Early Hours on the River.

Up in the morning early, we are aboard again and under way, after a billy of hot tea and a meal of bacon and ship-biscuit and fried bread, before the sun has topped the eastern ranges. A long ribbony swathe of fog rising above the tree-tops marks the course of the curving river flowing so silently between its dark palisades of pines. The dip of our paddles, the low chant of Piko in the bows, and the occasional chink-chuk-choo of the tui in the bush, are the only sounds. Round a sharp bend, and wild ducks scutter up from our bows, with alarmed quacking and clacking. Ahead a high range is catching the sun through the haze, and the veil of morning makes it a mountain of faerie enchantment fit home for the Turehu and the Patu-paiarehe. the children of the mist. This morning paddle is a joy. The air is just cool enough, for the sun has not yet reached the water, although every hillside is lit by its rays, and every tree and every fern have their own colour values in the pearly light. The birds are out; pigeon and kaka and tui fly over our heads in search of their favourite breakfast trees.