Lure for a Lady.

The bait for a bride arrived in due course; the little steamer brought it, and the population up and down the coast for forty miles assembled at the rugged beach for “Steamer Day,” assisted to get it ashore from the surf boat. It was sledged up to the house, unpacked with tremendous excitement, and christened with a bottle of whisky when it was set in its place of honour in the big room and decorated with a tinful of rata blossom.

Then the proud owner of the piano set about the more delicate business of procuring the bride who was to play the piano. Six months further correspondence with Hokitika at last brought an offer. The lady who was willing to share the lot of the far-south young pioneer would arrive by the next trip of the steamer.

Alas for human hopes and matrimonial intentions! It was a half-dead spinster who staggered on deck after a horrible storm-tossed passage down the coast. She gave one long look at the desolate shore, the beach and surf, the background of gloomy forest, the fog-draped mountains, the weeping skies. One look, then she staggered back to the cabin, weeping like the Westland sky, and she begged the captain to lock her in until he was off again. Never, never would she set foot in that awful place.

Back to the North she went; and back to his lone lot went the sad settler. No more of that for him, he vowed; no more matrimonial invitations.