D.L.F. Special Subject Week.

Otago Witness, Issue 2967, 25 January 1911, Page 83

D.L.F. Special Subject Week.

SPECIAL SUBJECT WEEK.

The page this week speaks fox itself; instead of the usual columns of letters you see before you original contributions, mostly stories, on our "special subject." It is true that our special subject has been treated by seme writers in a way I did not expect; for I thought that all contributions would take the form of stories. The subject given was, "A New Zealander," and writers were told that the "New Zealander" might be a bird, plant, animal, or person; so you see it lent itself to great diversity of treatment. The consequence is that you have some columns of varied reading matter before you; and I hope you will all enjoy the perusal of them very much. Next week there will be letters again as usual, and also another instalment of Lola's delightful "Voyage Round! the World in an Airship."

BLONDEL’S DEATH.

On Sunday the Angel of Death came among us and called Blondel away. He lias born© the long years of suffering with marvellous patience, and has been through all his trials kind friend and counsellor to each one of our circle. His writings you all know —the delicate, happy, tender fancy of them were the outspring of his own grief and pain. And now his release from the latter has set free the soul that has been so long trammelled by the poolsuffering body. The .personal loss to us is more than we can compute; I know that 1 am the poorer by a. true friend, and hy my loss I can measure a- little the bereavement of his wife and children, to whom, in the name of all D.L.F., past and present, I send my profounclest sympathy. My Dear Comrades, —It it with much sorrow that I convey to you the news ot the death of our old beloved Inend buondsl. An admirer and warm friend ot our old editor, and a frequent and welcome contributor to our page, he, too, loved the Little Folk, and by his love some of his sweetest poems and stories were inspired. And on Sunday morning last he, too, crossed the mystic river to join the throng round the Master whom he loved on earth. I am sure the sympathy of all his many Little Folk friends will go out to n s widow and his three ht-e hoys in this their hour of bereavement, and that He who comforts the widow and the fathe less may come very near to ‘hem at this time - harry.

THE TASK ETERNAL.

A STORY OF THE EARLY SEVENTIES. By The Kham. CHAPTER I. Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping. Pioneers! O pioneers! —Walt Whitman. Bill Lyne crawled under the manuka scrub for shelter. Not so much to keep out of the blinding rain, for he was wet through aWy buti to find covert from the icy and stinging blast which lashed like a horseS held by a fury. The *™**"£ eoddeii under the manuka, and the water kept dripping -through the quivering branches. Lyne automatically reached for his swag. Then he remembered that he had. thrown it away some hours previously, lie was running a race for life, and, of course, found it quite unnecessary to carry too much weight. With the ewag went a hundred associations, a hundred little mementoes; but he brushed these thoughts from his mind as a conscientious groom brushes the last incipient tuitings from a carefully-groomed steed. The fugitive looked out from among the tangled undergrowth—he was in a swamp land of dwafted manuka, which was twisted into the strangest and -most fantastic contortions fey the. breezes he looked out over the flat end unprofitable country, and, as far as his eye could see, a bleak yellow tussock plain confronted him, and lost itself finally in the grey mists ot the horizon. Lyne would probably have gone into a little reverie, counted h.s chances, and neglected his losses; he might have even wished for a good square meal; but as a matter of fact he did not consider any of those things, for exertion and exposure had not neglected their part, ana in a few moments Bill Lyne was in a state of collapse. Now, regarding the true story ot JBlii JLyne—his Christian name was Bill; being thus christened, he never was a William in his life. Now, regarding his. escapade, it was Mick Doolan who had told the news to the boys. He told them the whole story in the gents' dressing room of Toi-toi Creek Hall. It was the night of the bachelors' ball, and Mick waxed fluent and confidential between a circular waltz and the lancers; indeed, so much so that when the M.C. called "Lancers" and asked the young xasn to secure their partners, no young men were forthcoming. And the ladies sat disconsolately along the wall, and without strain ing their ears they could hear loud exclama tions and mildly colloquial swear-words exuding from the gents' dressing room — highly expressive language, but highly tinctured with a concoction of cigarette smoke and other varieties of tobacco fragrances. Now, Mick Doolan was a gcod talker —all Irishmen are; but he had no brogue—a colonial seldom has. "New, Bill, he gees abreckin' in his pet colt. You know the- bloomin' nag—the one the biokes reckon he came the double on Cirtwright with. And, so 'elp me, he gallops away round the back of M'Kcrrow's station, a-id set 3 training on the sand patch—you know." "Strike me pink!" murmured Griften with a, touch of awe in his voice; for here was a man who' had done something desperate. "Well, you know what M'Kerrow reckons about that there plot of land: h& kids it's holy grcurd. Of course, people say he's fair luny, but it would be all right to be just as luny as he is. .So 'elp me, don't he cut the shearers down to starvation, and don't he tucker 'em on pig wash! The roustabouts and station hands are all on less than chows' screws; .and you know "M'Kerrow is six feet four inches or more, when people don.'t agree with him he simolv knocks them into shape." "Tucker en Oban Run!" interrupted Giffen. "Why I worked there a season, and the Bcran—why, I can't get the taste of it out of my Hcker and mouth this last inrfi* yeai*-' 5

j "But, as I wsus sayin'," continued Doolan, I "M'Kernow is the devil, and Oban Station jis just plain tell. But how., the Dickens | Mac. reckons that sandy bit behind Jais I run is holy ground is a creepy mystery." 1 "But what about Lyne'r" impatiently ■ queried Giffen. "Well, when Mac. &ees Bill a-gallopmg \ back and forth upon his ' holy ground' ho • just went off like a. double charge of dynamite in brittle rock. He gets hold of his stockwhip and waves it over his head, and • getting on to the Miarkino filly, he rides after Bill—rides after him hell for leather. Now, Bill is just about as cunnin.' as any rascal and good-for-nothing in these or any other parts, so he just rides to- the edge of the swamp, and when eld Mac. comes up : to Mm he just slides from, his nag and makes across the slushiest part of the swamp. When the temper is in the brains are out, and so Mac. rides right in after I him, with the result that he bogs the Markino filly, and two'hundred pounds of | horse-flesh; and Mac—well, he lost his ; temper so .awfully that he became simply ' paralytic; I thought he would have bust." "Well, this simply takes the bun!" put in Giffen. "Now," continued Doolan, quite ignoring Giffen's remark —"now, out comes that there halfcoste bloke what Mac. employs about his whare—out conies the Maori and goes up to help Mao., but Mac. calls, 'After that swine and kill him—kill him, I say!' The halfcaste made no reply, but answered with his looks. Be rushed back to the house, and came out 'again in a. few minutes with a gun. Now, you all know that that halfoasts is stark-staring mad. Mac. is merely a dour Scot with a fad, but the Maori is positively dangerous. But all the time Mac. keeps sinkin' deeper and deeper into the swamp, and the Maori takes Bill's track, but I saw Bill a good starter with a swag and mounted. I think he rooted into the hut and got hold of the old swag he carries round the stations at shearing time. Then I gets back " "You gets back?" eagerly requested Giffen. "Yes, when I gets back out of hiding I goes up to where Mac. was, and there he was buried deep into the quicksand and mud, .and stone dead—yes, Bully M'Kerrow dead as a door-nail." "Barn dance!" announced the M.C., and Mick Doolan's audience quickly filed into the ballroom.

CHAPTER 11. Light is good for the living:. Long light for the lover! Long light for the maiden!— For us thcv black cover! Farewell the light! —Jessie Machay. When Bill Lyne again opened his weary eyes he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He was somewhat surprised at first, but very soon he was able to put 2 and 2 together. But he did not have long to think. A tall, stooped man of about 70 entered the low and meanly-furnished 8 by 8 room, and it seemed necessary for the intruder to bend his head to escape contact with the ceiling. "Ah! awake!" "Yes," said Bill. "Why, I guess you just about shot your bolt, passed in yer cheque, gone to Davy Jones. Why, you were as statuesque as Lot's wife. Best get you a drink." The genial Scotsman quickly suited the action to the word, and returned in a couple of minutes with a steaming glass of hot toddy. "And how the Dickens did you get under the manuka —at least, where did you come from?" The ancient Scotsman proceeded to leisurely fill his pipe. "Oh, just front the back of Toi-toi Creek — down there by M'Eerrow's." "Oh, you took an awkward track, ccming the Kaik way. What did you wish to come coastwise for?" "I wasn't particular. I was in a hurry—i leastway, I had to clear." "Into trouble?" | "Kb, not exactly. I just got Wirem.il after me. That's the .silly rouseabout who cooks for Bully M'Kerrow. Bully just makes I Wi. do three men's work, and only gives | him lacks for wages. But it's all the same ; to balmy—all the bloomin' same." The old Scot assumed a philosophic cast of I countenance. "And who may you be?" he j finally queried, as he assumed a broader ! accent, and returned to the vernacular. "Me? I'm Bill Lyne." The Scotsman's pipe dropped out of his I mouth, and he turned death-pale. He looked I hard at the invalid—stared like one who cannot believe his eyes. Then without a single word he left the room. j Bill lay in bed 1 a-listening. He came to ! the conclusion it must be evening, and I somewhere about 8 o'clock. And as he j listened he heard a strange rumbling sound. ! At first this seemed unfamiliar; but as he kepi listening and wondering he felt that ! he must be near the sea. The room boasted j but one window, a mere porthole six inches by seven inches. The stranger was eager to look out. He endeavoured to rise, but found himself so stiff that he could hardly move a limb. However, after some little exercise of patience and perseverance he was able I to press his nose close against the rattling pane. And there—but he could hardly bei lieve it —for just some two __ hundred yards from his window —two hundred yards m.sa- ! sured by white sand—was the green Pacific. Turning his face to the left, he noticed a very small wharf, at which -was moored a tidy little schooner and some smaller craft. To the right was nothing but a weary stretch of undulating dunes. The ocean thundered 'and fretted, changed from green to gold, from gold to azure. The sun was setting gorgeously, and the sea echoed back her gicry with an innumerable laughter. Bill j was mystified, but not .sad; the surroundings were so new and novel that he even forgot j himself. But feeling at last that the night I was getting extremely chill, he crept back to his bunk, and began to think things over. ! He had fallen into a half-sleep, when he was ] rudely awakened by sounds which betokened considerable animation in the house. New I voices and footfalls gave the impression that numerous guests were arriving .and had j arrived. There was every indication that the crowd was a happy one, laughter and | jollity baing the order, of the hour. Scon I there was music, and the rhythmic tramp, j tramp which is associated with dancing. j There were the voices of women and the voices of men, and, judging by the noise they made, the company was a large one. From the babel of voices Bill could make out nothing. At last, however, a momentary silence prevailed, and someone proclaimed in a loud bass voice, "Let's drink the health 1 of Shark's-tcoth Sandy, king of Whale-oil ' Island." A nliakina of classes and nierrs

peals of laughter followed, and then a. few chorda were struck on the piano. Sounded they were, but exquisitely and with the daintiest of touch. Bill wondered who would be pianist. At, first he thought a woman; but, of course, accomplished musicians seldom betray their sex when playing an accompaniment. But someone was beginning to sing. 'Ah, what a voice—a mellow contralto, with such reserve, resonance, and sense of melody. Bill had never heard such a voice, and »s quite 'incapable of judging it from a technical standpoint. But he was thrilled by it, nevertheless—thrilled as no music had ever thrilled him before. And the accompaniment —was it not a work oi genius? One feature of the song remained —■a thickening of the vowels which suggested the Maori, but the characteristic was so slightly marked that Bill considered the singer to be a halfcaste, or even, a quartercaste. He began also to realise that she was playing her own accompaniment, for surely two musicians of that calibre could not meet on Whale-oil Island. Yes, the pianist was a woman. As Bill listened to the song he was surprised that the singer articulated so well He could hear every word. Apparently an old whaling ditty set to a sweet oldworld melody. It ran thus: Loud sang the gallant whaler, And thus his ditty ran: "Send, send the Maori lassie here, And not the Maori man," At midnight, when the moon began To show her silver flame, There came to him no Maori man—

The Maori lassie came. This fine whaling song—no doubt an adaptation—received a ringing encore. But the vocalist did not sing a second nurhber; she preferred to recite, and her recitation fainy took Lyne's breath .away. He could not see her, and therefore lost the gesture, the facial expression, and the personality of the performei. But her conception, modulation, wit, chic, and abandon were a revelation. Not a word, not a, mood, not even an inflection missed its mark. Here was art, but the almighty art which conceals art. There was a person with histrionic genius, with temperament, and dramatic insight. There was something creative in her genius, for the last line of each verse was French, or nossibly French. In short, it may be true; 'in fact, it was true, that not one of the .persons in the room nor the reciter herself understood a word of French. Yet she placed a world of meaning into that last line. To each of the audience that last line meant something definite, something vividly expressed, something peculiarly wise or witty, or perhaps pathetic. Bach one took home his or her lesson, and so each one delighted in the artist. Here is the recitation; it must .also be an adaptation, for it has not been discoverable in print, and seams to have been recited only at Whaleoil Island. I don't believe a title was given, but of course, whalers were not all destitute of poetic gifts: Young Lubin lov'd the fair Lisette, And tapping at her window came; The sun had barely risen yet— She raeep'd and cried, "Oh, fie, for shame! "Sweet' maid," says he, "'tis smiling May; Come let us rove." "Indeed," said she; "So scon? What will the neighbours say! Fi done! fi done! Ah, men ami!" Still Lubin. soft persuasion tried, And fair Lisette, at last content, Forgot the neighbours, ceased to chide, Stole out, and with him imaying went. And oft a stolen kiss he caught; Lisette no doubt displeased would be, Yet only said, whate'er she thought, Fi done! fi done! Ah, mon ami!" He talked of love. "Come, let's away," She cried, yet loiter'd—.silly thing! He pressed her, too, to fix the day, And on her finger placed a ring. She started, blushed, and hung her head, Yet very angry tried to bo; But only sighed and softly said, _ Fi done! fi done! Ah, mon ami!" (These lines were recited at Whale-oil Island in IS7'2, and the interpreter of them was a finished* elocutionis't —and that befoie the days of competitions.) Now you know a good deal about the evening's fun, you will also realise that Lyne is somewhat smitten. He had never seen the performer, it is true, but all the same he is under the spell of that of which, according to Moore, nothing else is half so sweet in life—love's young dream.

CHAPTER HI. A melancholy desire of .ancient tilings Floats like a faded perfume out of the wires*; Pallid lovers, what unforgotten desires, Whispered once, are refold in your whisperings? —Symons. Next morning Lyne awoke with on© desire —to see his lady of the concert. The house was silent; perhaps the erstwhile revellers were sleeping deeply; perhaps they were gone. The sea, too, had stilled its fierce anger, and the hush was oppressive. The early sun flooded his room from the little porthole, and Lyne felt that he was quite well again. He got up—the pain and stiffness in his limbs being not nearly so severe, —he got up with the intention of dressing. But he found himself in a very queer corner —his clothes were nowhere to be found! Indeed, not one single .article of male attire remained in his room. After waiting about half an hour, and still hearing no sounds in the house, he crept silently from his lair in quest of apparel. He was not long in finding out a lumber room; indeed, it adjoined his own. Here he unearthed a greasy dungaree suit, which he quickly denned, and then proceeded to the kitchen, car what he considered: to be the kitchen. Well, he rambled through a rambling house, and at last found himself in a lean-to, which boasted a very large fireplace. The fire was on, and a huge boiler was steaming away merrily. Lyne began to contemplate these preparations for breakfast, but while so doing a couple of warm greasy hands were placed over his eyes. "Guess?" said a musical voice—.a voice of playfulness and hilarity. Bill recognised the prima donna of last night—the Ellen Terry of last night,—and was completely astounded. "Dunno," he replied in abject dulness. "And don't care, I suppose!" answered the girl, still keeping him. blindfolded. "Yes, yes, of course I do!" put in Lyne, with a stupidity which surprised himself. But Bill, though he could be taken on the hop, was never long at a loss. "Oh!" answered the girl, and there was a world cf scorn in her voice. "Oh, dear! oil, well—ha!" she continued sarcastically. "You said guess, didn't you?" was Bill's real commencement. "Yes, I did," answered the mysterious lady. "Well, my guess is that you're the very girl I want to see." "What for?" "Oh, to give you a conundrum." "Well, out with it!" laughed the. singer, still covering Lyne's eyes. "I won't let you go until you tell me." 9 Piano wires.

"Well," went on Lyne, "what's the point of similarity between a sigh, a racehorse, and a pretty girl?" The girl thought for an instant, but still retained her hold on our hero. "Give it up," she said with a laugh. "Well, a sigh is 'Oh, dear!' A racehorse is 'Too dear!' The pretty girl is 'You, dear!' " And then, with a subtlety and trickiiies® which was characteristic of Lyne, he suddenly and unexpectedly stepped from the girl's grasp, threw his arms about her neck, and kissed her on the lips before she could realise what was happening. As she drew back from: him Lyne drank in her full beauty. She was a brunette, tall, stately, and imperial. A quarter-caste, no doubt, gaining little from the Maori save complexion, and that distinctive something—that Eastern beauty which is ever hypnotic, and always dangerous. If Lyne thought her' the finest woman in the world, his was no error of judgment. For he did not then know that the belle of Whale-oil Island was also a belle of the open seaway. She was discussed by shaggy Norwegians, whose barques had called at the island. At whaling stations her name was whispered with awe; indeed, 'twas said she was the daughter of a prince, and the whalers who traded with the island looked upon her as something sacred and apart. Not even Blackguard Benson, the very Apollo of the whaling stations, the cultured artist, the kind-hearted moralist, and, indeed, withal virtuous paragon of the south, who read his Bible on deck every Sunday morning, and wouldn't sling a harpoon on that day if the sea began to. charge into whales. Even Blackguard, or Blackie for short, deigned not to offer her his hand. For, after all, beauty is_ a species of genius. Beauty takes its' place beside art, literature, arms, and diplomacy in the economy of human life, in the higher walks of the world. On the higher walks, indeed, for beauty, though it appear in the slums or in the out-trails and' deserted frontiers of Empire, as is Whaleoil Island, is still divine, still mighty in its potentialities for good or evil. And Lyne as he stood before this remarkable child of two empires—for the girl was only eighteen,—he became strangely subdued. But in his veins, too, ran blcod of other nations. He was Continental as well as English—a New Zealander born and bred, but unto the sturdiness of the Norman was added the fire of the Slav. The passionate soul of a people who are Asiatic at heart, as they are of Asiatic origin. Scratch them and you will find the Tartar. There stood the girl, still blushing from that first kiss; there she stood, scantily and carelessly clad, for she was merely getting breakfast, but with all the glorious symmetry of the Venus do Milo, and with a. countenance which would shame the insipid, unsaintly faces of the canvases of Raphael. But the thoughts passed quickly through Lyne's head. He forgot himself, and lived only in his passion for the girl. But he did not wish to appear too foolish, so he asked: "What are you cooking?" "Mutton-birds. Do you like them?" "Pretty fair." "Is that all. I could live on them. But what's your name?" "Now, you tell me yours first." "No, I won't." "Yes, ycu will. I'll kiss you again, if you don't." "Well, my name is Lisette—now then." "And mine is Lubin." "Nc, it ain't.'' "Do you call me a liar?" "Well, what are you?" "I'm a bold, bad whaler, and I wanted night not to bring the Maori man, but the Maori maid. I didn't get all I wanted. I had to wait till morn, and then I got the quarter-caste girl—l got you." "Oh, did you, my boy!" sneered Lisette. "Yes, a.nd I must have you, too." I'Why?" "I don't know why, but I must; yes, I must, or bust," "Phew!" "But hew did I get here?" "The ' Old Man' picked you up in the. manuka scrub along the coast. You were just about half-dead, so lis took you over in the boat. It was easier and handier. Of course, we are 25 miles from the mainland." "Phew!" "Oh, don't be sarcastic. I nursed you through; you can't afford to joke at me." "No, I know I can't. You're a dear, sweet darling, that's what you are. I feel like kissing you all the morning. I don't want any breakfast; I just want you." "You've got a cheek!" "And I'll have it right against your cheek shortly, if you're not civil." "Young man—" But it was the tall and aged Scotchman who entered the room and spoke the words. CHAPTER. IV. Ali undisturbed the Pakeha's herds are creeping Along the hill; On lazy tides the Pakeha's sails are sleeping, And all is still. Tena koe Pakeha! within this fortificatioy Grows English grass; Tena koe' subtle conqueror of a: nation Boomed, doomed to pass. —Dora Wilcox It was Mick Doolan and Giffen who were discussing the situation. The late Bully M'Kerrow was buried—gone, but certainly not forgotten. Wiremu had returned, after a two weeks' unavailing search for Bill Lyne. And Bill Lyne had disappeared off the face of the earth. But Giffen and Doolan had stranger things to talk a-bout, for it transpired that Bill Lyne was Bully M'Kerrow'e son, and, what is still stranger, his heir. If there was nothing exactly dishonourable on Bully's part, there was a great deal that was contemptible. "Yes, Bully was just plain "hog," was Mick's final summing up. "Poor old Bill!" being Giffen's meditative rejoinder. "You see," went on Doolan, "Bully wanted the boy to be brought up barely. He reckoned if he thought his father had a sheep station he'd go to the dogs altogether. They say taking away Bill just killed his missus. But Bully possessed no more knowledge of human nature than a post-and-rail fence, fie went in for Southdcwns, and hackneys, and what he didn't know of sheep or hoises you'd need to ask the devil, for no mother's son on earth could tell you. Well, it just means we'll give Bill a good old rally when he comes back; but I guess they'll be a willin' go with Wiremu. or I'm not an Irishman. But, say, it stems to strike me that Bill may be stone dead out there in the scrub —yes, I'm all afraid!" "Poor old Bill; he was a nice young chap!" again chirped in Giffen. A notice had appeared in a local paper—in the Mangapara Settler and Toi-toi Creek

Storrie's Ridge? is the only one with patent, hillside a < v achment and facilities for packing- drills i'hai'o the land is dry.— Jdimmo ji.nd Blaii>

Advertiser ('with which arc incorporated the Southland Farmer and River Plat Tribune}. The notice was as follows: NOTICE. Would Bill M'.Kerrow (commonly known, as Bill Lyne). of Toi-toi Creek, kindly communicate with us at once. Sismondi and Hertz, Solicitors, Dunedin, N.Z. January 15, 1872. The notice also appeared in, the Otago Daily Times. Not that Messrs Sismondi and Herts considered such an action necesj sary, but merely to get an advertisement a* the expense of a client. We talk of com* mereial depravity, but who can sound the depths to which the struggling professional man often, sinks ? Meanwhile Ohan Station was held by, Wiremu. The lawyers sent down an, accountant, but Wiremu looked after the stock; but big responsibilities made a difference to Wi. He affected Harris tweed, and! always drove about in a gig. In a short time he discovered it to be unbecoming to the dignity of a station manager to draft sheep, so he deemed it necessary to employ a. man to fill his own .position. By some peculiar coincidence Mick Bcol-an got the job, and very scon that worthy Irishman, who possessed! all the Irish attributes, with the exception of a brogue, got Giffen on to ther station as well.

"Yes," said Boolan, as he spoke con> fidently to Giffen one night, "from what 1 s'ees, and from what you sees, and from what- we knows, Wi.. the clerk, S.ismonds and Hertz will all be do-in' hard labour. But lot us keep our counsel, young man; I'm» Bill's mate, and I'll look after his chances." "But, say, if Bill's dead?" queried the cynical Giffen. "Bah! you couldn't kill Bill—he's too lucky. When I was down in the dumps I thought Bill might be done for; but don't believe it, don't believe it." CHAPTER V. They passed with their old-world legends, Their tales of wrong and dearth, Our fathers, held by purchase, But we by right of birth; Our hearts where they rocked our cradle, Our love where we spent our toil, And our faith and our hope and our henom We pledge to our native soil. —Budyard Kipling - . There's not a .prettier island in the -woxli than Whale-oil Island. Bill fairly revelk< in it. He liked the "Old Man," as the tall, grey Scot was always called. And then there was Lisette. She had a much superior education to himself, Laving spent some 10 years at Christchurch, where she studied art, music, and voice-production under the best teachers. But the island was a perennial source of delight, and, again, he could! go out with the "Old Man's" whaling fleet, and Commodore Benson—"Elackie"—was a host in himself. There was the forestry of the island—the tree ferns, the pines, the miro, and birch. All these he learned to name and love. Bitt what he loved most of all was the native mistletoe; how luxuriant it was —a parasite perhaps, hut how strangely prodigal would it festoon the great trees. Large festoons, yards ia diameter, and, oh! how decorative, were the delightful scarlet crescent blossoms. But the undergrowth, the ferns, the creeks, the grottoes—all these charmed him. But ha never went back on his first love—the manuka. Manuka blossom could stir his soul as divinely as heather would stir tba soul of a Sect. Then there were pigeons, kakas, paraquets, tomtits, fantails, and tha magnificent tui. The tui, a thing cf beauty, a bird with a poetic soul, and the caly bird whose song is intellectual. The sceat of the bush would enter deep into his nostrils and right down to his heart. The islets osrf on the bay, the »and dunes, the weeded hill* —ah, surely life was here. Wo have heard of love at first sisht. Bee* not Shakespeare say, "Who ever loved thai loved not at first sight?" But wa know that Bill loved at first hearing. Truly thi-i was going one better. We also know that first hearing and first sight are all verj well, theoretically, but then there comes aa aftermath. After the midnight, the 00-l< grey mom, and Bill found it hard to balsne< the ledger of his love affair. In the firsj place, ho was plebeian, without property an< without prospects. The girl was a highf born lady, and a lady of means. The "014 Man" was rich; in fact, he. was simplj minting money on the island. Bill wa< truly beset. "Liisette!" They were sitting in the shade of a large miro. "What. L-übin?" Per Bill never altered his affected nomenclature. " I think I bad. better leave here." "Why?" " Well, I can't stand the place. It woulf bo all right, but—but—"

"Bui?" " Yes—but for —for—" "For what?" " For you!" Thero was a silence, end then the girl pronounced: " Did you notice I was under the mistletoe?" And Bill's reply was not given in word*. When they got home that afternoon tha " old man" seemed a little perturbed. Ha had been up to Dunedin with the biggest craft, and had arrived ©surlier by at least two days than was expected. Still, his early arrival caused no surprise, because Jia was always erratic in his movements. What did cause surprise was his unaccountable! excitement. Indeed, he was ■anybody but himself. But at last he made an' effort. " Say, Lub, when I was in Dunedin I spotted a strnns'e Advertisement in the Otaga Daily Times. I goes along to the solicitors and gets this letter. I'll just tell you what it says:—You a.re Bully M'Kerrow's son; you gets Oban Station and his fortune. J know all the details; here, they are in this letter; read them over yourself." Though a Scot, the " old man " was Highland, sc lie was not. very broad, if at all. Bill was dumbfounded, but he wished a, fortune sa badly that he felt eonjewhat relieved. "Look here." he said, "I can't go bach without her. Now I have' something worthj of her! Can I do so, "Old Man"?" " This is o. free country, and Lisettc i» old enough to decide for herself." " Yes " said Lisette. who had just •entered the reeni, " I'm old enough and wiliinj enough." CHAPTER VI. Women alone in the bush, Mothers and wives, Keeping your guard in the weird night-hush Over the sleeping lives; In woo or weal Staunch and fond, True as steel To the marriage bond, .... Hearts of gold! O, hearts of gold! —Will 11. Ogilvie. The snow •ra® 12 inches deep all over Obaa Station, a-iid three feet in the hollows. Doolan and Giffen were away hunting up straggling sheep at the back where there was no shelter. Bii! was in town ois business, and had never expected to havft such & fall of snoiv. The sheep war* dykls in

hundreds. But worst of all—for after all mutton and wool don't count- he baby was ill It took suddenly and strangely sick ••with the fall of enow. The staunches* nag on the station and the boldest ruler went off together to bring home a doctor. Itte doctor lived 35 miles south, but be Will arrive in due time; and hs will arrive because fwmu has gone out to bring him back For Wiremu, that veritable Paul of Tarsus, has changed his attitude as completely as he has changed his m?.stei. He is « good a servant to Bill as he was to ,Biir s father; yes, the doctor wdl soon arrive And Lisette, she has no fear, oo thus the pioneer life of Oban, Station continues Whale-oil Island is still untrodden by the tourist, and Bill, Doolan, Giffen Wiremu, and last, but not least Lisette beraelf all pursue the task eternal of tbfl 'New Zealand pioneer.