sheep in times of drought will with infinite patience and care draw the roots from the soil, and so keep life in their miserable carcases. And similarly with thistle roots.
Over the river on the right, rise a series of terraces, so symmetrically fashioned that it is hard to believe the river alone originated them. These are the far-famed Waikato terraces, formed, so geologists tell us, when all this region was a lake bed. Between are deep gulches, sunken canyons, and ravines, with curious cones thrown in here and there. And over all, at the back, the misty mountains rear their mysterious heads, while the river foams along at our feet. It is a lovely scene. What a river for trout. Harry, however, informs me that the water is so impregnated with minerals that fish will not thrive in these streams. The more's the pity.
Many of these steep conical hills we see, scattered at intervals over the vast champaign, have a gaping chasm on one side, where, during some former fierce cataclysm, the pent up molten lava must have burst the cindery barrier, and rushed, a living torrent of fire, into the deep ravines below. Others bear traces of Maori fortifications, and each has some story of blood and strife associated with it.
A long climb, with steep craggy heights to our left, and the river to the right brings us to the summit of a fern-covered saddle, and far as the eye can reach in front, we look across a great strath or broad valley, all barred and scarred,
