flumes, saw-mills and bush work; children growing up who have never seen growing corn, or even a green field, whose horizon is bounded on the east by un-trodden forest, and above it the snowy peaks of the Southern Alps, on the west by the rolling surf of the Pacific Ocean; with this the daily "small-beer," palatable, but scarcely exhilarating, of domestic story, trivial pleasures, inevitable troubles; life lived in primitive wooden houses and tents, with its daily round and common task.
Then, per contra, climate, general character of the people, food, water, work, blessed work, all of the best; no grinding poverty, slums, or submerged classes; no social envyings; almost no crime; some sickness and poor health, but a mere nothing as compared with the record of an old country; a community young and hopeful, and a life in which, barring accident and misfortune, anyone may rise, and hope to see his children rise higher than himself. The credit side tots up bravely as one makes these entries. Then afterwards I go for a long tramp, and think of the parson's round in the mean streets of East London, or even the lanes of a country parish, and am well content.
Imagine the contrast. Along the beach for a mile or so, then up a forest track inland, some deep gullies to be crossed by means of a tree trunk, fallen, and adzed to a flat foothold, over which, I own, I often sit, and straddle my way to the other side. Then down into a valley where men are washing down a cliff side with a powerful jet of water, and an invitation from one of them, when they knock off work, to come to his house for tea. In this case my host is an elderly man, with stalwart sons, well to do, and generally
