A DAY AT THE MOUNTAIN.

Taranaki Daily News, 15 December 1922, Page 6 (Supplement)

A DAY AT THE MOUNTAIN.

(By Marguerite Drader, Girls’ High School, New Plymouth; aged 13 years 8 months.)

The sun had hardly kissed the dapple sky with his rosy lips, when we set out for a day at the mountain. This great sombre mountain, Egmont, which stands in mysterious splendour, silently guarding the cape over which it reigns. It was spring, and as we drove by fields of waving corn and meadows of emerald grass, the skylark warbled and trilled in ecstasies of love from his pedestal in the blue eky to his mate hidden in the grass below. Very soon we came to the foothills, and travelling became harder for Joel, our faithful old horse, which pulled the vehicle in which we drove. After another two or three miles we came to the mountain gate, which I thought opened to us the road to paradise, so beautiful was the scenery. The track, the width of which allowed only one vehicle to traverse it at a time, was cut out of the dense forest itself. The fragrance of the bush flowers and sweet scented resinous pines was wafted on the keen September breeze to us. The gorgeous rata flowers peeped at us from the towering heights of the rata tree; the clematis, the queen of the bush, smiled at us from her thone in the exalted height of the kowhai tree; while the woodbine glanced shyly over the queen’s shoulder. In about a quarter of an hour we came out suddenly into a little clearing one side of the track, which overhung a gaping ravine. It was as though a curtain had been raised and revealed nature’s playground. At the bottom of the ravine a. streamlet prattled musically over the mossy stones, round eddying bays into sandy shoals, and at

last, while catching a golden sunbeam here and there, danced round a bend in the gorge from our enchanted sight.

We stood in silence awed by the mighty grandeur surrounding us—the precipice opposite, which seemed to be almost a bird sanctuary, so loud were the continual twitterings, whistles and continual chirps of the numerous birds; the snow-capped mountain above us, the blue ranges to our right. Then, when one of the party gave vent to a long drawn sigh, which expressed her emotions better than any descriptive words in the English language, we were drawn back to reality with a start. The sun was almost at its zenith when we arrived at the mountain house. Passing along the verandah we entered into a big hall or dining-room. There was a piano in one corner of the room with various kinds of music, ancient and modern, arranged in a neat pile on top of it. The furniture consisted of four or five forms and three long tablbs. On one side of the room was a huge fireplace, big enough to roast an ox in, and although it was spring, a bright fire crackled and threw showers of sparks on to the stone hearth. Above the mantlepiece hung a few pictures, consisting mainly of views of the mountain -park itself. After luncheon we children began exploring further up the track. After two or three minutes’ walking we came out into a clearing, in the centre of which stood a monument, bearing the inscription: “Near, very near to renunciation, lies the path to eternal peace,” together with the names of the persons whose lives were lost.

The rest of the afternoon wo spent in searching for the famous “crow’s nest” in one of the -neighboring gorges. Native violets, mountain daisies, filmy fern and Prince of Wales feather grew along the path we traversed in our search. On the other side of the gorge a tui called., and then another and another, and yet another, until there were six of them. Their song filled the air with melodious vibrations of sound. We could see them quite plainly from where we stood, the white tuft at the throat, the glossy black wings which glistened in the sun, the slender neck on which rainbow sunbeams danced, delicately poised head and throbbing throat. At last we came to a tree which had erected against it a rickety piece of wooden structure with a notice nailed into a nearby tree, “Crow’s Nest.” A glorious outlook can be seen from here — the land of the sugar loaves and following the white coastline to the north, the mouth of the Waitara river comes next. and. lastly, the White Cliffs, which loom out pale against the azure blue sky.

The evening shadows were stealing across the amethyst and crimson sky when we at last drove home, tired, but none the worse for wear.