Chapter I: A Bush picnic.


Since my return to England, two years ago, I have been frequently
asked by my friends and acquaintances, "How did you amuse yourself
up at the station?" I am generally tempted to reply, "We were all
too busy to need amusement;" but when I come to think the matter
over calmly and dispassionately, I find that a great many of our
occupations may be classed under the head of play rather than work.
But that would hardly give a fair idea of our lives there, either.
It would be more correct to say perhaps, that most of our simple
pleasures were composed of a solid layer of usefulness underneath
the froth of fun and frolic. I purpose therefore in these sketches
to describe some of the pursuits which afforded us a keen enjoyment
at the time,--an enjoyment arising from perfect health, simple
tastes, and an exquisite climate.

It will be as well to begin with the description of one of the
picnics, which were favourite amusements in our home, nestled in a
valley of the Malvern Hills of Canterbury. These hills are of a
very respectable height, and constitute in fact the lowest slopes of
the great Southern Alps, which rise to snow-clad peaks behind them.
Our little wooden homestead stood at the head of a sunny, sheltered
valley, and around it we could see the hills gradually rolling into
downs, which in their turn were smoothed out, some ten or twelve
miles off, into the dead level of the plains. The only drawback to
the picturesque beauty of these lower ranges is the absence of
forest, or as it is called there, bush. Behind the Malvern Hills,
where they begin to rise into steeper ascents, lies many and many a
mile of bush-clad mountain, making deep blue shadows when the