At our feet, nestling amid willows and fruit trees, and cheered by the babble of the noisy brook, lies Wairoa.
What noisy, jabbering crew have we here? They are dirty, ragged, boisterous, uncivil, rude. These are the poorest specimens of natives we have yet seen. Dogs, pigs, children, lads and lasses, all unite in emulating Babel. They are all aggressive. They have been spoiled completely by the tourists taking too much notice of them and treating them too liberally, and now they are an unmitigated nuisance.
We were introduced to Kate the famous guide, recipient of the Humane Society's medal, and quite a well-known character in the lake country. We found Kate to be, judging by first impressions, a gentle, soft-voiced woman, rather deaf, and, if anything, somewhat stupid. One should be cautious of first impressions.
We are glad at last to escape from the noise into one of Mrs. McRae's natty, quiet bedrooms, and under McRae's hospitable roof we gladly rest for the night.
Comfort is not the word. McRae's is not an hotel—it is a home. Could any word convey a higher appreciation of his princely fare and his ever wakeful consideration for the comfort of his guests?
Hurrah! the Terraces to-morrow!! And now to sleep.
"To sleep, but not to rest."
