all growing "cheek by jowl," yet in graceful groupings and telling contrast, and the name of every one came as pat as petitions to a mendicant, and was accompanied with quaint little bits of description and touches of humour, which made the old man's tale most enjoyable.
On St. George's Day we took advantage of an excursion train at a marvellously cheap tariff of 7s. fare, to go over the world-famed Rimutaka railway.
Englishmen make very little fuss over St. George. What a fuss and fuddle Scotchmen sometimes make over their dinner to St. Andrew; and, of course, we all know that St. Patrick's memory is embalmed in the heart of every Irishman, and annually honoured by an amount of green ribbon, whisky, and eloquence, which none but an Irishman could compass. But St. George! Well, really, there was very little bustle in Wellington on his account on the date I write about; and the banks were the only institutions that seemed to hold his memory in any special esteem.
The excursion train was but poorly patronized, and, punctually at 10 a.m., we started in most inauspicious weather. It rained heavily, and the clouds were low, and the air raw and chill. We steamed through the mists and driving rain, away round the harbour and up the valley of the Hutt, past rural farms and rich pastures in the valley, and the river at our feet rattling noisily over its shingly bars.
Past Silver Stream, a pretty station, we begin
