Tinted Tubs.

But he baths, hygienic reader! In Rotorua, every night is Friday night; there are baths to burn but to scald; baths to blend with any local colour; even a chameleon could find no excuse for giving his bath a bye at Rotorua. There are blue baths for the melancholy, red baths for the ruddy, green baths for Erin's output, mud baths for muddlers, yellow baths for the yeller, hip baths, dip baths, and tubs for all temperaments, except that of the drycleaner. It Rotorua everything is curable, except enthusiasm. Rheumatism, pessimism, Bolshevism, dogmatism, rats, bats, and the abysmal blues-they are all dissolved and dissipated in the tinted tubs.

How could Hinemoa help pulling off the prize as New Zealand's earliest bathing beauty?

Even those simple souls who have devoted their lives to the belief that water was invented as an excuse to drink whisky, have been know to fall for hydraulic at Rotorua.

Rotorua is the plumber's purgatory; what plumber, viewing such an orgy of unleashed emotion, such eruptive ructions, such aqueous alacrity, could do nought but bow his head in shame at the contemplation of his own paltry efforts at destructive analysis; doubtless, before he plumbed the depths of devastation at Rotorua, he boasted of his calaphontic cataclysms, his masterpieces of metallurgical misanthropy, his fires, floods and pestilences; but Rotorua holds before his gaze the blow-lamp of truth, and he sees himself as a mere dabbler in hydraulic hysteria and domestic disaster.