CHAPTER V.
Lunch—An ogre—Bush rats—Kate's "familiar"—The Pink Terraces—Sacrilegious scribblers—Nature's masterpiece— Words too tame for such a sight—A Sybarite's bath—Back to Wairoa—The waterfall—Fern hunting—Adieu to Wairoa.
Our appetites whetted by the long walk, excited into abnormal gastronomic activity by the fragrant smell of the boiled prawns and smoking potatoes, just withdrawn from the hot spring by the Maori cook, and by the sight of the cool long-necked bottles and tempting viands, which McRae's kind forethought had provided for our delectation, we were soon very busily engaged indeed. The clink of glass, the clatter of knives and forks, and the gentle gurgling of wine, all formed a melodious accompaniment to the soft lapping of the lake against the hollow canoes, and the dreamy gurgitation of the bubbling hot springs, beside which we ate in supreme enjoyment, and for a while in almost unbroken silence. Our appetites were whetted, I have said, and yet before the efforts of that old Maori chief and his henchmen the most valiant attempts of the best trencherman amongst us were as nothing. The chief himself, tattooed de rigueur, and with ugly black and yellow fangs like a wolfs,
