LOAFER IN THE STREET.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 210, 10 February 1875, Page 2

LOAFER IN THE STREET.

THE CROPS OF THE WEST COAST. (From the Press.) ( Continued .) I recover myself and get over all right. Crossing planks over streams is nothing when you’re used to it. I never wrs used to it. I don’t fancy I shall be. We get down the gorge all right, and stay at Robert’s accommodation house, where we enjoy ourselves. Kelly’s creek is the next stage. Cousin Tom keeps the house. He is no connection of Uncle Tom. He is quite white. We go down the valley of the Teremakau. The scenery is very fine. In the mountains far away, you see a series of silver threads woven among the green foliage. These are waterfalls. They run on an average 180 feet when in full play. There is a waterfall at the head of the Bealey, which I forgot to mention in my last. You pass close to it. It’s called the Devil’s Punch Bowl. It’s well worth a visit. About 480 feet of water comes down in a foaming sheet into a deep pool. It’s one of the most exquisite pieces of scenery on the whole road. I was never there, but I feel sure I’m right. It’s a kind of place where you might expect to meet Naiads. Naiads were a class of female deities who were always knocking about amongst rivers and fountains. They are generally represented, I think, reclining on an urn without any clothes on. This is essentially a classical form of dress, but it shocks me. I may be wrong, but it does shock me. I never met a live Naiad I’m glad to say. I may add that the Otira Gorge is not the place for a Dryad. The climate is too humid. I also wish to state that I will not be answerable for the height of any mountains or waterfalls mentioned in this paper, because I am not used to measurements of the kind. The course I pursued was to ask Maher what he thought of it, knock ofi half his measurement to satisfy myself, and then multiply the result by eight or ten to satisfy your readers. I’m obliged on these grounds to arrive at the conclusion that many of Mr O’Connor’s measurements are wrong. He has been up more mountains than any man in New Zealand, and could put most members of the Alpine Club through properly; but according to my calculations he must be out. By my reckoning I was among snowy giants constantly during the trip varying from ten to eighteen thousand feet high. This fact has never been observed before by travellers. The drive down the Teremakau is very grand. For miles you travel through avenues of beautiful timber—timber so fine that it seems a pity it cannot be utilised. I expect it will be some day. Along the side of the mountains the rata was coming into bloom—- “ Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken’d marsh; Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top; Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below; Blood-red.”

This is not quite an accurate description because I never saw any blackened marshes or sleeping meres, but the rata was bloodred and passing fair to look upon. In respect of these trees, I wish to record an historical fact. A party of the name of Hunt went overland to prospect the Coast. This was before Hokitika was heard of. In those days there were, it is needless to say, no tracks, and Hunt and his mates coming down the Teremakau valley had rough times. I understand that on several occasions they had to ascend trees and climb from tree to tree. They found this a more expeditious mode of travelling than working through the dense vegetation. I believe this because —those trees are there now, Anyone can see them. It will be perceived from the above that the undergrowth is really dense. I think Rounding’s is the next place we come to. We are now well into Westland, and for your information I may mention that the crops hereabouts are Blackish. The tree ferae are flourishing, and a botanist woulcj

prance about in delirious revelments, bui agriculture has not come as yet to a high pitch in these parts. The beer is fair though, Jackson’s is the next stage. At one time Jackson lived more towards the river. One night the Teremakau rose and took his house, cattle, and most of his property away to sea, Jackson fled to the mountains. He says he has never found his house since. He seems disappointed about it. Theie isa fine expansive shingle bed where his tenement stood, He is going to build in a more lofty position just now. He seems to think the bed of the Teremakau is unreliable for building sites, There are some mountain streamlets about here in which Tommy Maher has deposited trout. They are nice streams of their kind, and I should say very eligible for trout. You can’t make any mistake when you cross them, because your back bone will tell you. When your collar bone seems inclined to get down into the boot of the coach, and your instep seems to feel like getting up to look after a parcel on the top of the coach, you’ll know that you’re crossing some trout streamlets 1 you can’t make any mistake about them after this, and you will probably take an interest in the trout. There is a New Eoad being made here somewhere. I saw the men working on it. I was quite surprised. When we make a new road on our side of the mountains, say in the neighbourhood of Christchurch, we tear up the ground in mounds, leave holes about without any lamps over them at night, and similarly leave immense piles of pebbly metal in places where the belated traveller may go iairly on to them, Then we leave off for a spell, so as to give every one a fair chance of an accident, and then we smother the shingle on top of the new road, so that the dwellers in the vicinity have to go like Dick Swiveller a circuit of about three miles to fetch about 100 yards. When they make a new track on the West Coast road they block it up until fit for use. I never saw such old-fashioned styles as they’ve got there. They are always making tracks, too. They ought to know better by this time. By and bye we arrive at Cunningham’s. Scenery as before very fine. Lake Brunner is away to the right. You ought to see Lake Brunner. There’s a track all the way, and you cross the Teremakau, and if it’s high you’ll enjoy yourself ; but I feel never having seen Lake Brunner—it would be best left undescribed by me. It’s like any other lake. It’s surrounded by land. You can depend on this. At Cunningham’s we pick up more passengers. One recognises me. Ho says he knew my uncle in jail. The savans laugh, and I feel small. The new passengers get discoursive. I feel sure Cunningham’s beer is good. The gentleman who knew my uncle is a past master in the art of chaff, and I listen to him, and learn things He says the gentleman who got in with him is mean. He recollects him in gome remote Australian diggings when he professed affection for a lady of the name of Cock-eyed Poll. He prbceeds to accuse his fellow-traveller of stealing her glass eye, and selling it for half a crown. I conclude this is a real case of meanness, and resolve to be polite to the gentleman who knew my uncle. We arrive at the Taipo accommodation house next. Scenery as beforetimber. waterfalls, rivulets of the crystal tribe, tree ferns, endless variety of foliage, snow-capped mountains, you keep on admiring and yet not tiring of it, because there is that incessant change in every turn of the road that banishes weariness. I don’t sympathise with scenery at the Taipo though. You wouldn’t yourself. My attention is called elsewhere. It is not attracted by beer. Far from it, It is attracted by a series of smacks going on in the bar which reminds one of the Cachuca, The fact is we are killing sandflies. Let me do justice to Westland. It has not much to boast of in the way of game, but it possesses a sweet boon unknown to us. It can boast of the sandfly. The sandfly is in perfection at the Taipo, though attainable all along the road from the Otira. There is no cowardice about this insect. Though unassuming in aspect, it displays an appetite and perseverance worthy of a better cause. It settles on you and feeds. It does not glance off like a Christchurch fly. It suffers death patiently. It settles on you in troops and eats you. You can make a rare bag of this class of game in these parts, and next day you find yourself breaking out in lumps —good honest lumps about the size of a walnut. And then you respect the sandfly, and wish the insect tribe well, and send round and ask your friends for a potsherd or two. The sandfly never interferes with the mosquito. The former makes a fair living in the daytime. At night the latter comes in and sings away, and eats you until sunrise, when the sandfly is ready for a fresh start. There’s nothing mean about these insects. I never knew take an unfair advantage of each other, and they are as punctual in their attendance as a rate collector. There is no pride about either tribe ; they’d just as soon feed off you as they word 1 off me. No one could complain about monotony when they are about. We snatch a combination of square gin and cheese and go ahead again. Gin and cheese are not what you might call assimilative. There is a fine bridge over the Taipo. A bridge admirably constructed, strong, and well adapted to resist the rush of the torrent beating against its piers. Since that bridge has been constructed, however, the river has decided on taking another course. Thus the bridge is useless, unless that man turns up who was always standing on the bridge at midnight when the clocks were striking the hour, and looking out for floods of thought! to fill his eyes with tears. Subsequently he wished that the ebbing tide would bear bin away to the ocean wild and wide. If he comes reflecting about the Taipo in thii style, he will find the river will bear hii weight off right enough. More scenery anc creeks to cross. There’s the Sough Wainin and the Smooth Wainini. The former deserves its name. Up to the prasent I’ve seer no crops to mention. One man has about i quarter of an acre of potatoes, but I shoulc scarcely advise anyone to go over to speculati on them. Old John’s is the next accommo' dation house, and we pause there for s minute or two. Intemperance is horrible but pausing at accommodation houses ii pleasant sometimes. We now ascend tin Big Hill. Tommy Maher says he feels sun we must be stiff with sitting so long. Hi thinks it will do us good to walk up, so wi do. The Alpine Club always struck me as i curious institution. The members put oi double-soled trotter cases, seize an Alpen stock, and go wading about Europe, Asia Africa and America, in search of moun tains. When they meet one they g up and try hard to break thei necks. Then they come down and go an look for another mountain. This is a class c fimupepneot I can’t see much in. The Bi

Hill is a pretty walk. The ferns are magnificent. Ferns are a class of vegetation that have risen considerably in value lately. Ladies take an interest in them. They go grubbing about in gulleys and mountains, and return home bearing numerous varieties. Then they cultivate them in drawing rooms and places where they generally die off plentifully. Mortality is very prevalent among this class of vegetable, but ferns are better articles to engage the attention of the “ fair sect” than most other subjects. It seems a harmless occupation. At the foot of the Big Hill is Blake’s accommodation house. Here we change horses. A rattling team of grays is put too. Igo round admiring them. One fine animal i go caressing and fondling. I’m told he has killed two men and maimed a few more. I cease fondling him after that. It seems stupid to get familiar with animals of this class. We drive along a pretty stream (the Kaiwaka I think). Scenery still very fine, but I don’t Jtake. that interest in the filmy clouds floating about in the distant valleys, and the purple and gold tints on the mountain sides that I ought to, because I’m thinking about the prospects of the Waimea water race which we have just passed. This public work will cost money. I should like to have just half what it cost, and I’d go over and entertain about 723 people who hospitably entertained me when I was in Hokitika, In regard of the water race it seems reliable for holding water, but it hardly awes one to a large extent. I could give you more of my views about this public work only I get interrupted by the gentleman who knew my uncle. He is singing inside in a fine husky gurgling sort of bass. I ask him what he’s singing. He say its a new song, called the “ Mother-in-law’s Cuss” by the same composer as the “ Maiden’s Prayer.” The latter is a sad composition, but it is preferable, very very preferable, to the other song. We now approach the Arahura. We cross on Hungerford’s Suspension Bridge. The bridge is a fine structure. So is Mr H. I met him subsequently. We now come among smiling homesteads and I observe symptoms of agriculture. 1 have a conviction almost amounting to a certainty that the arable and pastoral land here is considerable. I don’t wish to hurry over this. It may prove more valuable to your agricultural readers than many—perhaps than all the other portions of this report. I shall reckon it up as well as I can, and give more particulars shortly,