Grander and grander views opened out as we went on. The cliffs on our left were crowned with glaciers, which curving over them, broke and sent long tongues down into gullies in the mountain sides. These again became waterfalls, leaping from such, heights they were changed to finest spray. At the foot of some of these falls were the Ice-caves we had come to seek, and somewhere ahead of us was the “Silver Cone.”
Mr. Macpherson was now in full command—whittling a stick with feverish energy, another held in readiness under his arm, thick as his wrist, to be whittled away in no time! It seemed to give him an inspiration, and he had an unerring instinct where to go, for as far as knowledge went, we were now far past his farthest point, and he had to find the way. So, led by our Highlander, we plunged into the bush, almost as bad to get through as the Rob Roy, only the slopes were less precipitous, and the floor covered with moss a foot deep. Tree trunks, stones—everything alike were embedded in five or six different and equally lovely kinds. Little streams trickling through it, made fairy waterfalls where the sun caught the moisture, and covered the delicate sprays and fronds with diamonds. And in the moss grew orchids, curious rather than beautiful perhaps, but the spotted leaves of one variety, dotted with purple, were pretty. The tall Gastrodia Cunninghamii grew here, a dirty-green flower, spotted with white, whose starchy roots are said to have been used by the Maoris for
