the Cove, large enough to admit of a few settlers carving for themselves, from among the bush, very snugly sheltered homesteads. Through it flows a small stream, and, while the Secretary for Land and Works, and his two companions, were climbing the hill, and finding their work a great deal less of a joke than the funny men of the community seem to think, a party of us landed and followed its course for a few miles. The digging party also landed, and went prospecting. There are several branches of the stream all of them flowing over a granite shingle bed, closely overhung with fuchsias and ferns. Not more than half a mile up we were attracted by the sound of falling waters, and turning abruptly eastward came to one of the most picturesque cascades that, probably, any one of us had seen, either on the West Coast or elsewhere. It is not the water-fall from which the Cove derives its name, and which falls down the thickly-timbered hill-side near the entrance, but another, and, pictorially, a better. The stream had scooped out for itself a basin of considerable size in the hard granite rock. Fed by the constant spray, rich mosses grew upon its concave sides, and ferns were pendent to the water’s edge. Only where the sun was able to penetrate the deep shade of the bush, and give light and warmth to the damp ground, there grew a pretty white flower, which, though minute, was almost brilliant compared with its surroundings. We missed Mr Beverly to give it a name, but, no doubt, he has it in his collection if it deserves a place. Across the cascade a fallen log had laid itself with such precision and appropriateness of situation for its uses as a bridge, that one was almost tempted to believe that it was an exhibition of the engineering skill of the supernatural inhabitants of the spot, and to linger near in the hope of seeing some of them tripping across it on one of their amiable or evil errands. But they were apparently from home, or averse to the visits of the strangers. Bold in the knowledge that, except a pencil, we had no lethal weapon with which to knock him oft his perch, an obviously infernal kaka so upbraided us for our intrusion, that we reluctantly came away, unrewarded by seeing anything more marvellous than the natural marvels of the place; but these were enough. What we saw in the bush around, and in the further walk along the stream, would, no doubt, charm the poetic bush-ranger; but poetry was not a recognised element in connection with the expedition. The prospectors thought they had hit upon a place where the “reef” protruded; but they were mistaken, and they were disappointed in the few washings they attempted. At the assembly, for the purpose of returning to the steamer, several came with contributions to the providore—one with kakas, shot in the bush; another with crayfish, which had been found perambulating the beach, innocent of the presence of an enemy; and a third brought off a live wood-hen.
The interest of the party was, however, less directed towards their own exploits than to the more elevated proceedings of the three who were climbing the hill. From the precipitous character of the spurs which they had attempted to ascend, and from the apparent density of the bush, it was feared—more than once insinuated—that they would be compelled to return. The fear was, however, soon dispelled. It was agreed that, as they ascended, they should “make a smoke;” and that signal was given when they were
