the very vaguest notion.

However, our condition of existence as new-chums sat very lightly upon us. Hope! We were all hope; we were hope incarnate! We felt that we were bound to win. It seemed, though, that the beginning must be made in some fashion that was, to say the least of it, unpleasant, now that we were face to face with the reality. Plenty of work offered, but none of it seemed to be of a particularly engaging kind; and, moreover, the wage offered us was extremely paltry, so we considered. For we belonged to that much maligned middle-class, which, in the chrysalis or new-chum stage, is so greatly contemned by colonists.

But it happened that, long long ago, a certain schoolfellow of ours had gone forth into the colonial world. He was in the sixth form when we were in the first, or thereabouts; but, as his family and ours were neighbours in the old home, there had been enough intimacy between us. It was owing to his letters home that we had determined on emigration. He had been apprised of our coming, so now we were not surprised to receive a message from him through a resident in Auckland. This was an invitation to join him at a distant settlement called Te Pahi, there to make a beginning at pioneer farm work, and see what might turn up.

We found on inquiry that little or nothing was known in Auckland of Te Pahi. It was a new township in the Kaipara district, lying sixty or eighty miles north of Auckland. That was about the sum of what we could learn of our destination, except that there were very few settlers in the Kaipara, and that communication between it and Auckland was not very good. Somewhat later than this date—in fact, to be precise, in 1875—an Auckland newspaper wrote of the Kaipara under the title of Terra Incognita. So that when we decided on going there, we felt that we were about to penetrate an almost unexplored country. But we found out what were the means of transit, and prepared to set out without further delay.

Now that we were on the point of starting into the bush, and entering into the realities of our new life, we began to encounter the difficulties of our situation. The first that met us would be more annoying were it not for the ludicrousness of it. It was the baggage difficulty, a thing that took us quite by surprise; for, till then, we had never appreciated the word "transport" at its full meaning. Like most home-living Britons, hitherto surrounded by every facility for locomotion of persons and goods, we had utterly failed to understand that in a new country things are wholly different in this respect. One can get about one's self easily enough; travel can always be accomplished somehow, even if one has to walk; but it is quite another thing to move baggage. In a roadless country, where labour is scarce and dear, the conveyance of goods from place to place is a difficult matter. It can be done, of course, but the cost of it is frightful.

Our old schoolfellow, who, by the way, will be known under the appellation of "Old Colonial" in these pages, had apparently had some experience of new-chums before. His agent in Auckland had been instructed to see to us, and one of that person's first inquiries was regarding our impedimenta.

We had been out-fitted in London by the world-renowned firm of Argent and Joy. There being no experience to guide us, we had placed ourselves unreservedly in the hands of the firm, and had been provided by them with a sumptuous stock of what they were pleased to term necessaries. Altogether, these formed a goodly pile. Our bedroom at the hotel was cram full of boxes, trunks, and portmanteaus; and their contents were now spread out for the inspection of our adviser.

"Good gracious!" was his exclamation when he surveyed our property, and then he mused awhile.

"Look here!" he said suddenly. "I've got some distressing intelligence to break to you. Prepare your minds for a shock. This inheritance is a dead horse. Chuck it overboard at once!" And he waved his hand impressively over our belongings.

We did not understand; we thought this was some new kind of joke—which it was, but not to us. We asked for explanations; all that we wanted was to know how we were to get these things up to the Kaipara. Our colonial friend sighed deeply, and proceeded mournfully to expound the position. He told us that we could not afford to possess more personals than were absolutely necessary, and these ought to pack into one box of easily portable size. In the first place, the freight of our baggage into the bush would cost us something approaching to the expense of our passage out from England. In the second place, we were not going to a house of our own, but were going to work on different farms, and might be moving about a good deal. We could not carry such a cargo about with us, for the cost of doing so would be simply ruinous. It appeared, too, that we could not even keep the things until we had got a house of our own to store them in. For, our only resource, with that in view, would be to warehouse them in Auckland, and the expense of even this dead weight would make too large a hole in our possible earnings. Finally, there was hardly anything in our entire outfit that would be of much practical use to us.

Aghast and grieving, we comprehended at last that we should have to rid ourselves of the too heavy burden with which Messrs. Argent and Joy had weighted us, in consideration of that prodigious and ever-to-be-regretted cheque. There was no help for it. An Israelitish dealer, who happily abided in the city, would have to be called in. And it could scarcely be said that he bought our property of us; it was a nearer approach to our having to pay him to take it away.

Our friend contemptuously examined parcel after parcel of things. Dress suits and white waistcoats, broadcloth and doeskin, scarves and gloves, white shirts, collars, and cuffs all appeared to move his derision. He kicked aside a dozen pairs of boots with the remark that—

"There's nothing there fit for this country. Rough-hide and hobnails is what you want."

Certain tweed suits that the fancy of our London tailor had invested with the title "New Zealand Specialities" were, said our friend, only suitable for colonists who intended to settle on the top of the Southern Alps. Various knick-knacks, dressing-cases, writing-cases, clocks, etcetera, were regarded by him as contemptible lumber. Some silk socks he looked upon almost as a criminal possession.

In the end we were reduced to a single box apiece, containing something like the following assortment, several items of which had to be purchased in Auckland. Six flannel shirts, two blankets, two pair moleskin breeches, one light pilot coat, one light tweed coat and trousers (which we wore at the time), some handkerchiefs, some socks, two towels, brush and comb, two pairs of boots, and one pair of leggings, a wide-awake hat, and a few odds and ends. Such books as we had we were allowed to retain, for, although the time for reading is very limited in the bush, yet, books being a rare commodity, are much prized there.

Of course, there was much merriment among the colonials at our expense, but I think the greatest mirth was excited by our cases of revolvers. These we had brought under the idea that they would prove to be a necessity, imagining that war with the Maoris was the normal condition of things, and that society was constituted something like what Bret Harte writes of in the Rocky Mountains.

We had had to pay a tax of five shillings each upon our pistols before bringing them on shore. We were now told that this tax was a main source of the Government revenue. Again, we were told that the exportation of new-chums' pistols to the United States was one of the main industries of the colony. But our purgatory was over at last, and our splendid outfits had passed into Hebrew hands, leaving a very meagre sum of money with us to represent them. And now we are ready to start in earnest.

Low down in the water, almost beneath the timbers of the wharf, is lying a queer little steam-tub, the Gemini, which will convey us on the first stage of our journey. A loafer on the wharf cautions us mockingly to step aboard with care, lest we overset the little steamer, or break through her somewhat rickety planking. She is about the size of some of those steam-launches that puff up and down the English Thames, but she would look rather out of place among them; for the Gemini and her sister boat, the Eclipse, which carry on the steam service of the Waitemata, are neither handsome nor new. They are rough and ready boats, very much the worse for wear. Such as they are, however, they suffice for the limited traffic up to Riverhead, and to the districts reached through that place. When that increases, doubtless their enterprising owner will replace them with more serviceable craft.

Punctuality is by no means one of the chief points of the Gemini, and it is an hour or two after the advertised time before we get off. There is a good deal of snorting and shrieking, of backing and filling, on the part of our bark, and then at last we are fairly on our way up the river. We take a last long look at the good ship that brought us from England, as she lies out at anchor in the harbour, and when a bend in the river hides Auckland's streets and terraces from our view, we feel that we have turned our backs on civilization for a while, and are fast getting among the pioneers.

On board the Gemini is a face we know. It is that of Dobbs, a sometime shipmate of ours. He is a farm labourer from Sussex, and he and his wife have come out among our ship-load of emigrants. There is a chronic look of wonder on their broad English faces. They are in speechless surprise at everything they see, but chiefly, apparently, at finding themselves actually in a new country at all.

Dobbs touches his hat, and addresses me as "sir," when he sees me, quite forgetting that we are now in the colonies, where such modes are not practised; regardless also of the fact that I am on my way to just the same life and work that he is himself. The skipper of the Gemini notices the action, and grins sarcastically, while he tells a subordinate in a stage-whisper to "just look at them new-chums."

English readers must not suppose from this that colonial manners are discourteous. Far from it. Colonials will not touch their hats, or use any form that appears to remind them of servility, flunkeyism, or inequalities of station. On the other hand, incivility is much more rarely experienced among even the roughest colonials than it is in many parts of the old country, in Birmingham, for example. Apart from that, the new-chum is the incarnate comedy of colonial life. He is eagerly watched, and much laughed at; yet he is seldom or never subjected to any actual rudeness. On the contrary, he is generally treated with extra tenderness and consideration, on account of his helpless and immature condition. Perhaps I may sum up the analysis by saying, that, if polish is lacking to the colonial character, so also is boorishness.

Our fellow-emigrant tells us that he has been engaged as a farm labourer by a settler at Ararimu, near Riverhead, and that his wife is to do washing and cooking and dairy-work. They are to have thirty shillings a week, and they, with their child, will have board and lodging provided for them as well, and that in a style a good deal better than agriculturals are accustomed to in England. They seem well enough contented with things, though a trifle daunted by the strangeness of their surroundings. Dobbs has misgivings as to the work that will be required of him. He knows, however, that the labourer's day is reckoned at only eight hours here, and is much consoled thereby. Very likely we may find him a thriving farmer on his own account, and on his own land, if we should chance to meet again in a few years' time.

There is little or no attraction in the scenery along the eighteen or twenty miles of river between Auckland and Riverhead. Great stretches of mud-bank are visible in many places at low tide, varied by occasional clumps of mangrove, and by oyster-covered rocks. The land on either side is mostly of very poor quality, though a good deal of it has been taken up. Here and there, we pass in sight of some homestead; a white verandah-ed wooden house, surrounded by its gardens, orchards, paddocks, and fields. The steamer stops, and lies off three or four such places while her dingey communicates with the shore, embarking or disembarking passengers, mails, or goods. Generally, though, when the river-banks are low enough to permit of a view beyond them, we see nothing but very barren and shaggy-looking tracts, not unlike Scottish moorlands in general aspect. Occasionally there are poor scrubby grasslands, where the soil has not done justice to the seed put upon it; and where cattle, horses, and sheep appear to be picking up a living among the fern and ti-tree.

As we get nearer to Riverhead the stream narrows. This is the point to which the tide reaches. Beyond it the Waitemata is supplied by two creeks, the Riverhead Creek and the Rangitopuni. Here the banks are steep and high, somewhat picturesque, with varied ferns and shrubbery. On the north side the ranges rise into a background of hills.

This is the end of our river journey, as is evidenced by the Riverhead wharf, built out from the bank. Here we land, and are received by two men, who represent the population of the district, and who apparently are idle spectators. By their advice we shoulder our traps, and climb up some steps to the top of the bank. Right before us here is an unpretending house, built in the usual rambling style of architecture peculiar to frame-houses in this country. A board stuck up over the verandah announces that this is the hotel; and, as the arrival of the steamer is the signal for dinner, every one makes for the open French windows of the dining-room.

Dinner is ready we find, and we are ready for it. Perhaps about a dozen passengers came up from Auckland in the boat, and as many of these as are not at home in the immediate neighbourhood sit down to the table. The party is further augmented by the skipper and his assistants, the wharf-keepers, one or two residents in the hotel, and the host and hostess with their family. Quite a large company altogether, and of very promiscuous elements. The only persons not entirely at their ease are Dobbs and his wife. They find themselves dining with the "quality," as they would have said at home, and have not yet learnt that that word is written "equality" in this part of the world.

At the head of the table sits somebody who is evidently a personage, judging by the flattering attentions paid to him by the daughters of the house, and by the regard with which all but we strangers treat him. It is Dandy Jack, afterwards to become one of our most intimate and cherished chums. As I shall have more to say about him, perhaps I may here be allowed to formally introduce him to the reader.

The first glance at him reveals the origin of his sobriquet. Amid the rawness and roughness of everything in the bush, its primitive society included, the figure of Dandy Jack stands out in strong relief. Contrasted with the unkempt, slovenly, ragged, and dirty bushmen with whom he mostly comes in contact, he is the very essence of foppery. Yet, as we are afterwards to learn, he is anything but the idle, effeminate coxcomb, whose appearance he so assiduously cultivates. Here is a photograph of Dandy Jack.

Five feet six inches; broad and muscular, but spare and clean-limbed. Curly black hair, and a rosy-complexioned face, clean shaven—contrary to the ordinary custom of the country—all except a thick drooping moustache with waxed ends. A grey flannel shirt, with some stitching and embroidery in front; and a blue silk scarf loosely tied below the rolling collar. No coat this warm weather, but a little bouquet in the breast of the shirt. A tasselled sash round the waist; spotless white breeches, and well-blacked long boots. A Panama straw hat with broad brim and much puggeree. An expression of affected innocence in the eyes, and a good deal of fun about the mouth. Such is the figure we now look upon for the first time.

Dandy Jack is a character; that one sees at once. He is generally understood to have passed lightly through Eton and Oxford, to have sown wild oats about Europe at large, to have turned up in Western America and the Pacific, and to be now endeavouring to steady down in New Zealand. He has a considerable spice of the devil in him, and is at once the darling of the ladies and the delight of the men. For to the one he is gallantry itself; while, to the other, he is the chum who can talk best on any subject under the sun, with a fluency and power of anecdote and quotation that is simply enchanting.

Just at present Dandy Jack has charge of the portage, as it is called, between the Waitemata and the Kaipara rivers.[3] He drives the coach, carries the mails, and bosses the bullock-drays that convey goods between Riverhead and Helensville. And he is rapidly becoming the most horsey man in the whole of the North, being especially active and prominent in every possible capacity on the local race-courses.

Dinner is over very soon, and a very good one it was, well worth the shilling each of us pays for it. Then we take leave of Dobbs and his wife, whose future boss has arrived in a rude cart drawn by two horses, in which to drive them and their traps over to his place in Ararimu. We ourselves are going on to Helensville in the coach, a distance of about eighteen miles.

The coach partakes of the crudity which seems impressed upon everything in this new locality. The body of it is not much larger, apparently, than a four-wheeled cab, and does not seem as if it could possibly accommodate more than eight passengers altogether. Yet Dandy Jack avers that he has carried over a score, and that he considers sixteen a proper full-up load. On the present occasion there are not more than half a dozen, besides my chum and I. Glass there is none about the coach, but a good deal of leather. Springs, properly so-called, are also wanting. The body is hung in some strong rude fashion on broad, substantial wheels. Altogether, the machine looks as if it were intended for the roughest of rough work.

As strangers, we are invited to occupy the seats of honour—on the box beside the driver. There are no lady passengers to snatch the coveted post from us. Dandy Jack says to me—

"Of course, I should prefer to have a lady beside me, but, somehow, I'm always glad when there arn't any. It's a grave responsibility—a grave responsibility!"

Whilst we are endeavouring to evolve the meaning of this mysterious remark—it is not until a while later that we fully comprehend it—preparations are being made for the start. Four ungroomed, unshod horses are hitched on, and their plunging and capering shows they are impatient to be off. Our driver's lieutenant, Yankee Bill, mounts a fifth horse, and prepares to act as outrider. Then Dandy Jack, loudly shouting, "All aboard! All abo-ard!" springs to his seat, gathers up the reins, without waiting to see whether every one has obeyed his injunction or not, bids the men who are holding the cattle stand clear, gives a whoop and a shake of his whip, and then, with a jolt and a lurch and a plunge, off we go.

Hitherto we have seen nothing of the settlement, except the hotel and the goods warehouse on the bank above the wharf. These appear to have been shot down into the middle of a moorland wilderness. But now, as the coach surmounts some rising ground, several homesteads come into view, scattered about within a distance of one or two miles. Beyond the paddocks surrounding these, all of the country that is visible appears to be covered with tall brown fern, and a low brushwood not unlike heather.

As we go lumbering up the rise we are passed by a young lady riding down towards the hotel. Very bright and pretty she looks, by contrast with the rough surroundings. Quite a lovely picture, in her graceful riding-habit of light drab, and her little billycock hat with its brilliant feather. So think we all, especially our gallant Jehu, who bows profoundly in response to a nod of recognition, and turns to look admiringly after the fair equestrian.

Then, upon the right, we look down upon the great feature of the district, Mr. Lamb's flour-mill and biscuit-factory. In this establishment are made crackers that are well-known and much esteemed far beyond the limits of New Zealand. The Riverhead manufacture is known in the South Sea and Australia. The factory stands on the bank of the creek, having water-power and a water highway at its door. It is a large structure, mostly of timber, with a tall chimney of brick. Near it is the residence of the proprietor, and a row of houses inhabited by his employÈs. The whole is surrounded by a grove of choice trees and shrubs, by gardens and paddocks, evidently in a high state of cultivation. Beyond tower the brown and shaggy ranges, and all around is the uncouth moorland. It is an oasis in the desert, this green and fertile spot, a Tadmor in the wilderness.

Yet when we make some remarks, as new-chums will, about the apparent richness of the land down there, a settler, who sits behind, takes us up rather shortly. He appears to consider Mr. Lamb's estate as a positive offence. "Bone-dust and drainage!" he says with a snort of contempt. It seems that the land about us is considered to be of the very poorest quality, sour gum-clay; and any one who sets about reclaiming such sort is looked upon as a fool, at least, although, in this case, it is evident that the cultivation is merely an ornamental subsidiary to the factory.

But these poor lands are only bad comparatively. Much of the soil in them is better by far than that of many productive farms at home; only our colonial pioneer-farmers have no notion of any scientific methods in agriculture. They have been spoilt by the wondrous fertility of the rich black forest mould, and the virgin volcanic soils. They will continue to regard manuring and draining and so forth as a folly and a sin almost, until the population becomes numerous, and all the first-class lands are filled up.

Fresh from high-dried systems and theories of agriculture as practised in Great Britain, we are dumbfounded by the tirade against manuring, and the revolutionary ideas which our coach-companion further favours us with. We are evidently beginning to learn things afresh, though this is our first day in the bush.

By the way, I must explain this term to English readers. "Bush" has a double signification, a general and a particular one. In its first and widest sense it is applied to all the country beyond the immediate vicinity of the cities or towns. Thus, Riverhead may be described as a settlement in the "bush," and our road lies through the "bush," though here it is all open moorland. But, in a more particular way, "bush" simply indicates the natural woods and forests. A farmer up-country, who says he has been into the "bush" after cattle, means that he has been into the forest, in contradistinction to his own cleared land, the settlement, or the open country.

Our road lies at first through the fern lands beyond Riverhead, and we soon lose sight of the settlement. We appear to be travelling at random across the moor, for not a trace of what our English eyes have been taught to regard as a road can we discern. The country is all a rugged wilderness of range and gully: "gently undulating," you say, if you want to convey a favourable impression; "abruptly broken and hilly," if you would speak the literal truth. There is not a level yard of land—it is all as rough and unequal as it is possible for land to be.

The road is no macadamized way: it is simply a track that, in many parts, is barely visible except to practised eyes. Further on, where we pass through tracts of forest, the axe has cleared a broad path; and down some steep declivities there has been a mild attempt at a cutting. Where we come upon streams of any size or depth, light wooden bridges have been built; and fascines have made some boggy parts fordable in wet weather. Such is our road, and along it we proceed at a hand-gallop for the most part. The jolting may be imagined, it cannot be described; for the four wheels are never by any chance on the same level at one and the same time.

When we have proceeded eight or nine miles, Dandy Jack seems to be preparing himself for some exciting incident. Yankee Bill gallops alongside, exchanging a mysterious conversation in shouts with him.

"Better take round by the ford, Cap!"

"Ford be blanked!" answers Dandy Jack.

"The rest of the planking's sure to be gone by this time," continues the cavalier.

"Then I reckon we'll jump it. Ford's two miles round at least, and we're late now."

Our dandy charioteer glances round on his passengers, and remarks—

"Hold on tight, boys; and, if we spill, spring clear for a soft place."

So saying, he plants his feet firmly out, takes a better grip of the reins, and crams his hat well on to his head. We ignorant new-chums sit perturbed, for we don't know what is coming, only we do not admire the grim determination of our driver's mouth, or the devilry flashing from his eyes. The rest of the passengers say nothing. They know Dandy Jack, and are philosophically resigned to their fate.

And now we plunge down the side of a gully, steep and wooded, with a brawling torrent pouring along its bottom. The road runs obliquely down the incline, and this descent we proceed to accomplish at a furious gallop, Dandy Jack shouting and encouraging his horses; his mate riding beside them, and flogging them to harder exertions. Then we see what is before us.

Right at the bottom of the steep road is a bridge across the creek; or, at least, what was once a bridge, for a freshet or something seems to have torn it partially up. Originally built by throwing tree-trunks across from bank to bank, and covering these with planking, what we now see seems little more than a bare skeleton; for nearly all the planking is gone, and only the rough bare logs remain—and of these several are displaced, so that uncomfortable-looking gaps appear. Some feet below the level of this ruined bridge a regular cataract is flowing. Across the frail scaffolding—you can call it no more—that spans the torrent, it is clearly Dandy Jack's intention to hurl the coach, trusting to the impetus to get it over. We shut our eyes in utter despair of a safe issue, and hold on to our seats with the clutch of drowning men. It is all that we can do.

Meanwhile the four horses, maddened by the whoops and lashes of our excited Jehu and his aid, are tearing down the slope at racing speed. The coach is bounding, rocking, jolting at their heels in frightfully dangerous fashion. We dare not glance at Dandy Jack, but we feel that he is in his element; and that, consequently, we are in deadly peril. Then the chorus of yells grows louder and fiercer, the swish of the whips more constant and furious. There is a tremendous rattle, a series of awful bumps that seem to dislocate every bone in my body, a feeling that the coach is somersaulting, I appear to be flying through space among the stars, and then—all is blank.

When I recall my shocked and scattered senses, a minute or two later, I find myself half-buried, head downward, among moss and fern. I pick myself out of that, and stupidly feel myself all over, fortunately finding that I have sustained no particular injury. Then I survey the scene.

We are on the other side of the stream—so much I discover—but we have evidently not attained it without a mishap. Not to put too fine a point upon it, we have experienced a most decided spill. The coach has overturned just as it crossed the bridge, and passengers and baggage have been shot forth into the world at large. Fortunately, the ground was soft with much vegetation, so that no one is much hurt; the "insides" alone being badly bruised. There is a confused heap of plunging hoofs, and among them Dandy Jack and Yankee Bill are already busy, loosening the traces and getting the horses on their feet.

The passengers go one by one to their assistance, and much objurgation and ornamental rhetoric floats freely through the atmosphere. Presently, the coach is got on its wheels again by united effort, and it is found to be none the worse for the accident. In truth, its builder seems to have had an eye to such casualties as that we have suffered, and has adapted the construction of the machine to meet them.

But with the horses it is different. Three of them are speedily got on their legs and rubbed down, being no more than scared. The fourth, however, cannot rise, and examination shows that one of its legs is broken, and probably the spine injured as well. It is evident the poor creature is past all further service. So Dandy Jack sits on its head, while Yankee Bill pulls out his sheath-knife and puts the animal out of misery. I overhear our eccentric driver murmuring—

"Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day
That cost thy life, my gallant grey!"—

Adding, in a louder voice—

"Twelve pounds I paid for that critter; but I reckon I've had the profit out of it, anyhow!"

The horse that Yankee Bill was riding is now unsaddled and hitched up with the others, in place of the dead one. For baggage and passengers are being collected again, and it seems we are going on as though nothing had happened.

It is, perhaps, not strange that no one should express surprise at the accident; but it is certainly singular that no one shows any resentment towards our driver, or blames him in any way. The prevailing feeling is one of simple congratulation that things are no worse. One would think the accident was quite a usual affair, and had even been expected. A passenger remarks quite seriously—

"I will say this for Dandy Jack: he always contrives that you shall pitch into a soft place."

They seem about to offer a vote of thanks to this reckless madman, for having overturned us without hurt to any one! It occurs to us two new-chums that our life in this country is likely to be eventful, if this kind of thing is the ordinary style of coaching. And we begin to understand what our driver meant, when he alluded to the grave responsibility of having a lady among his passengers; for his driving is only comparable to the driving of the son of Nimshi.

Before we proceed on our way, the foppery of our charioteer reasserts itself. Of course, his neat and spruce trim has been considerably disarrayed, so now he proceeds to reorganize his appearance. Gravely and calmly he draws brushes and so on from a receptacle under the box-seat, and commences to titivate himself. This is too much. Laughter and jibes and energetic rebukes fall on him thick as hail. At first he pays no attention; then he says slowly—

"Look here! If any one wants to walk the rest of the way, he can do it. I'm willing to split fares for the half journey!"

There is a covert threat in this, and as no one cares to quarrel with the speaker, his eccentricities are allowed to develop themselves without further interference. Then we resume our drive on to Helensville.

For the most part the road passes through open country, but we now more frequently see scrub and bush in various directions. At one place, indeed, for about two miles, we pass through forest. The trees, mostly kahikatea, seem to our English eyes of stupendous proportions, but we are told they grow much bigger in many other parts. Signs of human life are not altogether wanting in these wilds. We pass a dray coming down from the Kaipara, laden with wool, and pull up, that Dandy Jack may have a private conversation with the driver of it. This dray is a huge waggon, built in a very strong and substantial style, and it is drawn by twelve span of bullocks.

Here and there among the fern, usually in the bottom of a gully beside some patch of scrub, we have noticed little clusters of huts. These are not Maori wharÈs, as we suppose at first, but are the temporary habitations of gum-diggers, a nomadic class who haunt the waste tracts where kauri-gum is to be found buried in the soil. In a few places we pass by solitary homesteads, looking very comfortable in the midst of their more or less cultivated paddocks and clearings. These are usually fixed on spots where the soil, for a space of a few hundred acres, happens to be of better quality than the gum-lands around. At most of these settlers' houses somebody is on the look-out for the coach, and there is a minute's halt to permit of the exchange of mails or news. For travellers along the road are very few in number, and the bi-weekly advent of the coach is an event of importance.

The afternoon is wearing late, and the rays of the declining sun are lengthening the shadows, when we emerge on the top of a high hill that overlooks the valley of the Kaipara. A wide and magnificent prospect lies spread before us. Far down below the river winds through a broad valley, the greater expanse of which, being low and swampy, is covered with a dense thicket of luxuriant vegetation. In parts we see great masses of dark, sombre forest, but even in the distance this is relieved by variety of colouring, flowering trees, perhaps, or the brilliant emerald of clusters of tree-ferns. Right out on the western boundary a line of hills shuts out the sea, and their summits glisten with a strange ruddy and golden light—the effect of the sun shining on the wind-driven sand that covers them. To the north the river widens and winds, until, far away, we get a glimpse of the expanding waters of the Kaipara Harbour. Successive hills and rolling ranges, clothed with primeval forest, close in upon the valley.

About the centre of the broad-stretching vale, we discern a little patch of what looks like grass and cleared land. There is here a cluster of houses, whitely gleaming beside the river, and that hamlet is Helensville—the future town and metropolis of the Kaipara.

The road, from the hill-top where we are, winds in a long descent of about two miles down to the township. It is scarcely needful to say that Dandy Jack considers it incumbent on him to make his entrance into Helensville with as much flourish and Éclat as possible. Accordingly, we proceed along the downhill track at breakneck speed, and come clattering and shouting into the village, amid much bustle and excitement. We are finally halted in an open space before the hotel, which is evidently intended to represent a village green or public square, the half-dozen houses of the place being scattered round it.

The entire population has turned out to witness our arrival: a score or so of bearded, sunburnt, rough-looking men, three or four women, and a group of boys and children. A babel of conversation ensues. We, as new-chums, are speedily surrounded by a group anxious to make our acquaintance, and are eagerly questioned as to our intentions.

Several persons present are acquainted with Old Colonial, and when it is known that we are going to join him, we are at once placed on the footing of personal friends. Hospitality is offered, invitations to take a drink at the bar are given us on all sides. We accept, for we are not total abstainers—or sich!—and are in that condition when the foaming tankard is an idea of supreme bliss.

The hotel is larger and more pretentious than that at Riverhead. It is better built, and has a second storey and a balcony above the verandah. It is furnished, too, in a style that would do credit to Auckland—we particularly noticing some capital cabinet-work in the beautiful wood of the mottled kauri.

And then we are treated to a dissertation on the wonderful advantages and prospects of Helensville, some day to be a city and seaport, a manufacturing centre and emporium of the vast trade of the great fertile tracts of the Kaipara districts. We are assured that there is no place in all New Zealand where it could be more advantageous to our future to settle in than here. And so to supper, and finally to bed, to sleep, and to dream of the wonders that shall be; to dream of cathedrals and factories and theatres rising here, and supplanting the forest and scrub around us; to dream of splendid streets along the banks of the Kaipara, but streets which ever end in rocky wooded gullies, down which we plunge incessantly, behind a rushing nightmare that is driven either by a demon or by Dandy Jack.