236 TUTIRA 



hissing and spitting in the tutu groves, pouring in black smoke from 

 thickets of scrub. On the tops pressed forward by the full force of the 

 gale the roaring conflagration passes upwards and over in low-blown 

 whirlwinds of smoke darkened with dust of flying charcoal and lit with 

 showers of fiery sparks and airy handfuls of incandescent and blazing 

 brake. To leeward fire is no less wonderful to watch as it slowly recedes 

 downhill, devouring in leisurely fashion first the driest material, then 

 sapping the stems of the later, greener, still upright fronds, so that 

 they too bow like Dagon and fall to earth, perpetually replenishing 

 the flames. A fire thus fed, burning against the wind or downhill, 

 presents at night-time a peculiar twinkling, winking appearance from 

 the perpetually recurring fall of the green fronds into the blaze, and 

 the consequent alternations of darkness and light. 



In windless hollows yet another mood may be noted : there the 

 flames, burning slowly, stretch and dip and curtsey and sway to the 

 draw of the gale above ; in the mazes of a magic dance they take their 

 time and measure from the wind, veering now to one point of the com- 

 pass now to another, sliding and gliding in accompaniment to the 

 unheard harps of the air. So, on that afternoon of March, like the 

 waters of Lodore, the fire passed over Stuart's paddock, roaring and 

 pouring, and howling and growling, and flashing and dashing and 

 crashing, and fuming and consuming not only the block so named, but 

 hundreds of acres besides of the Rocky Range then included in the 

 Moeangiangi run, the whole of the Black Stag, and nearly the whole 

 of the Tutu Faces. 



At nightfall, over every acre unswept by the wind lay a delicate 

 grey veil a light ash of shrivelled fronds still retaining their shape. 

 A tang of salt, as from the ocean, scented the air, whilst here and there 

 on the driest flats rose thin lines of blue from smouldering totara logs. 

 Everywhere the contours of the countryside lay dim ; the sard sun, low 

 in the dun horizon, glowed a burning, blood-red ball ; like the fog of a 

 great city, a pall of smoke hung over the land. Oh ! the ride home, 

 salt with dry sweat and black with dust, not a hair left unsinged on 

 hands and arms, but rejoicing, triumphant. Oh ! the dive into the cool 

 lake, the slow swim in limpid water past the snag Karuwaitahi, over 

 the shoal Tarata ; alas ! that the run cannot once more be broken in ; 

 alas ! indeed, that the past years cannot be relived ; a fire on a dry 

 day in a dry season was worth a ride of a thousand miles. 



