glade, and propping ourselves against the moss-covered tree-trunks fortified the inner man with lunch. After our meal we set off again for the last few miles of our tramp, horses having been engaged to meet us at Architect Creek. About a mile above Architect we came on a camp and several men clearing a track through the forest, the Government having at last begun the long-talked-of path which is to connect the West and East Coasts via the Copland Saddle. Judging by the rate of progress, we observed it seemed likely that the happy day when the visitor from the Hermitage could ride from the foot of the Copland Pass to Scott's house was still many seasons off. At Architect Creek we were met by a boy with three horses. My pleasure at the thought of a ride was somewhat damped by discovering that they all had men's saddles on. However, the track was so rough and steep that it was rarely possible to ride at a faster pace than a walk, so I was not as unhappy as I might have been. The road follows along the river bank most of the way, giving lovely views here and there. The rata were particularly fine on the left bank, the blossom making great masses of glowing crimson amongst the deep-green forest foliage.
At last we left the river and reached a flat covered with tussock grass and flax-bushes: here we livened up our horses to a canter, which shortly developed into a race between Mr. Frind and myself. We galloped in and out of flax-bushes, the horses swerving and dodging all obstacles with the ease that becomes second nature after a few seasons of cattle mustering. A good stock horse is supposed to be able to turn on the space of a half crown, and becomes an exceedingly dangerous animal to any but an expert rider. Ours had not reached this pitch, or we probably would have been left sitting in a flax-bush; as it was, it was more good luck than good riding that saved us, I am afraid, but we gained so much enjoyment
