Some There Are.
For some there are who do not know
Nor feel the urge or wish to go.
Not know when stalking time is near
Or wish to hunt elusive deer.
Or climb the tops and gaze below
For those there are who do not know.
Not know or feel the time of year,
Nor wish to gather pack and gear.
Or long to saddle up a hack
And head for hills away out back,
To see once more a fall of snow;
For some there are who do not know.
Not know the thrill to hunt the boar,
Or to hear the red stags roar,
Or quietly stalk through forests deep,
Or gaze at noon on hills asleep
For we are queer who wish to go
Or so they say who do not know.
Not know the tracks that seem to cling
Nor, wish to hear the tuis sing,
Or laze beside a fern-draped wall
Somewhere where mountain waters fall.
Watching the spray and coloured bow,
Not wish for these, or want to know.
Not know the thrill afar to sight
O'er bush and range, old Egmont's height,
Nor listen to the bellbirds chime,
Or down the bushclad spurs to climb.
So strange it is we wish to go,
Or so they say who may not know.
Not know the breath of mountain air
Or feel the feeling of no care,
Not know what nomads ever knew
Or do the things that they would do,
Or watch the cloudmist fade and go;
For those there are who do not know.
Not know the big-eyed moreporks wail,
Nor wish to take a campward trail,
Or watch at eve the changing light,
Or sit and yarn in camp at night.
For some there are who ought to go
That they might feel the spell and know.
And know, and in the spell be caught
And know ten days would be too short.
Too short for those who know the spell
Of roaring stags and bellbirds' bell,
Ten days too short to laze or dream
By camp or spur or mountain stream.

—L. M.

* * *

The Orchard.
A rose-white foam of blossoms
'Neath the pink flush of dawn;
A frost of silken petals
On the dark, shadowed lawn.
A thrush's clear notes thrilling
Through the soft, silver light,
And tender fragrance scattered
From the swift wings of night …
This is my dream, beloved,
And the place I would be—
A foam of flowers above us,
In the dawn, dear, with thee.

—Jean H. Mather.

* * *

The Passing of the Trees.
One hour ago a swaying copse
Was where the land so verdant drops
Down to the river's lip.
And then a brief, hot agony
As hungry flames dart up each tree
From bole to tender tip.
The fire was lit by careless hand,
And by a ready wind was fanned
Into a blazing might.
I, helpless but to see and sigh
While lovely trees were forced to die
Without resistant fight.
And now against this sunset cloud
In stark and dead array they crowd,
Last night they were so brave.
What cruel tragedy it seems
To rob a tree of life and dreams,
A tree Our Father gave.

—Mavis R. Lockley.

Dreams.
I wish that I could capture dreams
To suit myself,
I'd keep them in my Memory Chest,
Like precious delph.
Some dreams would be of days gone by,
When I was young and free,
O, happy, laughing childhood dreams,
Oft would I look at thee!
And some would be of conquests made,
Their banners flaunting high,
With courage fit to storm a world …
These dreams have all passed by.
A little shelf for lovely things—
Dreams on a summer's day
Of sun, and sea; a baby's laugh;
These would I tuck away.
A corner too for dreams of love,
Of friendships old and new,
A little pain, a wealth of joy,
Perhaps a teardrop, too …
Could I but capture dreams as these
My Memory Chest would be
A trysting place for lovely things
Unto eternity.

—Mary Kitching.

* * *

The Dunes: Maketu.
Pale scalloped line of hills
Lying between the sea and sky,
Where the gulls, low-beating, fly.
A world
The singing sea-wind fills.
Long has the blown sand lain
In the footprints of the brave,
And the ever-pulsing wave
Has washed
The crimson of the slain.
And yet they say that still
When the moon hangs thin and low,
You can hear the war-conch blow,
And see
The torches on the hill.

—Joyce West.

page 48

Highways and Byways (Continued from page 39)

and this is certainly a place which deserves publicity, not merely because of the blowholes but because of the bush surroundings. A well surfaced track made of fine metal leads in through a jungle of nikau palms and it would only take the trumpeting of a few elephants or the growl of a lion or two to transfer the setting to another country.

Before reaching the blowholes tracks branch off in many directions and these lead round various parts of the bush and then back to the entrance again.

To see the holes at their best the visit should be made at high tide after there has been rough weather and when there is still a heavy surf. The waves crash over the outlying rocks, sending up sheets of spray to a height of thirty feet or more and continue their mad rush up the caverns under the cliffs. This has the effect of concerntrating the force of the water so that when it reaches the solid rock face at the end of the cavern, spray is forced up through vertical vents to the top of the cliffs and reaches a very considerable height. The track winds along the top of the cliffs and at any dangerous point is bordered by a solid wooden railing. Even on the track, however, one has to watch which way the wind is blowing or a blowhole may give a drenching like a firehose. It is fascinating to watch the white crested waves roll in and rush madly up the inlets which honeycomb the cliffs, finally dashing themselves with a thunderous roar into fine spray. The formation of the rocks is very peculiar—the strata lying in fine horizontal layers giving rise to the name “Pancake Rocks.”

Continuing the journey towards Westport, gold-mining claims and timber-mills are passed. The last few miles are traversed across pakihi lands which up till recently have supported scrub only and were considered unsuited for farming of any kind. An experimental area has, however, been cleared and drained and is being used for dairying. It is stated that the results obtained from this land, hitherto unproductive, rival those in Taranaki. Accordingly plans for bringing large areas of this land into production, are well advanced.

Westport itself is the central port serving the important coal mining districts of Denniston, Stockton and Millerton. The illustration of a busy wharf scene at Westport is typical of any day at the waterfront, where large quantities of coal and timber are handled both by day and by night.

The fastest road outlet to Canterbury from Westport is by way of the Buller Gorge. The river travels for many, many miles inland and the trip through the Gorge is full of interest. The lower approach is gained by travelling a road locally called the “loopline,” at the end of which a timber mill is situated. After travelling a mile or two the bank levels out at a place called “The Punt” and this is where the early settlers had to ferry across the river before the present rail and road bridge was built at Westport. The punt itself has long since disappeared, but the hotel which did service in those days still stands on the opposite bank of the river.

Soon after this, “Windy Point” and the Gorge proper are reached. From here on for twenty miles the road is narrow and winding, though it has been vastly improved latterly and improvements still continue apace. New bridges are being built and the road is being widened.

Some distance on, Cascade Creek is passed and a narrow grass track leads down from the main road to the river itself. Here the river is bordered with native trees and willows—one of the most delightful spots on this wonderful West Coast road.

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