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New Zealand Tuis.
Chapter XXVII.
THE CLINTON RIVER.
“Once again the rata burns
Flame-like on the mountain side.”
We went to bed that night at Te Anau anticipating another day of summer on another lake,—we woke next morning to the dreary dirge of the wind and rain! How it rained! and how uninviting the lake looked on that cold wet morning at seven o’clock! But the launch only crossed to the head of the lake twice a week, and we had to go.
Yesterday’s coach-load was there too, all looking very unhappy and cold, and breakfast was a very silent meal. But the rain had stopped when we went down to the launch, though a mantle of fog hid the mountains from view and it was very cold, and thankful for so much mercy our hopes rose. We put on our mackintoshes and wrapped in rugs, sat under umbrellas on the deck of the little steamer anxiously awaiting the moment when the far-famed glories of Te Anau should burst upon our enraptured gaze.
But meanwhile the fog was again melting into a downpour, the waves were becoming higher and higher, and at last they began to break over the all-too-low bulwarks. And at last the strongest-minded among us was forced to yield and go downstairs.
