The Call of Bush and Beach.

I have been reading a description of some of England's seaside resorts for the multitude, places where there is more smart hotel and flashy boarding-house than beach, and more gingerpop and so on than sea-water, and where it is difficult to move for the crowds and the ballyhoo shows. We may lose much by being so far out of the great busy old world, but at least we have room to live and move about and breath, and in the holiday time that so happily coincides with our midsummer there is the glorious freedom of the unspoiled forest and the thousand bays and beaches where New Zealand, young and old, may rejoice in the sun and the pure air.

The bush, the mountains, the seaside—the fragrance and cool solace of the ancient bush, the ranges of snow and the timbered hills and the wonderful volcanoes in the island heart; and beaches of golden sand, the glistening pumice sands of the northern lakes, the quiet half-moons of shelly sands, far stretching surf-beaten shores of the North. A thousand beaches of delight. Somewhere you may pitch a tent beneath the spreading pohutukawa, even swing a hammock to those low-bending twisty, patriarchal boughs. Beaches where you may ride or drive for scores of miles along a Nature-made highway. Each to his taste. There is plenty of room. There is no need to herd in crowds on the shores of this truly named Sea-Land of ours.