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THE OLD KITCHEN
Out towards the tip of a certain bare, seaward-stretching promontory, there stands a thick, dark tuft of pines, and within the pines an old farm, painted white. Years and years ago, when Kiteroa, the scattered settlement inland, was still green virgin Bush, a young man planted the pines, which a very little child could then have jumped over, set up a wharé in their midst, and brought home his bride. The wind blew furiously across those open slopes upon the adventurous plantation, the driven rains beat on and through the wharé weatherboards, as yet so unprotected. But the young couple fetched up clay from the creekside and built double walls to their home, with a solid lining of earth between; while for their precious trees they reared a stout bulwark of planks. The planks have decayed long since, and the wharé has given place to a large old rambling house, which, deep within its tall and spicy green breakwind, can sleep in peace now through the wildest weather. One of
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