The Valey of the Moor

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 224, 21 September 1935, Page 8 (Supplement)

The Valey of the Moor

By Ernest L. Eyre.

There is a man at Henderson, who lives by the river bends, And every Christmas Eve he tells the same old story to his friends; They never seem to tire oj it, perhaps because the story's true And in the old man's homely words I tell this stirring tale to you I » » CHAPTER I. IN the year 18— rriy parents, my sister Mary, and brother Bcb and I removed l'rom Auckland city to a new five-roomed house in a lonely, isolated spot on the Waitakere Ranges. Bob was aged 15, Mary 16, and I had just turned 17.

Dad was a retired grocer, who had taken a fancy to try his fortune poultry farming. He intended also to grow fruit, and keep bees, and perhaps a cow or two. Our home was situated about half a mile from the base of a lofty bushclad cone, the western side of which was a sheer precipice of 2000 ft in height, overhanging, at a darigeroifs angle, an immense hollow in the hills!

Often we children used to climb to this dizzy eminence, Sind, seated on a jutting platform of rock, known locally as The Hawk's Nest, gaze spellbound into the dreadful void beneath. From there the giant trees' in the valley appeared to be no larger than small bushes. Naturally the oftener we climbed the cone the more pronounced became our longing to explore the silent and uninhabited but desirable Eldorado at the foot of the cliff. Eventually we agreed to ask our neighbour's boy, Charlie Malory, to come with us on a riiding tour through the gap in the ranges which led into the mysterious' place. To reach this gap we should have to ride five miles

through the bush in a north-westerly direction. It was, we were told, only a narrow . defile, which opened out into a well-watered, grassy and partly timbered valley resembling "Terrible Hollow," in Rolf Boldrewood's novel, "Robbery Under Arms/' only not so large.

A man who had been to "Terrible Hollow" when he was "humping bluej" in Victbria, informed lis that the walls of our hidden wonderland were, however, just as steep and high, and this piece of news greatly elated and excited us.

So on Christftias Sunday, after breakfast, we young people all galloped towards this' spot on our ponies, like knights of old, in quest of adventure.

How glorious, even to our youthful eyes, appeared the bush through which we had to pass! We had never imagined so many native birds existed in our green Maoriland as we saw that day! They were so tame that they flew around our heads in the friendliest fashion, as if not in the least afraid of being molested.The blossoms of the magnificent pohutukp.vas flamed overhead like scarlet suns, and we were all in excellent spirits, when— "Hullo, what a funny bird!" called out Bob, who was riding slightly ahead.

We gazed in the direction indicated by him, and there, sure enough, racing up the gap into our longed-for rendezvous we saw a bird almost twice as large as the ostrich which we had seen in the Auckland Museum. It had grey feathers, a long, powerful nook, sharp heavy-looking beak, and legs nearly as massive as those of an average-sized horse. "It's a moa!" screamed Mary excitedly. "I know it is; I have a picture of one*in my school book."'

"Nonsense," I cried, Tt-ith a boy's usual contempt for his sister's opinions. "Jloas don't live here no>v. The Maoris killed the last one years and years ago. But let's see what it really is." So, urging our horses over fallen logs and through tangled undergrowth—there was 110 track — we pursued, as best we could, the giant t>ird. To judge by the noise, it was smashing a path for itself through the tyush about one hundred yards in our front.

The defile now became very narrow, and choked with ferns and brambles, which hampered us considerably. We experienced extreme difficulty in avoiding branches of trees, and our ponies slipped repeatedly on the treacherous, boggy soil of the humid sub-tropical forest. Charlie Malory —who was .1 bushbred youngster and a clever rider—now took the lead, and he soon guided us into the valley, which was encompassed on three sides by range upon range of the cloud-topped beetling Waitakeres.

Down the centre flowed a scrublined creek, or small river, some 30ft in width, and very rapid. It curved abruptly, and disappeared into a cavern under the base of the western cliff, a couple of hundred yards from the termination of the pass through which we had come.

"I'll have a swim there afterwards," shouted Bob, as we spurred our perspiring ponies up the tea-tree covered elope towards the valley's head. "It's a moa all right, and we're the first white people who've ever seen a live one," I admitted to Mary.

But, try as we would, we had 110 chance of capturing the bird, whicli was as speedy as a good racehorse. Presently, without turning its head, the fugitive fled into a dense clump of matai trees half a mile further on, where we realised it would be useless to follow it.

We strained our eyes, and saw the curious thing emerge far up on a ferny rise, to again vanish into the impenetrable forest which stretched for miles into the hazy distance.

Disappointed, but nevertheless determined to return with a search party to acquire, if possible, this rara-avis, in which lay a fortune, we

cantered back some way, and rested our tired steeds by the banks of the inviting stream, where we turned them, looee to graze on the coarse grass. Then we boys, leaving Mary to prepare the lunch, and attend to the fire which we had lighted between two large boulders, found a retired deep pool at a shady bend of the creek, and dived in naked to cool our heated bodies. To our surprise we could not reach the bottom in many places, even by long dives. Evidently the water was generally very deep. After our plunge we returned to my sister, who had boiled the billy in real swagman fashion. Billy tea, as any bushman will assert, is the beet.

Needless to state, we did full justice to the liome-made scones and the sandwiches, meanwhile eagerly discussing the possibility of effecting the capture—at an early date —of the feathered, but wingless, runaway. We doubted whether any credence would be attached to our narrative by our relatives or friends; probably we should be laughed at as young Maunchausens. Suddenly Bob rose to his feet.

"I know what we'll do! We'll explore the underground cavern where the creek flows. I don't suppose anybody has ever ventured there, or bothered .the least bit about it." Bob was always a venturesome young devil, and where he. led I usually followed, although frequently against my better judgment. "But we can't," Charlie remonstrated. "The creek runs right bang into the face of the cliff; we haven't a boat, so how are we going to get in? There's no slope at either side, as you can see." "Why not swim under water, until we reach the inside cave? There's sure to be a wider one not far in. We can always return through the tunnel," replied Bob. "Don't risk it," said Mary! "You'll be drowned." Mary was a sensible gillCharlie Malory now approached the creek, at a point about fifty feet from the subterranean passage, and he was standing on the bank, when a scream of terror rose from Mary. Involuntarily v;e faced about, and stared up the valley in the hot noon. (To be continued.)