J. H. Kerry-Nicholls

The King Country; or, Explorations in New Zealand


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her from above, but the waters were wide, and there was no guide save the music of Tutanekai, but with love at the prow she shaped her course bravely until she landed on the shores of Mokoia, at a point where a warm fountain bubbled up amidst the rocks, and which is known even unto this day as "Hinemoa's Bath."

      A LOVE SONG.

      Far o'er the lake slept romantic Mokoia,

       While the pale moon shone bright from above,

       And on a rock the brave Tutanekai

       Tootled his flute to the gay song of love.

       Softly lamenting sings he to his darling,

       "Come to my arms, O my sweet Hinemoa,

       Let not the sorrow of anguish divide us;

       Come, that we never may part any more."

       Gently the echo sped on the night air,

       Till spell-like it broke on the glad maiden's ear;

       Lightly she came to the brink of the water,

       And swam o'er its surface so limpid and clear;

       Brightly the stars shone forth from the heavens,

       Glittering like gems in a mantle of blue,

       And the strains of the flute seem'd to ripple the water,

       Wafted on by the wings of the wind as it blew.

       Swift the dark beauty swept o'er the wavelets

       Till she kiss'd the white sand of Mokoia's fair shore;

       When brave Tutanekai, ceasing his music,

       Cried, "Come to my arms, O my sweet Hinemoa,"

       Lock'd in embraces, the lover and maiden

       Were wedded by Cupid, who flew from above,

       And dark Hinemoa and brave Tutanekai,

       'Neath the light of the moon sang their anthem of love.

      FOOTNOTES:

       Table of Contents

      [20] As the natives had no written language, their numerous legends, fables, songs, and proverbs were transmitted by oral tradition.

       Table of Contents

      EN ROUTE TO THE TERRACES.

      Over the mountains—Rauporoa Forest—The hotete—Tikitapu—Rotokakahi—Te Wairoa—The natives—Waituwhera Gorge—The boat—A distinguished traveller—Sophia—Lake Tarawera—Mount Tarawera—Te Ariki—Te Kaiwaka.

      The terraces, which are the most marvellous of all the wonders of the lakes, lie about twenty miles as the crow flies, in a south-easterly direction from Ohinemutu. From the latter place to Te Wairoa the distance is about thirteen miles; the other part of the journey being by water across Lake Tarawera.

      I found the route to be one of the most beautiful that I had ever travelled in any part of the world. Leaving Ohinemutu mounted on a good horse, my road lay along the southern shore of Lake Rotorua and thence over the mountains, through which it wound by a gradual ascent, formed by a zigzag cutting. A short distance above the mountain pass on the right was a bold gorge, formed between two fern-clad mountains, whose precipitous sides swept abruptly into the valley below, which was covered with low, round-topped hills. Through this gorge a grand view was obtained of the huge dome-shaped form of Hapurangi, farther in the distance the flat-topped, forest-clad summit of Mount Horohoro stood boldly out against the sky. Beyond this point the road passed through a fern-clad country, with mountains in the background, and from the midst of which the grand serrated peak of Mount Tarawera loomed like a grim colossus above the surrounding heights. After passing over open, undulating plains, the road entered the Rauporoa forest, one of the grandest gardens of primeval vegetation in the North Island. Whilst the trees here attained to an enormous size and the shrubs to a marvellous luxuriance, many of the rarest and most beautiful ferns of the country formed a dense undergrowth, which covered every foot of ground like a variegated carpet. Countless orchids and lichens, and creeping plants, struggled to the tops of the tallest trees which spread their giant branches over the roadway in an arched canopy of vivid green, and appeared to touch the sky as they mounted upwards to the very summits of the steep mountains which rose on every side, beneath the thick impenetrable growth which covered their rugged slopes without a single break.

      On my return from the terraces I rode through this grand forest alone by night. The stars shone brightly, the moon lit up the giant trunks of the trees in a soft, silvery sheen, and cast deep shadows that flitted about like spectres in the gloom; the twisting vines hung in fantastic coils overhead, and countless myriads of glowworms[29] sparkled and glittered in a thousand brilliant coruscations on every side, on the trees, among the rocks, and in the ferns, and in a way which reminded me of the gorgeous fireflies I had often admired when in the jungles of Ceylon.

      It was while admiring the beauties of the Rauporoa forest that I came across a specimen of what I may term one of nature's most paradoxical works; it was the hotete—the grub of the large night-butterfly—the Sphæria Robertsi, or "vegetating caterpillar."

      To give an idea of this singular curiosity, one must imagine a grub or caterpillar from two to three inches long, with a dark brown body, in appearance not unlike a piece of dried leather, while the legs, the feet, the eyes, and the mouth are perfect in every detail, as if the insect had been carefully stuffed and preserved. But most curious of all, from the tail end there shoots out the thin stem of a plant from six to eight inches long, perfectly rounded and smooth in form, with a rounded