softening your father by mentioning the 150%, he said over the grog last night, 'I can't help thinking of my poor girl roaming in those foreign parts, with only the tigers and sharp-shooters for Christmas company.' 'Should you like to see her at home?' I inquired. "That I should,' said he. And then I told him everything. And, Lassie, when I saw tears come into your father's eyes, I knew it would be all right."

"Yes," continued her brother, "when I heard where you were, I could not rest until we started; and here we are."

"A capital start, too," said I.

so sit down at once."

"You are just in time for dinner,

Even

They were delighted. I know not who was the happiest. the near-hand chimes forgot to wail "There is no luck about the house;" and we were the cosiest, merriest Christmas party in that ancient borough. Beds were ordered at an hotel for our relatives: but it was past midnight when the old gentleman hurried down our steps in Aunt Maria's poke bonnet, and that discreet lady was seen running along the High Street, and stopped by a policeman for suspiciously carrying a white hat and two umbrellas.

The news of our interesting visitors and their liberal offer of a home for us had gone abroad. The next morning came benevolent Mrs. Buddicome in two odd boots and a flowing robe which had once adorned the ample shoulders of the Sister to the Sun, also to make an offer.

"You knows, my dear looves, the wan 'ud be in my way, and the dogs a noosance; but sooner than such kind creeturs as you should be werrited, I'll take wan, hosses, and all off your hands."

After saying that our pets would remain with us, we produced a bottle of the late Mr. Twamley's fruity port. Mrs. Buddicome was overcome. She wept copiously; kissed us both, called us her "werry own children;" and made such an excellent bargain that it must be a privilege to be disowned by the Buddicome bosom. Later in the day a cab, heavily laden, with a crate of dogs and a cradle on the top, drove to the Warwick station. We entered the train for Birmingham, and when I saw once again the tall tower of St. Mary's rise majestically over the quiet town, pleasant thoughts came unto me about "Christmas in a Caravan."

A DISTANT SKETCHING GROUND.

A LANDSLIP.

N these times of easy

IN

communication, and when such long journeys are undertaken in search of the picturesque, even New Zealand, far away though it be, may not be thought too distant for a visit. The journey takes but six weeks from home; from Liverpool to New York, from thence to San Francisco by the transcontinental railway, and then a three weeks' voyage in the Pacific, calling on the way at Honolulu, ends the voyage.

Once here there is the greatest variety of magnificent scenery for the sketcher, and the atmospheric effects I have never seen equalled in Europe. The air is of a clearness that is marvellous to those who have only been accustomed to the moisture-laden atmosphere of home. Distant mountains seem quite near, as I soon learned to my cost, and shadows are marked with a sharp distinctness that is very different from their vague outline in England. There is something fresh, too, about the primitive modes of travelling and living when up country, that gives a zest to one tired of railways and hotels.

I have lately been up north to Taranaki, and discovered what some of these mountain roads and bush tracks are. One must travel either on horseback or by coach (save the mark), and I, having luggage, chose the latter. I have become acquainted, in my time, at home and abroad, with many queer conveyances, but the match for the New Zealand coach I think I never met. It is large, holding two upon the box besides the driver, and there is room behind, beneath a stiff tarpaulin cover stretched on an iron frame, for nine others, in three rows of three. Occasionally there are one or two perched upon the roof. I became aware of this latter fact one day from being

battered considerably about the head and shoulders by the heels of a gentleman sitting up above, who swung his legs, regardless of consequences, in a pleasingly nonchalant manner. The whole body of the coach is hung upon great springs of leather-steel ones would be useless upon these roads, which are often of the character of an uncleared river bed, and not unfrequently in winter fulfil the function. Travelling thus, except upon the best roads, is an acrobatic performance, for one is for considerably more than half one's time flying in the air; every boulder or tree-stump that one chances across throws you violently from your seat, and one's upward flight is only checked by the iron rods and stiff covering of the conveyance.

I started one morning from Wellington, whose beautiful harbour is one of the two finest in the world. Shut in on all sides by great hills, and with only a narrow opening at the Heads to the sea, it lies to-day, as I am writing, now in the depth of our winter, lakelike and calm. The end of the harbour, six or seven miles away, where the rich Hutt Valley lies amongst the hills, with the great snowclad Rimutakas behind, is this morning veiled with a soft white haze. Whilst the night is still young with you-for the days are now long at home-the sun has risen here bright and strong, driving the mist before him. From a pale horizon, the sky intensifies to a zenith of deepest blue, and the water, rising with the fast incoming tide, rivals almost the heaven that it reflects. The sea comes to the foot of this green hill, and the soft, sibilant sound of its waves among the stones of the shore is heard up here distinctly. Flocks of white sea-birds fly below, and their shrill cries, as they quarrel noisily over some prize thrown up by the tide, rise clearly from the beach.

From Wellington over the rugged Rimutakas I travelled to Masterton, one of the hideous little towns that are fast springing up all over the colony. I stayed there long enough to visit a Maori pah, or village, which lies some little way from the town. The elaborate carving and rude colouring of their buildings has a very rich effect, and the uncultivated taste of these savages is infinitely to be preferred to much that is here styled art by many of their so-called superiors.

The drive next day was one of the wildest and weirdest I have ever had. It lay through the Seventy Mile Bush, great trees on either side almost shutting out the sky, between whose trunks grow vistas of the loveliest ferns. No words can tell the beauty of these kingly plants as they lift their feathery crowns thirty feet into the hot and motionless air. There is one of excessive beauty, whose dark fronds, with underside of silver-grey, are often nine feet long, which, as an occasional breeze ruffles their stately calm, flash in the sunlight from green to silver and from silver back to green with an effect as beautiful as magic. The whole ground is often carpeted with ferns; climbing ferns creep up the trees; ferns grow everywhere, for in this favoured country there are a hundred-and-fifty species.

It soon grew dark, for we had started late, and then the bush became indeed majestic. Light wreaths of mist rose ghost-like among the trees, from the frequent streams and marshy places. The stars came out, at first singly, and then in troops together, blazing here with a lustrous brilliancy unknown at home..

That night we stopped at Eketahuna, a little clearing in the midst of this great wilderness, and next morning the stars were still undimmed in the sky as we left. With the first faint flush of morning the forest life awoke and the bush became alive with the voices of multitudes of birds, many of which never sing but at dawn. Several rivers had to be forded, and one we crossed in a long and slender native canoe, hollowed by fire out of a great tree, which is generally

the Totara.

WELLINGTON HARBOUR.

A quaintly dressed Maori steered us across, using his one paddle in an admirable way.

The Manawatu Gorge, that I passed through the same day, is justly considered one of the most beautiful scenes in all New Zealand. Imagine a deep valley cut by an impetuous river right through great rocky hills. One side so precipitous that trees can hardly gain a hold, and the other covered from the very water's edge to the heights towering above with the most luxuriant growth. Tree ferns and nekaw palms grow magnificently, and here and there a great tree, covered by the fatal Rata, blazes one mass of scarlet blossom.

We had entered a mile or so into the gorge, when the driver pulled up and poured forth a volley of oaths that was almost poetic in its variety and fervour. The cause of this was a landslip that had, the night before having been rainy, fallen and filled up the road. The coach could not cross over it nor round it, and

could not turn to go back, so here we remained, I taking a little sketch of the slip, until we got help in the shape of four men armed with shovels. The rocks and earth were easily disposed of, simply going over the cliff into the river which rushed below. When the apex of the heap had thus been taken off we thought we might be able to pull the coach over, if it were emptied of its passengers. The horses were taken out, and all we men, with great exertions in pushing and pulling, got the unwieldy thing to the top of the heap. It was a moment of intense excitement, for the outer wheels were sinking in the crumbling earth, and the coach was slowly toppling over towards the verge, when we heard a piercing shriek: "Stop, stop!" We turned and saw our only lady passenger madly scrambling up to us.

"Oh, let me get my carpet bag and umbrella." Language followed from our driver that I'll not repeat. "With a will, boys, for by heaven she's over!" With a huge effort, just as she was on the point of falling, we moved her, and, with a rush down the descent, gained the road.

Some days afterwards I was in Taranaki at a miserable little place called Stratford, which is about as unlike the Warwickshire town of that name as any place on earth well could be. There the railway to New Plymouth commences, and as there is only one train a day, which meets the coach, and which we had managed somehow to miss the night before, I determined to walk to Inglewood, my destination, a distance of about ten miles. The road lay through the uncleared bush, and was a succession of the most exquisite "bits ;" rapid little rivers dashing themselves against the great rocks and boulders brought down from the volcano in the days of its activity centuries