jump off. But what a jump! the ground fell sheer away at the foot
of the wall, and left a chasm many feet wide, which the horse could
not see until it had climbed to the top of the wall, and as turning
back was out of the question, the only alternative was to give a
vigorous bound on to the narrow ledge beyond. Terrified as I felt,
I luckily refrained from jerking Helen's head, or attempting to
guide her in any way. The only chance of safety over New Zealand
tracks, or New Zealand creeks, is to leave your horse _entirely_ to
itself. I have seen men who were reckoned good riders in England,
get the most ignominious tumbles from a disregard of this advice.
An up-country horse knows perfectly well the only sound spots in a
swamp; or the only sound part of a creek's banks. If his rider
persists in taking him over the latter, where he himself thinks it
narrowest and safest, he is pretty sure to find the earth rotten and
crumbling, and to pay for his obstinacy by a wetting; whilst in the
case of a swamp the consequences are even more serious, and the
horse often gets badly strained in floundering out of a quagmire.

But it was not all danger and difficulty, and the many varieties of
scene in the course of a long ride constituted some of its chief
charms. At first, perhaps, after we had left our own fair valley
behind, the track would wind through the gorge of a river, with
lofty mountains rising sheer up from the water side. All here was
sad and grey, and very solemn in its eternal silence, only made more
intense by the ceaseless monotonous roar of the ever-rushing water.
Then we would emerge on acres and acres of softly rolling downs,
higher than the hillocks we call by that name at home, but still
marvellously beautiful in their swelling curves all folding so
softly into each other, and dotted with mobs of sheep, making
pastoral music to a flock-owner's ear. Over this sort of ground we