act was applauded, and every performer had an encore number. One of the men who appeared in the war dance must have been seventy years old; rather venerable, I thought, for an amateur. We stood it for an hour, because there was absolutely nothing else to do. The English pickle and jam manufacturers, and tradesmen of every kind, claim notable patrons, therefore I was not surprised to find this on the programme: "Patronized by Lord Kitchener, Madame Melba, and many other distinguished visitors." The performance closed with the song, "God Save the King," and a dance. The audience was small, and composed entirely of whites, but out in front of the hall were hundreds of Maoris lounging about.
Sunday, January 19.—I write this by the light of a
tallow candle in a little hotel twenty-four miles from
Rotorua. We came here today by a circuitous route,
and saw many wonders on the way. The hotel at
which I am a guest tonight exists to accommodate
visitors to the Waiotapu valley geysers, and these I
shall see tomorrow morning, and proceed to Wairakei,
twenty-seven miles, by motor in the afternoon. The
names here are something dreadful; one place we visited
yesterday is called Whakarewarewa, but people refer to
it familiarly as Whak. . . . We left Rotorua at
8:15 this morning, by stage. We had seats with the
driver, which, in staging, is an honor equal to a seat
at the captain's table on a ship. We had a pleasant
drive of three hours through mountains, passing Green
