Art. XLI.—The Effects of the Disappearance of the New Zealand Bush.

Transactions and Proceedings of the Royal Society of New Zealand, Volume 43, 1910, Page 436

Art. XLI.—The Effects of the Disappearance of the New Zealand Bush. By Archdeacon Walsh. [Read before the Auckland Institute, 26th September, 1910.] On the 19th July, 1896, I read before the Auckland Institute a paper in which I attempted to trace the principal causes which are combining to produce the extensive and rapid disappearance of our native forest. This was followed in 1898 by another, in which I endeavoured to forecast what will be the future condition of the forest when something like a balance shall have supervened between the destructive agents on the one hand and the resilient powers of nature on the other. It may be well to follow up the subject a stage further, and try to point out some of the more notable effects which are already following on the deforestation of the country, and which, as time goes on, must increase in an accelerating degree. In order to present the matter as clearly as possible I shall recapitulate once more the argument of the first paper :— The two principal destructive agents, besides the axe of the bushman, are cattle and fires. Any one of these acting alone is sufficient to do a great deal of damage; but when they all act in conjunction—as they generally do—the destruction is greatly accelerated and intensified.

The greater part of the forest below a moderate altitude, throughout both Islands, is an open cattle and pig run in which by the browsing, trampling, and rooting of the animals the undergrowth is gradually destroyed, the surface-roots lacerated, and the soil trodden into mud, which in summer hardens almost into a bed of concrete. The consequence is that the larger trees, deprived of their accustomed nourishment and protection, gradually grow thin and open at the top; the ground is covered with the fallen leaves, and the débris of centuries, now exposed to the sun and wind, is dried to tinder, when the whole place is ready to be swept by fire, which sooner or later is sure to happen. In thickly settled districts, and in those where timber-getting is carried on, the destruction is, of course, most rapid and complete, as every clearing, timber-working, and road-line forms a starting-point for the fires, which spread into and kill some portion of the standing bush. And as wherever the fire has once passed it will pass again while there is anything to burn, before very long, in districts where clearings are frequent, the whole bush is consumed, with the exception, perhaps, of that which stands in the lower and damper situations, or which from the conformation of the country is protected from the sweep of the flames. In this way, in a comparatively few years, immense areas have been destroyed in many of the more settled districts, while in others the work is going on more or less rapidly and completely, according to the nature of the bush and the climatic and other conditions. Now, it does not require a great deal of intelligence to understand that such a radical alteration in the conditions of the country as is involved in this wholesale destruction must result in very serious consequences, whether for better or for worse. So far, unfortunately, I think it must be admitted, the consequences are very largely for the worse—as I shall endeavour to show. The effects of the disappearance of the New Zealand bush may be roughly classed under two heads—viz., climatic and topographical. Climatic. (1.) Rainfall. There is a widespread popular opinion that rain is attracted by standing forest. Much speculation has been expended on this question; but, so far as I have been able to learn, it has not led to any very satisfactory results. To a superficial view, the theory seems to be borne out by the fact that there is generally a greater rainfall in forest-covered districts than there is in open country—as, for instance, the west coast of New Zealand, which is heavily wooded, is much wetter than the country along the east coast, which is comparatively dry. But this is really to mistake cause for effect; and the truth is, so far as it can be ascertained, that the amount of precipitation is at least mainly determined by the topographical conditions of a country, apart from its vegetable covering—that, in fact, the rainfall is not caused or increased by the presence of the bush, but that the growth and conservation of the bush are promoted by the excessive rainfall. This contrast in the hygrometrical conditions of the east and west coasts is very easily accounted for. The moisture-laden winds from the ocean, meeting the steep face of the chain of hills which—with an occasional break—extend along the west coast of both Islands, are thrown up into a colder stratum, with the result that the moisture is immediately

condensed, and falls in the form of rain on the upper parts of the elevated ground. After passing along for a few miles the moisture is, as it were, strained out of the air, so that the same aerial current that brings rain to Hokitika, for instance, becomes a dry wind by the time it reaches Christchurch. (2.) Winds. But though the removal of the forest may not result in the diminution of the rainfall, it may nevertheless have some very marked effects on the climate. One of the principal of these is the increasing strength and dryness of the winds that blow during the summer months, and which have become more and more injurious to vegetation. The cause is not far to seek, and its operation may be observed in any part of the bush district to the north of Auckland, and especially in the high rugged country which was once the home of the kauri. A few years ago, with the exception of some comparatively insignificant areas, this extensive district was covered with forest from shore to shore. The warm winds, charged with moisture from the ocean, passed gently over the country without injury to the most delicate plant—in fact, they were just what the native vegetation required for its full nourishment and growth. But with the destruction of the forest there came a change which is being intensified every day. The removal of the kauri, and the settlers' clearings, made way for the forest-fires; and as these did not confine themselves to the portions artificially cleared, but worked their way into the standing bush, in a comparatively short time the greater portion of the country, especially along the backs of the high ranges, became denuded. Unless this bared land is immediately brought under cultivation, which is only done in the more fertile spots, it soon becomes covered with a clothing of fern and tea-tree scrub; and this in its turn is overrun by fire every dry season, each fire consuming some of the humus in the soil, and gradually reducing the land to barrenness, until at last the scrub becomes so light that it affords no protection to the ground from the sun's rays. The consequence is that on every clear day from December to March the air is so superheated by the radiation from the baked soil that it rises in a column to the heavens, and a current is established to draw in a fresh supply from the lower levels. Every gully becomes a funnel up which the wind rushes in a tearing blast, becoming more and more desiccated as it travels; orchards are blighted, grass is parched up, and crops are prematurely ripened; while the remnant of the bush becomes so dried up that it is ready to be swept by the first fire that comes along. Old settlers will tell you that the seasons have changed of late years, and they fondly hope that after a certain cycle has run its course the old state of things will return; but this will never happen until, by judicious planting and cultivation, something like the old conditions have been re-established. But the effect of the wind is not only felt on the high lands. The draught commences at the coast, and is drawn up the estuaries and the long winding valleys that are a feature of the topography of many parts of both the North and the South Islands. On the Hokianga River, which has a navigable course of over twenty-five miles for large vessels, and traverses an extensive settled district, it is noticed that the summer winds are much more violent than they were when the place was first occupied. Orchards and vineyards require more protection; while along the banks the native bush has a parched and storm-swept appearance that it never had in former times.

(3.) Blizzards. In certain parts, chiefly on the level lands along the west coast, and notably on the long stretch between Cape Egmont and Wellington, a new trouble has arrived in the shape of the “blizzard,” the name signifying in America a snow-blast, but which has in the locality under mention been applied to the salt storms that drive in from Cook Strait. The district has always been a windy one, as may be seen by the growth of the old native trees still standing, the weather side of the karakas, mahoes, &c., being shorn off, while the tall trunks of the rimus and kahikateas lean out of the perpendicular. But with the removal, partly by the axe and partly by decay induced by the rumination of cattle, of the belt of scrub and small bush that stretched along the coast the conditions have altered greatly for the worse. The salt spray that was once stopped by this natural breakwind is now carried for miles inland, and is not only severely felt by stock, but is most injurious to almost every kind of vegetation. An object-lesson might have been watched in the gradual destruction of an extensive plantation of macrocarpa-trees made some thirty-five years ago near Hawera. These for some time did very well. They grew uniformly to a fair height, and promised to make a most useful shelter-belt. But in proportion as the natural bush to seaward disappeared they were no longer able to stand against the salt blasts. Swept by successive blizzards, they gradually perished, until a few years ago a picture in the Auckland Weekly News showed the last survivor, a storm-beaten dying wreck. This is, of course, an extreme case; but the same thing may be seen more or less on any exposed part of the coast from which the natural protection has been removed. (4.) Frosts. “We never used to have these heavy frosts before the emigrants came in,” said the old Taranaki settlers some twenty-five years ago, as they thought of the golden days, when the “garden of New Zealand” was fenced off from the rest of the world by forty miles of standing bush. The statement was not much exaggerated, as the forest, which was particularly tall and dense, not only sheltered the country from the violence of the south-easterly winds, but had the further effect of modifying the temperature to a great extent. But when the land was thrown open for settlement the bush disappeared with remarkable rapidity; the cold winds swept unchecked over the bare land, and for some years past the frosts have comedown to the water's edge. Hokianga used to claim a subtropical climate, and in a few sheltered spots the banana may still be found ripening in the open. But these spots are daily becoming more rare. Since the general disappearance of the forest a stream of chilled air flows down the long tributary valleys, and not only jeopardizes the growth of the more tender plants, but materially affects the remnant of the native bush. In many cases one sees the outstanding puriris—an interesting survival from the rumination of the cattle—quite seared and blackened, while the ashen hue of the withered taraire trees shows that the frosts, once in this region confined to the flats, are now reaching up the hillsides. In fact, it is safe to say that with the disappearance of the bush the frost-belt has moved many miles further north

(5.) Cold Winds and Droughts. During late years the dairy industry has been one of the most popular and profitable industries of the bush settler. Every acre or two of grass represents a cow, whose yield of milk helps to swell the monthly cheque from the factory; and so, regardless of everything beyond the immediate return, the bush is cleared away as fast as possible, and the land laid down to pasture. If it were only a question of a dairy farm here and there amid the surrounding bush the results might, perhaps, justify the policy; but when a large area is wholly occupied by dairy farms unlooked-for consequences are sure to follow. To take one instance where the whole thing has been worked out to its logical conclusion: Some forty years ago the Settlement of Okaihau was formed on a piece of land between the Bay of Islands and Hokianga, covered for the most part by a dense forest, then known as the Nine-mile Bush. Through the centre ran a broad level ridge—almost a tableland—800 ft. above sea-level, which fell away on both sides in sharp ranges and deep gullies to two tributaries of the Hokianga River. When the first clearings were made the soil seemed to be of quite unusual richness; droughts were unknown, and every variety of crops grew with the greatest luxuriance. Attracted by the fertility of the soil and the advantages of the situation new settlers flocked in, and before long practically the whole of the land was cleared. Then, when it was too late, the evil of this wholesale denundation began to be apparent. The wind drew up the bared gullies and swept unchecked across the tableland— in bitter squalls in winter, and in scorching gales in summer. Droughts became common, and the smaller streams dried up for want of protection at their sources. The very character of the soil seemed to change from a rich, deep loam to poor, light stuff; cropping was almost abandoned, the grass grew scantier every year, and the whole settlement now carries less stock than it would do if a reasonable proportion of the bush had been left standing. Topographical. But serious as are the effects on the climate caused by the removal of the bush, they are nothing to those which are produced on the topography of the country. Of these some of the most disastrous are those which result from floods. (1.) Floods. Floods have doubtless been always prevalent in New Zealand; with its peculiar geological formation and its abundant rainfall it could not be otherwise. But with the removal of the bush they have assumed a form unknown before, both in regard to their magnitude and their power of destruction. In its virgin state—before it is invaded by cattle—the New Zealand bush forms a natural storage for rain-water, and supplies an effective safeguard against excessive floods. Even in the most torrential downpour a large proportion of the rain never reaches the ground. The dense canopy formed by the tops of the trees breaks up the heavy drops into a fine dew, part of which is at once absorbed by the foliage. Of the rest, some is caught by the epiphytes and parasitic plants that clothe the limbs and trunks, or by the ferns and mosses and seedling plants, and the thick coating of humus, the decayed logs, and fallen leaves that cover the floor, where it is held in suspension till evaporation takes place. And here it may be

remarked that in the regions in which there is the greatest amount of precipitation nature has provided, in the thick turfy mould, as well as in the denser growth of the ferns, mosses, &c., a proportionately greater vehicle for the absorption and retention of the moisture. A considerable quantity of the water soaks into the soil, to be taken up as it is required by the roots of the growing trees, or to filter down to supply the springs that feed the head-waters of the streams; while the remainder — but a small portion of what has left the clouds — trickles gently down to the nearest outlet. The removal of the forest quickly changes all these conditions. The first thing to happen is the erosion of the surface. No longer held back by the vegetable growth, the storm-water flows off the hillside like rain off the roof of a house, carrying away the ashes of the burnt timber with what is left of the rotted humus, channelling the lighter soil with frequent watercuts, and bodily removing the most fertile portions. Then, as the network of roots decay, landslips occur in the steeper places—it is not unusual for a whole hillside to slide away into a gully—when the débris will be swept down, scouring the bed and sides of the creek, and covering the land below with a deposit of rocks and clay. When the ground affected forms part of a mountain district of large area, in which the creeks have a long course and several branching confluents, it often happens that the débris from a side creek or blind gully will form a temporary dam in the bed of the main stream. If this occur while heavy rain is still falling, a lake is immediately formed by the water from the hills above; and before long the obstruction carries away, when all the mineral detritus, together with the wreck of the ruined forest, is borne down by the foaming torrent to spread destruction below. Just such a catastrophe occurred among the Tokatea Ranges in 1882, when every bridge in Coromandel was carried away and kauri logs were stranded in the main street. The most destructive floods occur when the water from an elevated region has to traverse a level country before reaching the sea, and the longer the course the greater is the damage. The floods which inundated the City of Paris in December last year (1909) are a case in point. The water was supplied by the unseasonable melting of the snow on the lofty plateau of Langres, where the River Seine takes its rise; but the fact that much of the plateau had been recently cleared of forest caused the water to run down much more quickly than it would otherwise have done, when the winding channel through the level country was unable to carry it off. An instance more familiar to most of us is that of the great floods that took place in the Hawke's Bay and Palmerston districts in 1893, and again two or three years later. Phenomenally heavy rains had fallen along the watershed inland and down to Cook Strait. Every creek and river was flooded to an unusual height, and where, as in the Hawke's Bay District, a wide extent of level country intervened between the hills and the sea the same thing occurred as that which happened in the valley of the Seine. Rivers left their beds and cut new channels through the plains; from Napier to Wanganui roads and railways were cut through, and bridges and culverts were swept away; stock was drowned; and farms and townships were laid under water. People said that the height of the flood was unprecedented. Possibly it was; but there is no doubt that the ununusual height was in a great measure due to the increasing extent of clearing on the high lands where the rivers have their origin.

As time goes on, phenomenal floods will occur again, and former records will be beaten; for as the hills become more denuded the floods will become proportionately more destructive. It would be wise, therefore, for the Napier people to take warning from past experience, and make more ample provision for the egress of the water from the lagoon into which several large rivers discharge themselves, as it is quite within the bounds of possibility that it may cut its way through the lower portion of the township, or perhaps carry away the harbour-works at the Spit. (2.) Erosion and Silting. Erosion and silting generally go together, and either one or the other happens according to the velocity of the current in a river-bed. When the course of a river is steep, and the soil is of a soft or friable nature, the water in the proportion of its volume and velocity scoops out the bottom, and the excavation works back until it reaches a substance of sufficient hardness to be resistant, when a waterfall or permanent rapid is formed. But as the inclination of the bed becomes less the flow of the stream is retarded, and the substance that has been brought down by the current tends to settle in the bottom. In flood-time, however, large masses of stone are swept down, and by grinding against the rocks in the sides and bottom, as well as by mutual attrition, they are rounded into pebbles, becoming smaller and smaller as they travel along, until they wear down into gravel, and eventually into fine sand, which is carried in ripples along the bottom. Meanwhile all soft rock, clays, and earthy matter are quickly resolved into mud. When the bed approximates so nearly to a level that the rate of the current is less than 6 ft. per second on the bottom, then the river is no longer able to shift the solid material, and only the impalpable particles of mud, which may be almost said to be held in solution, are carried along. This is the process known as “silting,” and it is easy to see that the quality of the silting must entirely depend on the character of the riverbed and of the nature of the material brought down. When the bed is short and steep and the incline is continued to the coast, the bulk of the silt is carried down to the sea, and no harm is done unless the mouth of the river be situated in a harbour, when, of course, trouble may arise from the shallowing of the water. It is when a flooded river traverses an alluvial plain that the silting does most damage. The débris brought down by the head-waters must find a lodgment somewhere, and, as the current loses its velocity on reaching the level country, it is no longer able to bear its burden along. The silt therefore lodges on the bottom, and the bed gradually rises until the water is forced over the banks. Then the water breaks away and cuts a new channel for itself, which in time fills up, and the same thing happens over again. Numberless instances of this process are found in many parts of both the North and the South Islands. Wherever, as in Hawke's Bay, Canterbury, &c., the alluvial plains are backed by a mountainous country the surface is often torn away, the land is scored in every direction, and the fertile soil covered with a deposit of stones, gravel, and slime. A notable instance occurred during the great Napier flood of 1893, already mentioned, when the River Ngaruroro left its bed, and; joining with the Tutaekuri, cut its way through the road and railway to the sea. A foolish tradition has prompted local governing bodies and private owners in many places to plant the river-banks with willow-trees, with

the view of protecting them against the scour of the current But the scheme generally defeats its own object, and is often the cause of much mischief, which, moreover, is not always confined to the locality in which the planting takes place. Sooner or later, especially if the river is a rapid one, and runs through alluvial country, the trees are undermined and swept down until they are caught by some obstruction or are stranded in some shallow place. Here they intercept the silt and the floating débris that comes down with every flood, and an island or dam is formed, which drives the current into the banks, or even compels it to seek a new channel. In the Lower Waikato the obstruction of the willow islands has caused the bed of the river to silt up to such an extent that in many places the level land on the banks is flooded every winter, and the Township of Mercer is frequently under water after a few days' heavy rain. It may be asked whether the damage done by the willow-trees has anything to do with the subject of this paper, which professes to deal with the effect of the disappearance of the forest. The answer is that if the forest had not been removed the damage done by the willows would be comparatively trifling—if, indeed, it would have been considered necessary to plant them. But, as I have endeavoured to show, it is the removal of the forest that is directly responsible for the growing violence of the floods, and therefore for the increasing amount of silt and floating detritus, which the willows intercept. There is another aspect of the silting question that must not be overlooked—viz., the formation of river-bars and the silting-up of harbours. All the mineral débris, stones, gravel, and mud that are carried down by a stream are immediately deposited on the bottom as soon as the current ceases to act, which it does on reaching the sea, and here it forms a bank or shoal, which is augmented by the sand or other material which the sea washes on to it. If the river falls into landlocked water the finer particles held in suspension are carried out into the stream, and drift up and down with the tide until they are precipitated wherever there is least current. In many river-mouths, estuaries, and harbours the effect of the wholesale forest-clearing is already being severely felt. Of late years, unless where temporarily scoured out by a fresh, there is less water on many of the bars, while in some of the shallower harbours—e.g., those of the Thames, Coremandel, &c.—the wharves have had to be lengthened and the buoys on the shoals moved further out. One of the most fertile sources of harbour-silt, and one not generally taken notice of, is the fine dust that is formed by the action of the sun on the bare hills, and washed by the rain into the creeks. This is, doubtless, one of the principal factors of the extensive mud-flats so frequently found in landlocked waters. (3.) Drying-up of Streams. So far I have dealt only with the evils caused by water in excess; but it can also be shown that the removal of the forest involves trouble in the opposite direction—viz., in the diminution of the supply when it is most needed. The volume of a stream is derived from two sources—the first consisting of the water that flows directly off the surface, and the second of that which comes through the ground. Both of these, of course, are originally supplied by the rain.

Though varying very much according to circumstances, the underground supply is perhaps very much greater than is generally supposed. In permeable soil, especially if the watershed be fairly level and the surface protected by bush, there is a constant percolation into the ground, and, except in the case of a very heavy rainfall, by far the greater portion of the water goes through the earth before it finds its way to the river-bed. Even in hard rocks, underground streams, starting originally in some fault or fissure, wear for themselves well-defined channels, when, after running sometimes quite considerable distances, they emerge in the form of springs about the head-waters and sides of the creeks. It is by this underground supply that the average volume of a river is maintained. But if the bush has been removed, and nothing but a hard, bare surface remains on the watershed, then the rain, as before mentioned, runs off at once; and, unless the ground be of a very porous nature, there is no water left to feed the underground supply, and the river is starved. Unfortunately, in many extensive forest-areas the land is of clay or “papa rock,” both of which are almost impervious to water. Little or no percolation can take place, and practically the whole of the rain runs off as soon as it falls on the ground. The consequence is that in wet weather we have a succession of floods, and in dry weather a dwindling streamlet, or even an empty watercourse. On a small scale this sequence of cause and effect may be seen in the dry creeks that bring such trouble to the grazier and the dairyfarmer; while on a larger scale it may be witnessed in some of the small river-ports, where for weeks—or it may be for months—there is not sufficient water to clear the channel on the bar. (4.) Permanent Loss of the Bush. It may seem rather a superfluous statement to make, that one of the results of the removal of the forest is the loss of the bush. But it is well, perhaps, to consider, before it is too late, how much the statement involves. The European and American forestry regulations, so often quoted, which provide for the judicious thinning-out and the gradual removal of the full-grown trees, and so on, cannot be made to apply to the forest of this country. No single tree once removed from the New Zealand bush can ever be replaced, while to attempt to “thin out” the New Zealand bush is to condemn it to immediate destruction. From a scenic point of view the loss also is incalculable. The New Zealand bush has grown up under conditions which, once removed, can never be restored. Favoured by special climatic conditions, undisturbed by the presence of any ruminating animal, the bush, with its patriarchal trees, its wealth of underwood, its profusion and variety of epiphytes and climbing plants, has attained a richness and beauty probably unequalled, and certainly not surpassed, in any part of the world. In a block of kauri in the Auckland Museum, measuring 8 ft. in diameter, the Curator, Mr. Cheeseman, counted no less than 455 concentric rings, each ring representing a year's growth. But the tree from which the block was cut was only a sapling compared with the giants of 10 ft., 12 ft., or 14 ft. which have been sacrificed for milling-timber. Thousands of years must have been required for their growth. How many thousands more it must have taken to evolve the conditions necessary for their existence it would be vain to attempt to guess. With a fair amount of care a specimen tree may be grown away from its natural surroundings. A kauri, a rimu, or a totara will make a very handsome object

in a park or garden. A selection of ferns and orchidaceous plants can be nursed up under artificial shelter, but who can restore what is at once the park, the garden, and the conservatory? Untold ages have been required to produce it; and once it has gone it has gone for ever. We may make fair imitations of an English forest or an English coppice. With our genial climate we may introduce variety by means of subtropical plants; but by no combination of elements, however beautiful in themselves, can we ever hope to reproduce the peculiar charm of the New Zealand bush. Extent of Damage. In the foregoing pages I have given a few typical instances of the damage that has already resulted on the removal of the forest. The facts I have adduced have either come under my own observation or are those of whose authenticity there can be no question. But the damage is going on all the time, and over the whole of the Dominion; and, as every year there is a wider area of cleared land for the elements to work on, it must every year be more widely spread. The climatic changes, the growing intensity of the winds, and the more marked extremes of temperature, might pass unnoticed, or might be accounted for by some imaginary meteorological disturbance; but no one who travels a few miles outside of our cities can be blind to the changes that are taking place on the surface of the country. In the papa land to the south-west of the Main Trunk line, and extending to Taranaki and Wanganui, very serious damage from landslips is everywhere following the advance of settlement. The same thing is occurring to an alarming extent in the soft limestone country along the east coast to the north of Gisborne; while in the mountainous district inland of the East Cape every hillside is scored with landslips, some of which are hundreds of feet high and many acres in extent. The same thing is taking place in the old kauri-workings on the Coromandel Peninsula, and in many other places too numerous to mention. Everywhere from Mangonui to the Bluff, more or less, according to the nature of the country, the land is slipping away, the surface is being eroded, and the rivers silting up at a rate and on a scale that no one would have believed possible a few years ago. THE Future. Looking forward to the future, one is tempted to ask whether there is any prospect that the evil will ever be checked. Reafforesting and the protection of river-banks are, of course, the two remedies that are most needed. The former is being undertaken to a certain extent by the Government; but the area on which it is possible to operate is quite insignificant compared to the extent of land that is suffering; while, in regard to the protection of river-banks, it is an art that is not yet understood in this country, and one which, moreover, would be far too costly to undertake on any general scale, though a good deal might be done in special cases, such as that of the Ohinemuri River and the Lower Waihou. Speaking broadly, the trouble must go on and increase in the open country. There is no finality about a landslip, and for many years to come the rivers will wander at will over the alluvial plains, while erosion and silting will go on as before. Neither is there any hope that the residue of the standing forest will remain intact. Land must be provided for settlement, and so long as there is a demand for timber the trees will be cut down; and once the timber-trees have been removed the rest of the bush, as already shown,

will quickly disappear. In a very few years the kauri and the totara will be exhausted, and the rimu and the kahikatea, the black-birch, and the matai will not last for ever. At the present moment, owing to the rising price of timber, trees that a few years ago would have been considered inaccessible are being brought to market, while bushes that would have been looked upon as worthless in the past are now being worked for anything that will cut up into a plank or a piece of scantling. All this tends to the more rapid denundation of the country, followed by the climatic and topographical changes already described; and, as in America, in the Scandinavian Peninsula, and elsewhere, as the pulp industry follows the sawmill, once the larger timber has become exhausted, so doubtless it will be before long in New Zealand, and then the deforestation, with all its disastrous consequences, will become more rapid and complete. It is satisfactory to notice that there is a dawning improvement in public opinion on this matter. Several well-timed articles have lately appeared in the newspapers of the Dominion, amongst which was a most thoughtful and logical exposition of the subject in a series of papers by Mr. J. P. Grossman in the New Zealand Graphic, since reprinted under the title of “The Evils of Deforestation.” The Government also seems to be waking up to a sense of the importance of conserving some of the remnant of the forest before it is too late. And quite recently the Under-Secretary for Lands, Mr. W. C. Kensington, in reply to a criticism of the policy of the Department in withholding from settlement certain lands on the Wanganui watershed, very wisely pointed out that, unless the forest in that locality were rigidly protected, the famous “New Zealand Rhine,” not only as a beautyspot but as a navigable river, would soon be a thing of the past. While all this is very satisfactory, it must be remembered, as I pointed out in a former paper, that reservation must be more than reservation on the map. To be of any practical use reservation must be made with a barbed-wire fence, as, if cattle and pigs are allowed to enter, the fire will follow sooner or later, and the end will begin. The folly of neglecting this simple expedient has been amply exemplified in the Taranaki Mountain reserve, the Waitakerei Ranges, and in the Waipoua Kauri Forest, where much of the bush has been destroyed. But while we have a right to demand from the Government such a protection of the public interest as is involved in the conservation of such portions of the existing forest as may be consistent with the interests of settlement, as well as in the reafforestation of the open land when such a measure may be practical and desirable, a great deal of good might be effected by private enterprise. In the neighbourhood of Melbourne it has been noticed that the hot winds and dust-storms, that are such a disagreeable feature of the Victorian climate, have lost much of their fierceness since the suburbs have been planted; while in the Waikato all old settlers are agreed that since the plantations of Pinus insignis, poplars, &c., which are so conspicuous in that district, have grown up the frosts have of late years not been nearly so severe as they were. If legislation is to be invoked in this matter it might be well to consider the advisability of making it compulsory, in certain areas, for every landowner to plant and keep under timber a certain percentage of his holding. Such a measure would not only be of incalculable benefit to the country at large, but would be of very material advantage to the settler himself, as experiment has already proved that there is no more paying crop than a plantation of timber-trees.

In endeavouring to demonstrate the effect of the wholesale destruction of the New Zealand bush on the climate and on the topography of the country, and to show that these effects are far more productive of evil than of good, I do not pretend to have started any new or original theory. The science of forestry, the influence of standing timber on climate, and the action of running water are perfectly well understood in many parts of the world. In France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Sweden, and Norway, and many other European countries, stringent regulations on the subject are in operation, and have long since justified the wisdom of their enactment. Even in the United States of America it is coming home to the people that the “forest primeval” is neither boundless nor inexhaustible. Congress has already wisely provided for the setting-aside out of the public domain some 70,000 square miles of valuable forest land, with the view of protecting the streams and perpetuating the timber-supply in the western States and Territories; while at the present moment a scheme is under consideration for acquiring by purchase the whole of the Southern Appalachian Mountains, a district containing no less than 12,000 square miles, or over 7,000,000 acres, in one block, for a forest reserve. It would be well if we in New Zealand were to follow the example of other countries. But so long as we see the stream of logs coming down the railway or coming up the harbour, so long as the distant hills appear to be clothed with bush, and so long as our timber companies are paying a good dividend it is probable that no very earnest or systematic action will be undertaken. We fail to notice that the logs are getting smaller and smaller all the time, and we do not perceive the gaps in the sky-line of the hills, a sure indication that the bush is already far on its way to destruction. It is my earnest hope that by a plain statement of the case, based on the experience and observation of over forty years, spent more or less in the bush, public attention may be aroused to a sense of our loss before the loss has become altogether irretrievable. In concluding, I should like to record my grateful thanks to Mr. James Nicholson, of Waihi, for much valuable information on some of the subjects treated.