held to be a "warm" man, with money laid by. He was a sailor, who, with his wife and children, emigrated to the Australian Goldfields, and from thence found his way to New Zealand. His homely wife had an excellent meal ready, and, says my host, "I don't hold with strong drink, but nothing but tea isn't good," and then, from under a settee, he produced some bottled porter. "And now I've some thing to show you; my Father was in the Navy, and collected things." Amongst these he produced a very fine miniature on ivory of Oliver Cromwell, which he said belonged to his Grandfather; it had also the well-known wart that appears in contemporary pictures of Cromwell. As he was thinking of a holiday trip to England, leaving his boys to work the claim, I advised him to take the miniature, and get an expert opinion of it. Well, thought I, as I walked homeward, that's an experience one would scarcely expect to meet in a digger's hut. My host had given me a miner's lantern, much needed in this forest country at night, where the tall trees shut out even the moonlight. It is made of a clear glass bottle, the bottom of which is cut off by means of a worsted thread, soaked in paraffin oil, tied round it, and set alight. In the neck of the bottle, inside, a piece of candle is lit, the bottle carried by its neck upright, and, provided there is no rain, no lantern is more effective, and, if needs be, it can be stuck upright by the neck in the ground.
It is interesting in the dark nights to see, here and there, by the side of the tracks, under tree roots, and in damp soil, brilliant little lights, which have been often taken for glow-worms, but which are phosphorescent wood in a state of decay, giving out quite a strong illumination. In the open glades a full moon
