2 NEW ZEALAND PLANTS. 
their travels have been recorded ; something even has been learnt 
of their position in the world in the dim past and of the remote 
ancestry of the present-day plants, for the commonest weed is no 
parvenu. Much more could be said regarding what in the mass is 
known of their story. 
Notwithstanding all the above, the story is full of gaps—indeed, 
there is infinitely more lacking than is known. Only a portion 
of a chapter here and there is available. The beginning, the end, 
and much of the middle is wanting. A good deal is mere guess- 
work; only a little is truth without suspicion. If all this applies 
to the plants of the Old World, how much less have the plants of 
our own land told us! For the plant-historians here, and the plant- 
questioners, have been but few in number; nor at any time have 
they been properly equipped for their work, either with books, 
instruments, or the all-important money. But, as will be seen, 
they were furnished with what is better than all—love for their 
self-appointed tasks and true enthusiasm, armed with which success 
is certain. And surely that enthusiasm was fully justified, for the 
flora of New Zealand is remarkable enough—nay, “‘ remarkable” is 
too weak a word for a plant population which can boast of including 
amongst its members the largest buttercup in the world (fig. 1), 
a forget-me-not with leaves as big as those of rhubarb (fig. 2), 
a speedwell 40 feet in height, the smallest member of the pine-tree 
family (fig. 3), tree-like daisies, arborescent hhes, plants of the carrot 
family with stiff leaves sharp as bayonets, mosses more than a foot 
tall (fig. 32), a brown seaweed hundreds of feet in length, and those 
strange anomalies of the plant-world, the vegetable-sheep (fig. 64). 
Now, though the plants of New Zealand are of long descent, 
and, if this counts for anything, rank amongst the aristocracy of 
the vegetable kingdom, their first os became acquainted with 
them only 149 years ago. 
Sir Joseph Banks and Dr. Daniel Charles Solander, during the 
month of October, 1769, found themselves in a new world, whose 
plant-life was all strange, and where every tree and shrub and herb 
was a fresh surprise and a great joy. And yet for ages before 
these intrepid naturalists had ventured forth, and for ages, likewise, 
before the remote ancestors of the Maoris had completed their most 
perilous voyage, year by year unseen the alpine herb-fields of the 
Southern Alps had decked themselves with a wealth of flowers, 
