I think I need hardly say that we are not Æsthetic here in the bush. In point of fact, we have no sympathy whatever with Æstheticism or high art culture. We are, to put it shortly, Goths, barbarians, antithetics, what you will. The country is not Æsthetic either; it is too young yet to use or abuse intellectual stimulants. There exists among us a profound contempt for all the fripperies and follies of fashion and civilization. We hold these things to be wrong—to be a sort of crime against manhood.

In a measure we are Puritan; not altogether in a religious sense, but in a moral and social one, certainly. We regard our horny hands with pride, and talk about "honest labour" with something more than a virtuous glow. We are apt to be rather down on city foplings and soft-handed respectabilities. All such people we despise with positively brutal heartiness. When we read of what is doing in London and Paris we swell with indignation and contempt. We look upon the civilization we have come out of as no fine thing. Life is a serious matter-of-fact business to us, and we hold in stern derision the amenities of more sophisticated communities.

I think that we must look upon things at home much in the same light as the Norsemen of old did upon the frivolities of Rome or Byzantium. The spirit of O'Gaygun's philosophy pervades the colonial mind a good deal, and, possibly, we may be prone to cultivate it as a means of stifling any regrets we may have after the old life. We are very natural men, you see, very simple and childlike, unused to the artificialities of larger and organized society. Our characters have been reformed back to primary essentials; and the raree-show of civilization dazzles and frightens our primitive nervous systems. We may have our little failings, but we ask no pity for them from people whom we so utterly scorn, as we do the denizens of the elder world. Art! Culture! Æstheticism! Bah! Pouf! Away with all such degrading, debasing, dehumanizing trumpery! We are men of a harder, sterner, simpler mould than the emasculate degeneracies of modern England! We are the pioneers and founders of a new Britain, of a stronger and purer life!

When describing our farm I gave some hint as to the causes which have kept us from building a better house hitherto. Some day we shall have one, of course; or, possibly, we shall have more than one, for some of our chums have been showing a tendency towards matrimony of late; and if any of us marry they must have houses of their own, I suppose. We should need a barrack else, you understand, for families do run large out here.

Some of our neighbours live in very comfortable houses; and by visiting them we are kept from becoming reformed into the uttermost savagery altogether. Other people had more capital than we, or spent what they possessed in a different manner. There are those who have laid themselves out to render their homes more in accordance with the taste that prevails among—I had nearly written decent people, but will say worldly instead. They have got nicer domiciles than our shanty; but, then, it takes a woman to look after things. There must be a mistress in a house that is to be a house, and not a—well, shanty, let us say. Even Old Colonial is sensible of that.

A frame-house here is built upon exactly the same plan as ours, so far as regard the piles, framework, outside wall and roof; but the plan of it varies much. Every man is his own architect, or at least that business lies between him and the carpenter who builds for him. One sees some very singular examples sometimes. Rows of isolated rooms connected by a verandah; houses all gable-ends and wings; all sorts in fact.

A good house will have the outside walls boarded up and down, with battens covering the chinks, instead of weather-boarding like our shanty. The inside walls and ceilings will be lined with grooved and jointed planking, so as to make the house what is styled bug-proof. There is a broad verandah round the whole or part of the house. There are brick chimneys inside the house, though, as they are usually an item of considerable expense, this is not invariable, and chimney out-puts like ours will be seen not infrequently. There are various rooms, and possibly an upper storey, which may or may not have a balcony above the verandah. It is a common practice to have French windows, opening upon the verandah, instead of doors.

Such houses can be made very elegant as well as comfortable. They are painted and decorated with carvings outside, and the inside walls may be painted, papered, or varnished. Furniture and upholstery of all kinds is, of course, procurable in Auckland; so that one can have all the comfort of an English home, if one is able to pay for it.

Necessarily, the cost of house-building will vary considerably, according to the style and size of residence. A cottage with two to four rooms will cost £100, or less. The average price paid for houses in our district—large roomy houses for prosperous family-men, contracted for with a carpenter, to build, paint, and thoroughly finish off—runs from £250 to £500, or something like it. Kauri timber is used almost exclusively in the North, so that we may say we live under the shadow of the Kauri pine.

We keep up the usages of society so far as to pay visits occasionally, especially to houses where there are ladies. You have got to live in a country where petticoats are few and far between, where there is not one woman to twenty or thirty men, as is the case here, in order to thoroughly appreciate the delights of feminine society. People at home don't know how to treat a lady; they are too much used to them. Why, there are actually more women than men in England!

We treasure our ladies, because they are so rare among us in the bush. Good creatures they are, these settler's wives. How kind and benevolent they are to us, to be sure! And how they do delight to "boss" us about! But we like it, we enjoy it, we revel in it. We would lay ourselves down for them to trample on us, and be truly grateful for the attention. That is our loyal feeling towards the married ladies resident in the district. Conceive, if you can, how much more extravagant is our gallantry when certain other persons are in question—young ladies whom the irreverent covertly term "husband-hunters!"

Those good lady dwellers in the bush—how it does delight them to promote the matrimonial felicity of others! How they do enjoy matchmaking!

Every settler's wife, so soon as she has got over the exclusiveness of honeymoon happiness, does her best to induce her girl friends from the city to come and visit her. She is so lonely, she says—poor thing! No one but her husband, and his neighbours and workmen; her devoted slaves every one of them, but still, all rough men, you know. She pines for a companion of her own sex. Oh yes; very much so! It would be a charity, indeed, if dear Ada or Fanny would come and stay with her a bit.

Dear Ada or Fanny is only too glad of the opportunity. She did want to see what the bush was like, for she has never been out of Auckland yet, except a trip to the hot lakes, or so. In fact, her school-days are scarcely over yet. And then she is so sorry for her friend's loneliness. It must be dreadful to be isolated in the bush like that. She will certainly come and see her.

So Miss Ada or Fanny packs up her box. Sweet, amiable creature! She flies to alleviate her friend's hard lot. She constrains her inclinations, and sets out bravely for the bush, solely at friendship's call; for, of course, there is no arriÈre pensÉe in her mind. Oh no; how could there be?

The young lady was not considered exactly a belle in the city, perhaps; but the bush receives her as an incarnation of Venus herself. Directly she gets beyond the confines of the city, into the rough, primitive, and inchoate wilderness, she finds herself elevated to a rank she never knew before. Coach-drivers, steamboat-captains, hotel-keepers treat her with a deference and attention that is quite captivating, rude examples of male humanity though they may be.

Some settler is introduced, or introduces himself, who is travelling too. He will be delighted, honoured, to be permitted to act as her escort. Perhaps he has been deputed by her parents, or by her friend, to look after her. Whether or no, he almost suffocates with importance if she graciously accords him permission to act as her courier and footman.

Other men who are journeying on the roads or rivers somehow become attached to Miss Ada's luggage. It appears that they are going in the same direction. They say so, at any rate. They form themselves into a sort of bodyguard to look after this wonderful visitant. Mysterious dangers, not to be explained, are darkly hinted at, in order that cause may be shown for their attendance. They are necessary as porters to look after her traps, as purveyors to fetch her milk and fruit, and so on.

Miss Ada may not unnaturally be a little timid at first, but she soon gets over that, finding that these big, bearded men are a good deal more timid of her. Some of them actually colour up when she looks at them. She discovers that she is a wit; her little jokes being applauded uproariously, and repeated by one of her bodyguard to another. Every eye is upon her, gazing at her with undisguised admiration; and every ear is humbly bent to catch the slightest whisper that falls from her lips. Really, these bushmen are very nice fellows, after all, in spite of their rough looks. Quite different from the affected young fops of the city.

As the young lady journeys onward her train swells, like a snowball gathering snow. Somehow or other, it seems that the whole district is meditating a visit to the place that is her destination. And everybody is so polite to her, so embarrassingly attentive, and so determined she shall enjoy her trip, that she begins to think the bush is the most delightful part of the habitable globe; while the scenery grows more and more enchanting every minute.

By-and-by the end of the journey is reached. The settler's wife comes out to meet her guest, while a long procession files up from the river, actually quarrelling for the privilege of carrying Miss Ada's various impedimenta. The ladies are embracing and kissing with effusion, to the manifest discomfiture and perturbation of the crowd, who try to look indifferently in opposite directions.

"So good of you to come, dear, to these far away solitudes; so kind of you, and so disinterested, for I'm sure there's nothing here to attract you in the least!"

"Oh, I think you've got a charming place! And the gentlemen have been so kind. I didn't mind the journey at all, I assure you. And, of course, I would come to keep you company, you poor, banished thing!"

Thus do these innocent creatures chatter to each other in their hypocritical fashion. But the wife just glances slyly at her husband, and he looks guiltily away at the far horizon; for the dear schemer has been making a confidant of him, for want of a better.

And Miss Ada's tail makes itself at home, after the free hospitable manner of the bush. And the men are received with greater unction than ever on the part of their hostess; albeit they profess to have called casually, on some mysterious business or other with her husband. And they are housed for the night, at least, and to each of them separately the good little woman finds an opportunity of saying—

"Isn't she a sweet, pretty girl? And such a capital manager, I do assure you. Be sure you come up on Sundays, and every other day you can spare, while she is with us. It will be so dull for her, you know, coming from all the gaieties of the city!"

Rumour flies about the country, apprising it of the fact that a young lady visitor is stopping at So-and-so's. The district incontinently throws itself at her feet, and worships Beauty in her person. Each of the few married ladies round invites the stranger to come and stop with her, after a bit, and to lighten her heavy load of solitude, and her craving for a companion of her own sex. And Miss Ada finds it impossible to refuse these invitations; and so the district entraps her, and keeps her in it.

What wonder that when she does return to the city, it is only to make ready for an impending event; for she was really obliged to take pity on one of those poor bachelors, you understand. And the bush is so charming! And she will be near her dear friend! And so—it comes about that there will be one "husband-hunter" the less.

One season there had been an entire dearth of lady visitors. In our shanty people were going melancholy mad. The district was losing its charm for us. We had not set eyes upon any young lady of flirtable estate for months and months. Old Colonial and the Saint had taken to making their cattle-hunting expeditions invariably lead them to Tanoa; where they said they went to talk to Mihake about stock, but where, it was remembered, too, pretty Rakope and her sisters dwelt. O'Gaygun's conversation was burdened with constant reference to "purty gurls," whom he had seen in former days; and he became so violently attentive to the wife of one of our neighbours, that, we began to think he would have to be seriously expostulated with. Dandy Jack was restless, betraying less interest than usual in his personal appearance, and talking of going to Auckland for a spell. All of us were getting gloomy and dispirited. Our life didn't seem to be so glorious a one as usual. But relief came at last.

One Saturday, the Fiend had been over to the township, taking our weekly consignment of butter, and bringing back such news as there was, and such stores as we required. He returned with intelligence that set our shanty in a ferment. A young lady had come up from Auckland on a visit!

The Fiend had found a note at the township, left there for our community generally. It was from the wife of a settler whom we speak of as the Member. She informed us that her friend. Miss —— Fairweather, let it be, was on a visit to her; and she invited us to go there on Sunday, the next day, and whenever else we could. The epistle concluded with some adroit reference to the charms and graces of her guest, conveyed in that vague and curiosity-exciting manner so peculiarly feminine.

Full parliament of the shanty was instantly summoned, and we proceeded to discuss the matter. It was decided, without opposition, that we should accept the invitation, and should spend the following day at the Member's. Not a dissentient voice so far as that was concerned. The whole parliament would pay its respects to Miss Fairweather, somehow or other; no question about that. And then we had to take into consideration the important subject of dress.

Every one wished to make the best appearance he possibly could, and Old Colonial peremptorily commanded that we should turn out in our best attire. But our best was a poor thing.

The common wardrobe of the shanty was overhauled; and it became evident that we were worse off than we had at first supposed. Under ordinary circumstances, not more than two or three of us would require a go-to-meeting rig-out at one and the same time. Even a full change of garments was scarcely ever called for by the whole party at once. Commonly, when going to visit one of our married neighbours, we thought it enough to clean ourselves a bit and put a coat over our shirts; that was all. But something more killing was needful on this occasion; and, to our consternation, we found we had not got a square change of clothes to go round.

It was too late to go to the township to buy some additional clothes; besides, we could not afford such extravagances just then. Three or four of us might have turned out pretty decently, perhaps, but not the whole crew. And no one would hear of any plan that might keep him at home. We would all go, making shift as well as we could.

All other work was at once put aside, and we were soon briskly at it, washing out shirts and trousers. A roaring fire was kindled outside the shanty, for the purpose of quickly drying the cleansed integuments; for, some two or three were reduced to the temporary necessity of draping themselves in blankets, À la Maori, while the only clothes they had were being washed and dried.

Two of the boys had canvas breeches, that were supposed to be white when they were clean. Now canvas goes hard and stiff when wet, and is therefore not readily washed. Our chums were dissatisfied with the stained and discoloured appearance their nether garments presented, after all the washing they could give them. Pipeclay was suggested, but of pipeclay we had none. In lieu of it the boys got some white limestone, which they first calcined, and then puddled up into a paste with water. This mixture they rubbed into the fabric of their breeches.

The effect of this could not be very well made out by firelight, and next morning there was no time to alter it if it did not suit. However, the ingenious whitewashes were satisfied. They had what Dandy Jack called "stucco breeches," which had a dazzling effect at a distance, certainly. The worst of it was that the plaster cracked and peeled off in flakes, and that the four whitewashed legs left visible traces upon everything else they touched. Still, we do not go courting every day, you know, and some little variation from conventional routine is excusable when we do.

We had all to take to tailoring, sewing, mending, and cobbling. Everything we had was tattered and torn; and had to be patched and repaired somehow. We could not confront the gaze of Beauty with great rents in our shirts. This was a fearful business, the materials for effecting it being exceedingly limited, and our fingers unused to the work. It was a sight to see O'Gaygun, his philosophy and gallantry at war with one another, sewing blue flannel patches on a red shirt, and groaning lamentably over the task.

Old Colonial officiated as barber, and, one by one, we all passed under his hands, he himself being operated upon by the Saint. With a pair of wool-shears, and the relics of the common comb, he clipped our flowing tresses close to our heads, reducing the unruly touzles to something like order; and he trimmed our beards to a uniform pattern, such as he considered was neat and becoming. We did not want to look like savages, he said.

Unfortunately, the Saint was not such a good hand at the hair-cutting business, so Old Colonial looked rather singular, the white scalp showing in patches among his raven curls. But the boss could not see this himself, and no one mentioned the matter to him, out of merciful consideration for the Saint.

Then Old Colonial manufactured pomatum out of lard and beeswax, scenting it with lemon-peel and a sweet-smelling leaf. This stuff he styled "Te Pahi Brilliantine," and with it he plentifully bedaubed our hair and beards.

As a customary thing we never dream of cleaning our boots. It is altogether a waste of time, and it would be entirely useless to do it. Moreover, our boots are of rough hide, and not adapted for blacking. We merely scrape the mud off them with a shingle; that is quite enough. But, on this unusual occasion, it was decreed that we should black our boots and leggings. The tide would be full when we started in our boat, therefore we could get on board in the creek; and, not being under the necessity of plodging through the deep mud that is laid bare at low tide, we should reach our destination with passably clean feet.

Blacking we had none, of course; that had to be made. We did not know exactly how to do it, so we tried various experiments. We prepared charcoal, and we scraped soot out of the top of the stove. We mixed these with kerosene oil, and, as some one said there ought to be sulphuric acid in blacking, we put in some vinegar instead of it. This mess was held to be the most effective, and was consequently used. Our foot and leg-gear was ridded of the mud of many weeks, and was smeared with the newly invented blacking.

Behold us next morning ready to start! A line of nine ruffianly-looking scarecrows, under review by Old Colonial, head-master of the ceremonies. Our shirts are clean, though elaborately embroidered in many colours. Our trousers ditto. Our boots, whether high ankle-jacks, or lace-ups and leggings, are black, if not polished. Each man wears a coat. Rather ragged, rather ancient are these coats, originally of very varied kinds. But the etiquette of the bush does not demand much in coats. So long as your shirt is clean and whole, your coat may be a little off colour, so to put it. People are not so particular about the coat. It is an excrescence, not an essential garment like the shirt and breeches.

There is one coat short, but Dandy Jack gracefully waives any claim he might have had, and goes without. He can well do so. Such is the force of habit, that, somehow or other, he looks more elegant than any of us. He is even well dressed, as we estimate that condition. It is aggravating, because——But no matter!

There is one garment that has been the cause of introducing "hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness" among us. It is a coat of brown hemp-cloth, faced with leather. A coat of English make, with many pockets, such as sportsmen and gamekeepers wear sometimes. It had been thought too good to be used, and had been stowed aside in the library. Such as it is, it is the best garment we have got. After much wrangling we had to draw lots for it, and, much to his satisfaction, Old Colonial acquired the right to wear it.

A box of paper collars had been discovered, so our unaccustomed necks are all tightly throttled in them. They do not fit, of course, and have to be fixed up with string and slips of flax; still, the effect is dazzling. The wet had got into the box, however, and a brown patch appears on the left side of each collar. This does for a trade mark, or badge of the shanty. Scarves or neckties we have none, nor any substitute or apology for them.

Our newly-cropped and pomatumed heads are thatched with strangely ancient and weather-worn hats. These are of three general varieties, or were, when they were new. First, come soft felt wide-awakes, broad-brimmed and steeple-crowned, now presenting every diversity of slouch. Next, are hats of the same original shape, made of coarse plaited straw or reeds, now very much broken and bent. Finally, there are the remains of one or two pith helmets and solar topees.

We have striven to make our head-gear look as jaunty and fresh as was possible. We have blacked the hats or whitewashed them, and have stuck feathers and flowers in them to give an air of gaiety to our otherwise sombre and sedate aspect. And thus we stand, while Old Colonial examines the regiment, giving a finishing touch here and there, where he deems it requisite. Then he draws back and proudly surveys us, and, bearing in mind the contrast we present to our customary everyday appearance, he says—

"We shall do, boys! Proceed to victory, my Pahi lady-killers!"

We have a good distance to go, for the Member's place is fully twenty miles off; but we have plenty of rowers, and have wind as well as tide in our favour. Locomotion by water being our customary means of getting about, we think nothing of the distance, and get over it in fair time.

The Member's place is a very different style of thing to ours. He has been some years longer here than we have on the Pahi; and has had plenty of means to enable him to do as he liked. In former times some of us worked for him, and we are all very good friends. But it is a year or two since most of us visited here, and so we are much struck with the improvement that has been effected since we last saw the place.

To begin with, we land upon a little wharf or causeway of planks laid upon piles, which runs out over the mud to low-water mark, and enables people to land or embark at any time, without struggling through the mud first of all. For, on all these rivers, mud is the general rule. Shingle and sand appear in places, and there is often a belt of either above high-water mark; but below that, and as far as the ebb recedes, is almost invariably a stretch of greenish-grey sticky ooze. It is in this that the mangroves flourish, and it contains the shell-fish which the Maoris largely eat. Our boats are usually built flat-bottomed, so that they may be readily hauled up from, or shoved down to the water on the slippery surface of the mud, as may be required.

The Member's house stands close to the beach, but on a little elevation just above it. It is placed in an irregularly shaped basin, that opens out upon the river. Round the basin run low ranges, covered still with their original bush. But all the undulating extent between them and the river, some seven hundred acres or so, is under grass or cultivation. It is all enclosed with a boundary fence of strong pig-proof post-and-rail, and divided off by well cared for hedges, or wire fences. There are other and newer clearings beyond the ranges and out of sight, but here all that is visible is very much trimmer and neater in appearance than our farm.

Over three parts of the basin the plough has passed. About one-half is under wheat, maize, and other crops, while the grass on the remainder looks wonderfully rich, freed as it is from stumps, drained, and, to a measurable extent, levelled. Cattle, sheep, horses, and pigs are feeding in the paddocks.

We eye the scene with great admiration, and even envy. This is the sort of thing our farm ought to be, and will be. It is what it might have been already, perhaps, if we had been capitalists. But then we weren't.

The Member has got beyond the stage where we are still stuck. He is scarcely a pioneer farmer any longer. He has made his home, and a beautiful home it is, though shut out, seemingly, from all the world beside. The ranges, dark with woods, sweep round the fertile fields, the river flows below, and beyond it the untouched virginity of forest is again picturesquely apparent.

But we are in a hurry to get up to the house, and so we walk at once from the landing-place. A well-made gravelled path leads up from the waterside, not straight to the house, which is rather to the right, but along a neat paling, which encloses the gardens round it. On the left is an orchard of some extent, within which we see a great many more fruit-trees than we possess ourselves; they have been grown with care, and the varied produce of that fruit-yard would be a mine of wealth in Covent Garden.

Beyond the orchard, which is divided from the path by a hedge of orange, lemon, and quince, cut down into a dense shrubbery, we catch a glimpse through the trees of several labourers' cottages, and some barns or wool-sheds. The path is shaded by an avenue of fine trees, very large considering how young they are. Among them may be seen English oaks and beeches, American maples and sumachs, Spanish chestnuts, Australian blue-gums, Chinese and Japanese trees and shrubs, tropic palms, and some of the indigenous ornaments of the bush.

A hundred yards up this avenue, and we pass to the right through a gate in the garden paling. There we find ourselves in enchanted ground, for there is surely no garden in the North, except, perhaps, that of the Horticultural Society at Auckland, which is superior to this. It is beautifully laid out, and to us, fresh from the uncouth barbarism of our shanty and its surroundings, this place seems to breathe of the "Arabian Nights." And is there not a certain princess within, into whose seraphic presence we are now entering? We inhale a new atmosphere, and tread lightly, almost on tiptoe, speaking unconsciously in whispers, and with the blood running quicker through our veins.

The Member has money, as I have mentioned, and here, as elsewhere, money is a magician's rod that will work wonders. To the Member labour and the cost of it bear other relations than they do to us. He is able to look on life in a different light, and may expend toil on other matters than such as are of bare utility. And he has done so, wisely and lavishly, and so his home is what a home should be in this fair land—an Eden of natural beauty.

In this garden there are smooth lawns and dainty flower-beds, winding walks and blossomy banks, trellised arbours and shady groves. Taste and elegance are manifest all round us, from the scented rosery to the well-kept melon-patch. The rich and splendid hues of countless flowers delight our eyes, while their unwonted sweetness sends a mild intoxication into us with every breath we draw. We pass up to the house along a straight, broad path, smooth and white with shell-gravel. The path divides the garden in a part of its length, and has a hedge on either side. But these hedges are of ornamental rather than useful kind. One is of geranium and the other of fuchsia. Here those beautiful plants, which are guarded so carefully in English conservatories, grow into trees in the open air. These geranium and fuchsia hedges are composed of many varieties of both. They are about eight or ten feet in height, and are constantly and carefully pruned to keep down their too exuberant tendencies. They are loaded with blossom, while the fuchsia fruit is a palatable addition to the many dainties of garden and orchard.

The house before us carries about it the same air of comfort and ease as the garden, not to speak of elegance. It is a large villa, similar to some of the mansions one may see about colonial cities. Of what style its architecture may be I cannot say. It appears to partake of the character, externally, both of a Swiss chÂlet and a Norwegian country house.

Of course, the material of the building is entirely kauri timber, with the exception of the chimneys, which are of brick, and the piles, hidden from sight, which are of puriri wood. There are many angles, corners, gables, wings, and outputs, designed for utility as well as appearance. Round the whole house runs a broad verandah, following the irregularities of the edifice. Above it is a balcony, forming a verandah for the upper storey, and the high, steep roof extends evenly over this. Between the pillars of the verandah is a light rail or trellis, upon which flowering creepers are twined, passion-flowers, with their handsome blossoms and refreshing fruit, conspicuous among them. Openings give admittance from the garden here and there; while light staircases connect the upper and lower verandahs outside the house.

There has been some care in the ornamentation and finish; suitable carvings and mouldings adding beauty to the general design. The walls are painted white, picked out with green, while the shingled roof, being coloured red, looks passably like tiling. Altogether, the Member is to be congratulated on his domicile. It is a very different affair to ours. It would be honestly called a mansion in any country.

This is the sort of house we intend to have, we say, as we walk up to it. And this is the kind of garden we will have round it, too. O'Gaygun sniffs at the flowers with pretended disrespect, and mutters something about "taters" being more useful and to the purpose. But even he is a little quelled by the surroundings, and we hear no more of his barbaric philosophy for a time.

Still, mark this, there is an air about the place that makes it different from so many old-country habitations. You do not feel that you may look but mustn't touch. You are not reminded that everything is for show, and not for use. There is no primness in the garden. There is an honest degree of orderly disorder, and an absence of formality. You do not feel as if you ought not to walk on the grass for fear of hurting it. There is no artificiality apparent; no empty pretences whatsoever.

The house partakes of the same characteristic. It looks homely, and as if it was meant to be lived in. As we reach the verandah we notice a saddle or two carelessly slung over the rail; we see a hammock hung in one corner; and some clothes drying on lines in another. A couple of colley dogs come barking to meet us from their kennels on a shady side; and various other slight details betoken that we are still in the unsophisticated bush.

We tramp heavily along the verandah, a formidable gang of uncouth barbarians. Old Colonial, at our head, gives a gentle coo-ee to intimate our arrival. Then out pops our hostess from somewhere. A merry, bright-eyed little woman is she, such as it does one's heart good to behold. She comes forward, with two of her children beside her, not a whit dismayed at the invasion. She gives us a hearty welcome, shaking hands religiously all along our lengthy line.

This is one of those women who always make you feel gratified and contented with yourself and all the world, after you have shaken hands with or spoken to her. "Magnetic," some people call it. She is every one's sister, and you feel an instinctive affection for her, of that sober and yet warm kind which may be termed loyalty. She is queen in the Kaipara; and all of us think it the greatest pleasure in life to obey her behests.

Chatting gaily, our hostess leads us through an open French window into the drawing-room, and we follow her, with a pleased and yet bashful sense of expectancy. Into the drawing-room, mark you! and a real drawing-room, too; not a visible make-believe, like the library in our shanty. This is a large room, furnished as people do furnish their best reception-chamber in civilized lands. Pictures hang on the varnished walls; books and book-cases stand here and there; tables loaded with knick-knacks, vases of flowers, workboxes, albums, and so forth; chairs and sofas and lounges; ornaments, statuettes, brackets, and various etcetera, betoken a life of greater ease than that of our shanty.

We sit around in an uncouth semicircle, awkward and somewhat ill at ease, for we feel ourselves a little out of place in that room. One cannot live the life that we have lived for years past, without feeling strange and uncomfortable when once again brought within the influence of refinement. So we look at our boots with a sense that our hobnails do not match with the white Japanese matting that covers the floor; and we sit on the edge of our chairs just as other rustics would do at home. Our hats removed, the results of Old Colonial's tonsorial operations are made fully apparent. Our hostess surveys us with a puzzled air. I think she is struggling with a desire to laugh at the quaint simplicity of the communal wardrobe of our shanty, as it is now displayed on our persons before her.

We have been petting the children, and, like other children, these are a trifle too observant. One of them, who is sitting on Old Colonial's knee, suddenly becomes aware of the state of his poll, and, pulling his beard to attract attention, asks—

"What made you cut your hair off?"

Old Colonial looks across at the Saint; and then, catching Mrs. Member's eye, he and she and all of us go off into peals and roars of laughter. In the midst of this the door opens, we catch sight of another lady entering, and we stumble confusedly to our feet. It is she!

Miss Fairweather comes forward, escorted by the Member, and followed by a straggling crowd of half a dozen men, similar barbarians to ourselves, who have got here before us. She is a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, would be considered so anywhere. Here, in her dainty elegance of costume, to our rude senses she appears almost too beautiful. She dazzles us altogether; we know no longer whether we are standing on our heads or our heels.

We are being severally introduced with all due ceremony. The little beauty is not by any means disconcerted at the ordeal; she is evidently used to the position she occupies; used to being regarded with awe as a superior being by ranks and regiments of bearded bushmen. She receives our reverential bows with an amused expression in her blue eyes, and shakes hands with us, one by one, with the air of a princess according gracious favours to her subjects. And a funny little incident occurs.

Miss Fairweather remarks to the Little'un that she thinks she has met him before; in Auckland, probably. Either she is mistaken, or, the Little'un has forgotten, and is shamefaced. He blushes the colour of beet-root. His huge frame wobbles in confusion; and, awkwardly trying to shrink out of sight, as his bashful habit is, he steps backward, and plants a giant heel upon O'Gaygun's toe. That outraged individual startles the assemblage with the sudden exclamation, "Gosh!" Endeavouring to extricate himself, he lumbers against the Saint and Dark Charlie, whom he sends flying into a centre-table. The table overturns, of course, and Dark Charlie's short, thick person sprawls and flounders heavily over it.

The ice is now thoroughly broken. The ladies fall into seats, fairly screaming with laughter, and all of us, except the unlucky ones, begin to feel more at home. Then Mrs. Member tells her friend all sorts of wild legends about our shanty, such as obtain among the feminine public of the district. She says we are just a pack of overgrown schoolboys, who are rapidly turning into absolute savages. And they banter us deliciously to their hearts' content.

But we are not noisy visitors, you know, on such occasions as these. On the contrary, the ladies do most of the talking, as some of us are absolutely tongue-tied. We can do nothing but sit and gaze at the young lady in our midst with all our eyes. She is a houri straight from Paradise, and we poor mortals just get a glimpse from beyond the gate, as it were.

Then more arrivals keep dropping in by twos and threes, neighbouring settlers and chums of ours. So at last a circle of some thirty more or less rough-looking men form a court about those two ladies. Then we go to dinner in another room. Most of us dine chiefly off Miss Fairweather, devouring her with our admiring gaze, listening enraptured to her chat, and pulsating with wild joy if she do but smile or speak to us personally. Many can hardly eat anything; they are too love-sick already.

After dinner our shyness has disappeared, and our native manhood re-asserts itself. The men of the Pahi must not be cut out by rivals from other rivers. They must do all they know to find favour in those beautiful eyes. We go strolling about the place in little knots, admiring the garden, eating fruit in the orchard, visiting the paddocks to see the stock and the crops, and generally enjoying ourselves after our manner.

Each of our ladies has a little group around her, which goes off separately. The component parts of Miss Fairweather's immediate train may change from time to time; men may come and men may go, as it pleases her; but the gallant O'Gaygun, the devoted Dandy Jack, the obliging Old Colonial, and the fascinating Fiend are ever hovering around her, deferent, attentive, and adoring. Whether she is strolling or sitting, walking or talking, one or all of them seem to be by her side. They will not leave the field open to their numerous rivals, not for one minute, if they know it.

How it was managed I cannot tell, but I have the fact on the best authority, Mrs. Member's in good sooth, that something happened very much. That is to say, my informant tells me that the young lady received no less than sixteen distinct proposals of marriage that day, nearly all of which were renewed on subsequent occasions. It can only have been for the barest fraction of a minute that any gentleman could find himself alone with her. But, whenever any one did get the chance, he must have jumped at the opportunity.

You see, it is the custom of the country, of the bush at all events. We have no time for courting, scarcely any opportunity for it. We propose first—marry first if we can—and do the courting afterwards. We have to be spry about these things if we ever intend to get wedded at all. It is the result of competition. A great many men are hungering and yearning for wives, and there are very few girls for them to choose among. So matches are made without very extensive preliminaries. The ladies appear to like this celerity. Perhaps they are unwittingly philosophic, and reflect that, with months of courting, they can really know little more of a man than they did the first hour they met him, because he is naturally on his best behaviour then. Marriage is a lottery any way you can work it. It is only afterwards that each partner can obtain a true knowledge of the other. And I am bound to say that you will not find better wives or better husbands anywhere, than you will in the bush.

So, as I have said, Miss Fairweather received sixteen offers that day. In point of fact she took all hearts by storm. Not a man in the Kaipara who would not have laid down and died for her. Not a bachelor among us who would not have felt exalted to the seventh heaven if he could have won her for his wife. But I dare say no more on this topic, and no more about the dear little beauty either, lest the too fortunate and ever-to-be envied gentleman, who now calls himself her husband, should come after me with his stock-whip.

When the sun has set and evening has come, supper over, we sit in the lamp-lit drawing-room, enjoying the sweet intoxication of the ladies' presence. Or we lounge on the verandah outside the open windows, listening to the chat within, hearing around us the whispers of the forest, or the ripple and risp of the moonlit river, gazing at the profound shadows of the wooded ranges opposite, and inhaling the fragrant sweets of the sleeping garden. Peaceful and silent is that starlit night in the bush.

Then, it being Sunday, the Member gives us service. And as the piano sounds, and we all join in singing the 23rd Psalm—

"In pastures green, He leadeth me,
The quiet waters by,"

I think, that to even the most irreligious or most careless among us, the words, under the influences of our situation, come fraught with homely inspiration.

Later, we are rowing back home with the tide. But we carry with us renewed hope and energy for our daily toil; for we have had, as it were, a foretaste of what is to be ours, some day, not so very far hence. We, too, shall have a home like that, as a reward for years of toil and hardship. And, God willing, it shall be graced for each of us with a wife like—her.