The King Country; or, Explorations in New Zealand. J. H. Kerry-Nicholls

twice married, and had assisted in a small way to replenish the earth by becoming the mother of fifteen children. For the past twelve years Sophia has acted the part of guide, philosopher, and friend to thousands of tourists who have visited these parts, and in this way her history has become identified with the place where she reigns almost with the power of a petty queen.

      As our boat glided onward to the wild chants of the Maoris, all the varied beauties of Tarawera unfolded themselves with magical effect before the view. We passed out of an arm of the lake with a picturesque headland on our port side, clothed in the greenest hues, and which was formerly the site of an old pa known as Ruakiria. From this point, the broad waters of the lake opened out before us; the sun shone brightly from the cloudless sky, and the golden rays gilding the calm blue surface, and shooting through the overhanging trees that fringed the lake, reflected their gnarled branches and plumed heads in a thousand fantastic forms in the depths below.

      The water of Tarawera was so limpid and transparent that we could see far down below the surface and discern the big rocks and decaying giants of the forest which lay scattered about its bed as if hurled there by the throes of an earthquake, while every now and again we could behold the gleam of the shoals of fish indigenous to the lake, or the flash of the golden carp, introduced by Sir George Grey, and which here attain to a wonderful size. The lake, which is seven miles long by about five miles broad, was evidently at some period or another the centre of a widely extended volcanic action, as evidenced by the igneous rocks which line its shores, as well as by the rugged peaks which add grandeur to its scenery.

      On every side of the lake bold mountains, with conical peaks and serrated ridges, rose up from the very edge of the water, covered to the summits with a rich growth of giant-like vegetation, whose varied tints of green were resplendent with the bright crimson blossom of the pohutukawa tree, which here attains to a colossal size. Picturesque headlands jutted out into the water, deep bays, broad valleys, and weird gorges came before the view at every turn, and the scenery was so wild, so grand, and so varied that one hardly knew which part of it to admire the most.

      The eastern arm of the lake formed the outlet to the Tarawera river—the Awa-o-te Atua, or "river of the gods;" beyond the grand volcanic cone of Putauaki rose to a height of over 2000 feet, while right in front of our course the majestic outline of Mount Tarawera towered in the form of a colossal, truncated cone, with steep, sloping sides, tinted with red oxide of iron and shining obsidian, which made it look as if it were just cooling from the terrific heat of volcanic fires. It appeared as if, at some period or another, this rock-bound mountain had been much higher than now, but that nature, being dissatisfied with her work, had snapped it in twain by one tremendous blow, and caused the rugged fracture to assume the shape of a gigantic spiked crown. The stupendous form of this giant mountain not only adds grandeur to Tarawera, as it rises in sublime majesty a thousand feet above the lake, but it is a beacon for miles around the lake district, over which it presides like a mighty monarch, and when "King Tarawera" frowns dark beneath his craggy diadem the natives "look out for squalls." Since time immemorial Mount Tarawera has been renowned in Maori song and legend, and, among other tales connected with it, a monster taniwha, or fabulous green dragon, gifted with cannibal proclivities, is said to haunt it, while in its dark caves the bones of countless warrior chiefs of the Arawas lie guarded by the mystic tapu.

      Steering our light craft, which seemed to quiver under the firm, steady stroke of her dark crew, so as to bring Mount Tarawera on our "port quarter," we entered Te Ariki, a wide inlet at the southern end of the lake, and when we had rounded the rocky headland known as Moura, the hills and valleys spread themselves out in a splendid amphitheatre of enchanting scenery, the trees and creeping vines mirrored themselves in the water, where they seemed to glide beneath us like a fairy forest as we swept along, while a cloud of steam rising in the distance told us that we were fast approaching the wonders of Rotomahana.

      We hauled up in front of a native village where there were one or two whares, and here old Rangihewa got out of the boat to wade ashore, and, wrapping his shawl about his neck, pulled up his shirt to prevent it from getting wet, but utterly regardless of consequences, and then bidding us farewell by a wave of his hand, and a tremendous grin which made his tattoo marks double up into a curious network over his face, he entered the door of a hut with a majestic gait, and with the Te Korimako under his arm. Here we purchased a couple of kits of kouras[32] from a native woman who waded into the water almost alfresco, with an india-rubber-looking baby on her back, and then we headed for the farther end of the bay, where a picturesque-looking Maori settlement added a pleasant charm to the beauties of the surrounding landscape. We landed at this point, and an attenuated, wiry old chief, as thin as a match, and with a very scant wardrobe, put off in a dilapidated canoe to bid us welcome, and to annex any stray bawbees or figs of tobacco that might fall in his way. Here the party was divided, the ladies embarking in the canoe to go up the Kaiwaka stream, and to join us at Rotomahana, while we, the sterner sex, walked a mile through the manuka scrub, following the attractive red petticoat of Sophia.