IV 
ON THE STEAMER 
205 
went up. There was one solitary white man there. I 
didn’t like the look of the very unprepossessing sur- 
roundings, so I gave it up, and we turned back. The 
paddle down stream was very easy work, though at 
times the current swept us uncomfortably swiftly. 
After another wet day, at ten on the following 
morning I slid back to the steamer ; they were still 
unloading, and it was an hour before they started. I 
sat watching the stores being taken up the hill on 
sledges and trollies with strong wooden wheels, while 
the crowd of chattering natives seemed all mixed up in 
a jumble of mud, kicking horses, and discomfort 
altogether. The only good the pelting rain did was 
to clean my umbrella from the white clay stains— a 
memento of the overland journey, which nothing else 
removed. The sun at last began to shine again, and 
the thick mists unveiled one after another the wooded 
cliffs. Small waterfalls fell in all directions from the 
heights above in showers of spray, and here and there 
the gray rocks showed themselves through a mass of 
beautiful fern fronds and lichen -covered forest trees; 
now and then a giant tree stood out above the 
others from the mass of tangled undergrowth, a wild 
wealth of beauty. We made a great many stopping- 
places on the way back. A fat Maori boy was first 
landed at his native village, and he greeted his friends 
with such an unsteady pair of legs that he lost his 
balance in the slimy mud, fell over, and rolled into 
the river, to the intense amusement of all his dusky 
friends, who never moved a muscle to help him. 
Farther down, at one of these towns, a man, and his 
wife resplendent in a tartan skirt, with bright green 
trimmings, scarlet shawl, and blue handkerchief round 
her head, landed, and after silently rubbing noses all 
round we watched the bit of bright colour disappearing 
