a Farm--Moa Bones.

January 27, 1860.--Oh, the heat! the clear transparent atmosphere, and
the dust! How shall I describe everything--the little townlet, for I
cannot call it town, nestling beneath the bare hills that we had been
looking at so longingly all the morning--the scattered wooden boxes of
houses, with ragged roods of scrubby ground between them--the tussocks
of brown grass--the huge wide-leafed flax, with its now seedy stem,
sometimes 15 or 16 feet high, luxuriant and tropical-looking--the
healthy clear-complexioned men, shaggy-bearded, rowdy-hatted, and
independent, pictures of rude health and strength--the stores, supplying
all heterogeneous commodities--the mountains, rising right behind the
harbour to a height of over a thousand feet--the varied outline of the
harbour now smooth and sleeping. Ah me! pleasant sight and fresh to
sea-stricken eyes. The hot air, too, was very welcome after our long
chill.

We dined at the table d'hote at the Mitre--so foreign and yet so
English--the windows open to the ground, looking upon the lovely
harbour. Hither come more of the shaggy clear-complexioned men with the
rowdy hats; looked at them with awe and befitting respect. Much grieved
to find beer sixpence a glass. This was indeed serious, and was one of
the first intimations which we received that we were in a land where
money flies like wild-fire.

After dinner I and another commenced the ascent of the hill between port
and Christ Church. We had not gone far before we put our knapsacks on
the back of the pack-horse that goes over the hill every day (poor pack-
horse!). It is indeed an awful pull up that hill; yet we were so
anxious to see what was on the other side of it that we scarcely noticed