It is a beautiful morning in March, when an unusually large party assembles at "our shanty." The sun is just rising, and is not yet visible above the sheltering ranges which hem in the central flat that forms the farm. The sky is cloudless, the air still and fragrant with the odours of the awakening woods.

Day-dawn is always the most beautiful time in New Zealand. It is especially so on this occasion, for a few showers had refreshed the thirsty earth on the previous day; and to us, as we emerge from our blankets eager with expectation, all Nature seems to wear a fresher and more blooming aspect.

Half a mile below the shanty rolls the river, broad and blue, while the wooded shore opposite seems scarcely a stone's throw distant. The smoke curls lazily up from the fire within the shanty, where men are breakfasting and girding themselves for the fray.

Outside on the clearings the hum of the crickets is as yet scarcely perceptible, but a party of turkeys can be seen advancing across the grass in line of battle, commencing their day's onslaught on the insect tribes. Cattle and sheep, pigs and poultry, have withdrawn from the immediate neighbourhood of the shanty, and are assembled in groups at a respectful distance, wondering and frightened at the unusual gathering of the human species.

For with the sun come settlers and Maoris from all sides, some brought by boats and canoes upon the river, some galloping on horseback along the beach, others on foot struggling through the woods and across the ranges on either hand, all converging upon the shanty with shouting salutations, that are responded to with loudly demonstrated welcome.

A rough and wild-looking assemblage we are, I make no doubt, yet fitting well into the foreground of the scene, with its rude and incipient civilization insulting the dominant wildness of Nature all around. Long before the sun has had time to climb above the ranges our muster is complete, and a larger party assembled than a stranger would imagine it possible to gather from so sparsely populated a district. Some thirty, settlers and their workmen, are there, together with about twice as many natives.

All are equipped for the hunt in the lightest possible marching order—shirt, trousers and belt, boots and leggings, with an apology for a hat to crown the whole—such is the costume; a sheath-knife and tomahawk the weapons; with a store of food, tobacco and matches, to provide against all emergencies—such is the provision. Our native allies are attired in much the same guise, only slightly more ragged and dirty—if that be possible—and, generally speaking, barefooted. They are in a state of suppressed excitement, shown by their gleaming eyes and teeth, and in their wild exclamations and gestures.

And I must not forget the most important members of the hunting party—the dogs. Some two dozen have been collected for the occasion, most of them belonging to Maoris; of no particular breed, but all large and heavy, strong-jawed and supple-limbed animals, wolfish-looking fierce creatures, but all more or less trained to the work before them. Good pig-dogs are not easily met with, and in the bush they are esteemed a prize. Our lot are a scratch pack, made up of any that can be induced to seize a pig, and have weight sufficient to hold on to him; a few are thought to be more experienced and capable.

The men, on assembling, mostly go into the shanty to get some breakfast, in the shape of tea, bread, smoked fish and pork, and then straggle about the place, smoking, chatting, and waiting for the order to start. Picture the rough grassy slopes, covered with the standing stumps among the new grass, the rude shanty in the middle of the lower ground, as I have described it, the background of bush-covered heights, with the sun just coming up from behind them into the brilliant sky; and people this scene with the groups of men—Maori and Pakeha, uncouth in appearance as the shaggy cattle that are looking on from a corner of the clearing, or as the clumsy-looking but savage dogs that roam about, or are held in leash by their owners. Such is a "meet" in the bush.

"Rather a different affair from the last meet of the Pytchley that you and I rode to," remarks one brawny, blue-shirted and ankle-jacked giant to another, as they squat on a log, comfortably enjoying an early whiff of "Venus" from their short, black clays.

"What would they say at home, if they could see us now?" replies his friend, pushing back the battered relic of a "topee" from his unkempt hair and somewhat dirty face. Truly, the pair would scarcely appear to advantage in an English huntingfield, in their present trim.

And now, while the last preparations are being made for the start, let us see what it is we are about to attack. The New Zealand wild pig of the present day is the descendant of animals introduced by Captain Cook and other of the early voyagers from the old countries. These people gave pigs to the natives with whom they opened intercourse, and the Maoris, not being used to live stock, lost a good many of their new acquisitions, which ran away into the bush and easily eluded pursuit in its dense coverts. Here they bred and multiplied to such a degree that immense droves of them are now to be found in all parts of the islands. In the fern-root and other roots of the bush they find an endless supply of food, which, if it does not tend to make their meat of good quality, at any rate seems to favour an increase in their numbers.

Whatever may have been the original breed of these animals, the present representatives of the race are neither particularly good-looking or useful. They are lank and lean, with large heads and high shoulders, narrow, spiny backs sloping downwards to the short hind legs; hams they have none. They are thickly covered with bristles, and are mostly black, brown, and grizzled in colour. The mass of them are not large, but the patriarchal boars attain a great size, some of them standing over three feet in height. These fellows have enormous tusks curling on each side of their massive jaws, sharp as razors and strong as crowbars.

Wild pigs are usually shy, and keep well out of the way of human invaders of their solitudes; but boars have occasionally been known to "tree" some incautious wayfarer, while, when hunted, they become exceedingly ferocious. One of our stockmen, out riding on open ground, was attacked by a boar that suddenly rushed upon him from a thicket; his horse was ripped up in a moment, and he only escaped by nimbly climbing into a tree that was fortunately near.

In hunting the pigs it is necessary to go afoot, on account of the density of the bush, and accidents sometimes occur. Some dogs are sure to be killed; while now and then a too rash hunter may get the calf of his leg torn off, and might be otherwise injured, even fatally, though I never knew of any case of so grave a nature.

Settlers regard wild pigs as vermin, only made to be exterminated; and they have, I think, considerable reason for their hatred. The pigs are capable of doing a great deal of damage. Fences must be strongly and closely put up to keep them out, and they must be continually examined and carefully repaired when necessary; for one rotten stake in a fence has often been the cause of a loss of great magnitude. In a single night the wild pigs may devastate many acres, if they once gain admittance, and destroy tons of potatoes, maize, or any sort of crop.

But there is also another way in which they are prejudicial to the farmer, and peculiarly so to the newer settler. I have said that they are excessively lean and ill-shaped beasts, and I may add that their flesh is not only very tough, but it also has a strong smell, and a peculiarly nauseous flavour. The old pigs, both male and female, are absolutely uneatable in any part, though very young sows are appreciated by the Maoris—when they cannot get domestic-bred pork—and are eaten on a pinch by settlers and bushmen, whose vigorous appetites overcome all fastidiousness.

Pork—fresh and salted, bacon and ham—is the natural and invariable food of the settler. Beef and mutton are too valuable as marketable steers, dairy cattle, and wool-growers, and are not so conveniently prepared into keeping forms; hence the pigs he breeds on his clearings are looked upon by the bush-farmer as the regular source whence to draw his household provision in the meat way. Now, if the wild boars out of the bush get among the brood sows upon the clearings, the result is deplorably manifest in the next generation, which will display more or less of the evil characteristics of the wild race. Thus, both the older farmer and the newest settler are nearly touched, and both unite in a common warfare with the enemy.

It is often possible to stalk down and to shoot individual wild pigs on open ground, but that is looked upon merely as a cheerful interlude of sport; it has no deterrent or scaring effect upon the bulk of the droves, and is a waste of time, so far as regards the clearance of a district. A grand and well-organized drive, such as that we are about to see, will often result in not a single wild pig being visible in the district for six months and more afterwards. It is good sport, too; very arduous, since the hunter has to run and scramble through miles of forest. It has in it a good spice of danger, such as Britons love, and is, on the whole, pretty popular. Pig-hunting may be described as a sort of national sport in New Zealand.

But here is Old Colonial issuing from the shanty, and a start seems imminent. The plan of campaign has been arranged between him and Mihake Tekerahi, the Maori, and another settler from a neighbouring river. The straggling groups of men and dogs are divided into three bodies, two of which will proceed to right and left respectively, and the third will go directly "back" from the farm. All the parties will become subdivided into smaller gangs, in the course of the day, but all will converge upon a given point in the bush, which will be the limit of the hunt.

The block of land on which we are lies between three large rivers, and, owing to the conformation of the country and the winding of the rivers, its fourth side is a narrow neck of land not more than a mile and a half wide. Here there is a very lofty and rugged range, and it is the spot agreed on as our final rendezvous, being some fifteen miles distant from our shanty.

Besides the men who have met at the farm, there are several parties who will start from more distant places, and who will also make for the range as their terminal point. We hope, by this concentrated drive, to kill as many pigs as possible, and to cause the rest of them to retire beyond the narrow space between the rivers; then the whole of our block will be free from them for some time to come. We have thought of running a fence across from river to river, but the rough nature of the ground, and the absence of suitable material quite close to the required spot, would make this rather too arduous—and therefore too expensive—a work for us to perform just yet, in our incipient stage of settlement. So we content ourselves with an annual hunt on a grand and conjoint scale, and with such minor forays as it pleases individuals to make from time to time.

Our way at first—I speak of the band which regards Old Colonial as its chief director—lies up the clearings, through the bush above, and so to the elevated ground behind the shanty. Here a halt is called, and our band is again subdivided into two divisions, which are to take along the two ranges that commence from this point, hunting the gullies on both sides of them as they go. Then there is a loud fire of coo-ees, to ascertain the position of the brigades that started under Mihake and the other man. Their answering coo-ees come faintly but clearly out of the distant bush on both sides of us, denoting that they have severally reached their appointed starting places.

And now the work begins in earnest. There is a tightening of belts, a putting out of pipes, and a general air of alertness on every face. For a time we go plunging on among the trees and brushwood, encouraging the dogs that are hunting the gullies below with frequent shouts of "Hi, there, Rimu! Go in, Shark!" and so forth. We have not yet started any pigs, though here and there we pass tracts of ground ploughed up by them.

But, soon, there is a sudden burst of barking from the right, and some of us rush frantically off in that direction. But the loud voice of Old Colonial is heard calling in the dogs and shouting—

"Ware cattle! Ware cattle! Keep back there, it's Red Spot's mob!"

And presently, with flying tails and tossing horns, a score of great beasts go lumbering and crashing by, pursued by that ill-conditioned Shark, who never will remember his duty, and persists in chasing pigs when his business is to be after cattle, and so, to-day, is earnestly and conscientiously driving cattle when he ought to give his mind only to pigs.

All the roaring and swearing that goes ringing through the trees only serves to convince Shark that he is in the right; and he is only stopped in his wild career by the fortunate fact that the Saint, who has lagged far in the rear, steps in the way, cajoles Shark into listening to his advice, and, with a big stick and a few of the most gorgeous expletives of which he is eminently the master, persuades the errant hound of his mistake. Deep and dire are the maledictions heaved at the unhappy Shark, and in which his companions, Rimu and Toto, Wolf and Katipo, have unjustly to share. For the row occasioned by the episode has been enough to scare away all the pigs in the district; or, as a Maori near me mysteriously phrases it, "Make te tam poaka runny kanui far hihi!"—a sentence that I put on record, as a specimen of the verbal excesses to which education may lead the once untutored savage.

However, the most knowing may sometimes be mistaken, and so it luckily proves in the present instance, for scarcely have we recovered from our disgust at Shark's misconduct, and resumed our hunting operations, than again the canine music breaks merrily out, followed by shouts in a dozen voices of—

"Pig! pig! Lay up there, dogs! Good dogs! Lay up there, Rimu, Rimu, Toto! At 'em, boys! At 'em! Lay up! Pig! pig!"

And then the hot excitement seizes upon us all, and, as we hear the unmistakable grunting, squealing, and hough-houghing of pigs, we plunge madly down to the scene of action. It is no time for considering one's steps; we go straight for the point where the noise leads us, crashing against trees, stumbling over logs, regardless of every obstacle. We pitch headlong into holes hidden by treacherous banks of ferns; we swing over little precipices by the help of supple-jacks and lianes; we press through thorny bush-lawyers, heedless of the rags and skin we leave behind us; we splash through mud and water up to our waists; hot and breathless, torn and bleeding, bruised and muddy, we come tumbling, crashing, plunging, bounding down the sides of the gully, mad with the fierce excitement of the moment.

A number of pigs are rushing wildly about among the flax and fern-trees, not knowing which way to escape. The dogs are at them gallantly, seizing them by the ears, laying up against them flank to flank, and holding on like grim death. The din is terrific, every one is shouting encouragement to the dogs, or to himself; the pigs are squealing and crying as only pigs can.

Half a dozen dogs have fastened on to as many pigs, growling and worrying, but holding fast in spite of the twisting and shaking of their prey, in spite of the clashing of tusks and the savage snorting of one or two boars among the drove, in spite of being dragged and scraped through brushwood and timber, keeping always flank to flank with the pigs they hold, like good dogs as they are.

I see Old Colonial bounding on before me, after a huge pig that is dragging the great dog on his ear as a bull-dog would drag a rat in a similar position. The pig heads up the bank, but Old Colonial is upon him; he grabs at a hind leg and seizes it with both hands.

He is down, and is also dragged on his face for a moment; but he still keeps his grip in spite of kicking and struggling; keeps a firm, hard hold, regardless of the bruises and scratches he is getting; never leaves go till he gets his opportunity, till he can put foot to the ground; and then, with one mighty heave, over goes the pig on his back. Then triumphantly does Old Colonial put his knee on the boar's belly, calmly he presses back the snout with one hand, while, in the other, his knife glitters for a moment in the sunshine, and is then driven well home.

In another minute, with Old Colonial's whoop of victory ringing in my ears, I, too, am engaged. A great, heavy sow passes close before me, with Katipo tearing at her ear. Simultaneously a couple of Maoris and myself charge after her. One of them stops behind to tomahawk such of her litter as he can catch; the other man and I hurl ourselves down upon the animal, after chasing her a hundred yards or so among the scrub.

I seize at a leg and am thrown violently to the ground, getting a kick in the face that sets my nose bleeding. The Maori comes to my aid and gets a hold, and together we are rolled over on the ground.

Alas! we have not between us Old Colonial's knack and activity, nor are we endowed with muscles of such steely fibre. We keep our clutch determinedly, desperately, and we are flung and bumped among the tree-roots and brushwood. The pig is screaming like a hundred railway engines; kicking, plunging, stamping, tearing, twisting from side to side in a vain endeavour to rid herself of us, or to get at us with those formidable jaws; shaking Katipo—a big mastiff-like cur—about, as a cat would shake a mouse. But still we two men hold on to that hind leg of hers, careless of our hurts, prone on our faces, but straining every muscle to keep the grip. Presently we get a chance; together we get our knees upon a log, together we put our backs into the effort, and heave. Over she goes.

Hurrah! On to her at once! Sit on her belly and keep her down! Never mind the kicking legs in the air! Get a hand between the struggling forelegs, gently, along the neck! Now then, out with the ready sheath-knife, and dig it in! There! Right to the heart, till the blood spurts out over us! Hurrah! Good! There's another mother of a family the less!

And now we may take breath for a minute or two, praise old Katipo, and cut off the pig's ears as a trophy. Only for the shortest possible minute, though, for the hunt is going on with headlong haste and hurry. We must be up and off after more pigs, and must rejoin the rest of the scattered party, whose shouts may be heard in various directions; there must be no loitering when pigs are near, for they will not wait, we may be sure.

As we run and scramble on through the scrub, making way upwards along the gully, we pass several dead pigs at intervals, which show that the rest of the boys have been well employed. Presently we come upon the Saint, in the midst of a gloomy thicket of birch, sitting astride of a great dead boar, and employed with his tomahawk in endeavouring to chop out the tusks.

Then Katipo discovers a small family of pigs comfortably stowed away among the dense vegetation of a little marshy hollow. These give the three of us some diversion; we manage to kill two of them, and drive out the remainder upwards through the bush. Following them up hotly for about a mile, Katipo lays hold of one after another, which we turn over and stick as we can, killing two or three more in this way.

But the work is very arduous, and the day is wearing towards noon, and is consequently very hot—March being here equivalent to an English September, but much warmer and drier. We are dripping with sweat, our shirts torn and muddied, blood all over us—both pigs' and our own—and we feel well-nigh exhausted for the time being by the tremendous and violent exertions we have been making.

After the next pig is finally, and with desperate fighting, slaughtered, there seems to be a general tacit advance towards taking a rest. Katipo and another dog that we have picked up have taken to lapping at the creek in the gully, and laying themselves down near the stream, seem inclined for a brief snooze. The two Maoris are hacking at some nikaus, and extracting the pith therefrom; and the Saint and I think it well to do likewise.

After munching away at the refreshing stuff for a considerable while, we guiltily put on our pipes; guiltily, for we know that our earnest leader, Old Colonial, will persevere with unflagging zeal and untiring energy, and will continue the chase without a moment's cessation. Many of the settlers will do the same, though probably but few of the natives, for they have not a fine power of endurance, and it pleases them usually to do things by spurts.

However, we are all the better for the temporary relaxation, and pursue our course with renewed vigour. We have now reached the recesses of the heavy forest, after passing through various gradations of lighter bush. Here and there, on our way, we have come across stretches of open fern-land; but in this district bush is the most prevalent characteristic of the vegetation.

Now and then we come upon some gully or flat that has been fired at some previous period, either by Maoris or settlers. These old burns are now covered with a dense and uniform jungle of ti-tree second-growth, through which it is often not easy to pass. The cane-like stems of the young ti-tree grow close together, like a field of corn, bearing a feathery green foliage and a white flower, and having a pleasant balsamic odour. High above the soft green surface of the second-growth are lifted the bleached trunks and skeleton arms of dead trees, standing gaunt and grim at intervals among the younger growths below.

These ti-tree coverts afford very close harbourage for pigs. In them pigs may hide so well that the hunter might touch them before he saw them; nay, cattle even may hide as closely. Through the ti-tree there frequently run narrow paths, or irregular tracks, worn by pigs and cattle; and, as the wayfarer passes along any one of these tracks, he has the pleasant excitement of knowing that at any moment he may come face to face with a boar, in a position where the boar naturally has all the advantage, if he chooses to avail himself of it.

In the course of the day our little party makes way onward through the bush, in the direction of the general rendezvous. Occasionally we start up pigs, sometimes losing them, and sometimes getting one or two; but the details of the capture and sticking of those we manage to catch do not differ very much from the account already given, except that we have not killed any pigs of particularly large size.

About noon, or somewhat after, we make a decided halt for the purpose of getting our dinners, of which we begin to feel very much in need. Unhappily, no one has brought a tin pannikin along with him, so we cannot make ourselves any tea; but we light a fire at the bottom of a shady gully, beside some running water, and commence to cook our repast.

Each man has got his little parcel of bread or biscuit and meat, tied up firmly in flax, and fastened to his belt; but besides this, the bush is affording us other kinds of tucker. Katipo killed a kiwi in the course of our morning's hunt, and this bird is now being skinned, cut up, and roasted on sticks. We wish it had been a weka, or bush-hen, as that is more succulent eating; but we have hearty appetites, and will do justice to the kiwi, anyhow.

Then the Maoris have cut out the livers of a couple of young pigs, and these are toasted in strips, and are not such bad eating after all. By way of desert we have some berries from the trees around, that prove very nice.

After our appetites are satisfied, and the digestive pipe duly smoked, we resume our hunting operations. But luck is no longer with us, and when, after walking and scrambling for two or three miles, and feeling that the time is fast slipping by, we do come upon pigs, we get separated in the chase that ensues, and I find myself very shortly after that completely alone.

I keep walking on, however, in the direction I judge will bring me out upon the place of assembly; and, after an hour or two, I begin to hear sounds of life. I am on somewhat high ground, which gradually slopes downward in the direction I am taking. It is all heavy bush in this part; huge trees, covered with ferns and creepers, soar upwards on all sides. The sunlight falls in patches here and there, through the canopy of branches far overhead, and occasionally there occur little glades and dells and openings, quite open to the light.

Below the great trees are many smaller ones, among which I notice nikau-palms, cabbage-palms, fern-trees, and tingahere, attracting the eye with their stranger forms. Below these, again, is a thick jungle of shrubs of many species, masses of creeping-plants matting the bushes together, or depending from the trees and ferns in infinite profusion and luxuriance.

The late afternoon sun is slanting from behind me, so that when its rays shoot through the branches they light up the scenes in front, and thus the picture I presently witness comes before me with proper artistic effect. I hear sounds of life coming through the trees in advance of me—the sounds of men shouting and yelling in excitement; the noise of dogs barking and yelping; and through it and above it all, clearer and clearer heard as I run hastily forward, the horrid hoarse "hough-hough"—that sound so hollow and booming as heard in the "echoing woods,"—with the sharper metallic clashing of savage jaws, that I know can only proceed from some patriarchal boar.

A minute later and I come out upon the scene of action. It is a comparatively open glade, surrounded on all sides by the dense forest, and having, near the opposite extremity, a small, abruptly-rising knoll, that is crowned by a single gigantic rata-tree. The little glade is full of unwonted life; nigh a score of the hunting party, and eight or ten dogs, are making things pretty lively within it.

The cause of all the uproar and excitement is seen among the spreading and massive roots of the rata; it is a boar, one of the largest any of us ever saw, and he is now "bailed up" below the great tree.

To say that he seems as big as a donkey but feebly expresses the apparent size of the beast. His stern is set back against the tree; but the mighty and ferocious head is turned full upon his foes. Every bristle on his crest stands erect with rage. The small but fierce eyes take in every movement, and survey dogs and men with desperate and fiend-like animosity. The long snout is pointed straight forward, showing the gleaming teeth below it, while the great tusks, curving up from the jaws, shine like scimitars.

Nor is the huge brute one moment still; his fore-feet are pawing and tearing at the ground; his head is turned first in one direction and then in another; his whole body is quivering and shaking; foam flies from his grinding jaws; while his continued snorting, with its roaring, bellowing, and shrieking intonations, is horrible to hear.

Yet as this savage king of the forest stands there at bay, there is a something grand and majestic about him, something of barbaric and unconquerable pride and courage, despite his demoniac and ogre-like ugliness; but, I am afraid, no one sees anything but a big fierce pig, who must be slaughtered as speedily and cleverly as possible.

Most of the men keep at a respectful distance, not caring to get too close to those formidable tusks; but they are actively employed in shouting and brandishing knives and tomahawks. Close in front of the pig, amid a whirling circle of barking dogs, Old Colonial, O'Gaygun, and one or two Maoris appear to be performing an exciting kind of war-dance. They are endeavouring to urge in the dogs, and are trying to draw the pig out from among the tree-roots; while, at the same time, they are springing actively about in order to avoid each fancied and expected rush of the boar.

But the boar is not to be drawn out from among the high branching roots that protect his flanks and stern. At every near approach of dog or man he feints to charge, lowering and tossing his head, uttering yet fiercer notes of wrath, or tearing up the ground, and sending splinters flying from the tree with blows from his tusks; such threatening movements on his part effectually deterring his foes in their advance. Sticks and stones, large and weighty, are hurled at him from all sides. What does he care for such puny projectiles? Even a well-aimed tomahawk, that strikes him full and fairly, fails to hurt or penetrate his armour of bristles and tough hide. Like Achilles, his weak place is in his heels—his rear, and that is well protected behind him.

But another foeman to the swinish champion now appears upon the scene. A man, whom I have come close to in the hurry-skurry, suddenly calls to me—

"Look at old Tama up there behind the tree!" Then he shouts in stentorian delight—

"Te toa rere, te toa mahuta! Go it, Tama, old boy! Hopu te poaka! Jump in and kill him!"

Looking up at the great trunk of the rata, with its extensive pedestal of gnarled and twisting roots, that for six or eight feet from the ground branch down all round its base, I see peering round the stem, and from above the roots, a face that I know well; it is that of Tama-te-Whiti. He has made a circuit, got behind the tree, and is now climbing over and among the extended roots, cautiously and silently stealing upon the pig, with intent to drive it out of the cover of the tree.

Old Tama's grey hair hangs loosely over his brows; his elaborate tattooing looks unusually conspicuous; his arms are bare to the shoulder; and, as he gradually draws himself into our view, we see his body is almost bare, except a few fluttering rags of shirt that still remain about him. The other day I saw Tama at the township, elaborately attired in black broadcloth and white linen and all the rest of it, looking a perfect picture of smug respectability and aged innocence. Now here he is, grasping a tomahawk in his sinewy hand, with a knife held between his teeth, and—albeit 'tis only a boar he is attacking—with a fire dancing in his eyes like that which shone there in his hot youth, when, here in these self-same woods, he and the young braves of his tribe met in deadly conflict with the invading Ngapuhi.

The boar is unconscious of Tama's approach; he is occupied with his adversaries in front, who are redoubling their efforts to attract his attention. And at this moment another of the hunters is seized with an heroic impulse.

It has at last come home to the mind of that impetuous and much objurgated dog, Shark, that his destiny in life is to be a boar-hound. Hitherto, his experience of the manners and customs of pigs has not been great; but the conviction has come to him that he knows all about the business; and, too, he is probably anxious to retrieve his disgraceful conduct of the morning. Shark is a fresh arrival on the scene, having just come in with one of the straggling parties. He is not contented to join his canine companions, who are warily waiting their opportunity to dash in on the boar's flanks and rear; but, like all high-couraged and impetuous youth, Shark dashes, barking, to the front, and blindly, quixotically, and madly, he charges on the boar.

Alas! poor dog! great as was his bravery, his size, his strength, what could they avail in such foolhardy strife? One jerk of the black snout, one flash of the white tusks, and, with a last yelping scream, the body of poor Shark goes whirling up into the air, and falls a bleeding, bisected, lifeless lump. Poor Shark! with all his faults, I think we loved him well!

But even in his death he is avenged. The boar darted a few feet forward in his onslaught upon Shark, and the opportunity has been seized upon. The war-cry of the Ngatewhatua goes echoing through the forest, as old Tama springs down in rear of the boar; his swinging tomahawk inflicts a gaping wound, and he seizes a hind leg of the pig before that animal can back itself among the roots.

Other Maoris, Old Colonial, and more of the party rush to his aid. Dogs seize on the boar's bleeding ears. For a minute there is a scene of direful confusion, an indescribable struggle in which men, dogs, and pig are mingled in a twisting, shouting, panting, wrestling heap. Another dog gets his flank slit up, a man has his legging and trouser torn off his leg, and then the giant brute is conquered. Overturned and shrieking, kicking, biting, struggling desperately to the last, till half a dozen knives are buried in his heart.

With the slaughter of the monster boar the day's hunt comes to an end. The spot is close to the rendezvous, and most of the parties have arrived, or are not far off. There is an interchange of gossip over the doings of the day among the various groups; and, by-and-by, a count up of the number of pigs killed. Ears and tails are produced as vouchers, and about three hundred and fifty pigs, big and little, are thus accounted for, while half a dozen pair of tusks, of more than ordinary size, denote the killing of as many large boars. The tusks from the last slain monster become the property of Old Colonial, and, gaily mounted in silver, they may now be found among the ornaments of an English drawing-room.

But now evening is upon us, and many of the party are tramping homewards in divers directions through the bush. Others make their way to a point on one of the rivers, a mile or so from the rendezvous, where boats have been brought up, and whence they will have a long row to their various places. But by far the greater number are too much fagged out with the exertions of the day to move from their present resting-places.

So a camp is formed in a suitable spot, and one or two of the least tired set about getting some supper ready, and gather fern for bedding. And when night deepens overhead, and the shadows of the forest fold round us, recumbent forms are stretched around the roaring camp-fire; supper, rude and rough, but hearty, has been eaten, pipes are lighted, and while some are snoring, others are lazily recounting their doughty deeds, and enjoying to the full the well-earned rest that fitly terminates a pig-hunt in the bush.

END OF VOL. I.