soft radiance on our heads by the time we heard the welcoming barks
of the homestead, and saw the glimmer of the lighted lamp in our
sitting-room, shining out of the distant gloom. And so ended, in
supper and a night of deep dreamless sleep, one of the many happy
picnic days of my New Zealand life.



Chapter II: Eel-fishing.


One of the greatest drawbacks in an English gentleman's eyes to
living in New Zealand is the want of sport. There is absolutely
none. There used to be a few quails, but they are almost extinct
now; and during four years' residence in very sequestered regions I
only saw one. Wild ducks abound on some of the rivers, but they are
becoming fewer and shyer every year. The beautiful Paradise duck is
gradually retreating to those inland lakes lying at the foot of the
Southern Alps, amid glaciers and boulders which serve as a barrier
to keep back his ruthless foe. Even the heron, once so plentiful on
the lowland rivers, is now seldom seen. As I write these lines a
remorseful recollection comes back upon me of overhanging cliffs,
and of a bend in a swirling river, on whose rapid current a
beautiful wounded heron--its right wing shattered--drifts helplessly
round and round with the eddying water, each circle bringing it
nearer in-shore to our feet. I can see now its bright fearless eye,
full of suffering, but yet unconquered: its slender neck proudly
arched, and bearing up the small graceful head with its coronal or
top-knot raised in defiance, as if to protest to the last against
the cruel shot which had just been fired. I was but a spectator,