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32 But it rained steadily until we arrived at Orakei-korako, where there is no sort of shelter unless one braves reputed armies of the wicked flea in the huts of the Maoris. Orakei-korako is still in their possession, though the Government are negotiating for the place and its “Sights”, and the only habitations there are a few very decrepit whares. When we got there our driver asked if we would not prefer to go straight through to the hotel at Atia-muri, about two hours’ journey farther on, but we were far too cold and hungry to entertain such an idea. So we asked the old Maori who had appeared on the scene to find a fairly dry spot, as close to a hot spring as possible, and we had scarcely arranged the buggy-cushions on the ground when it stopped raining as suddenly as it had begun, and the sun came out,—a tearful and somewhat depressed sun, truly, but Himself, nevertheless.

And the old Maori, whose name was Ramaka, brought us some hot, newly-cooked native potatoes, called “kumaras,” rather like the Cape sweet potatoes, which we voted excellent, grateful, and comforting, and a splendid addition to our sandwiches. Colonel Deane’s basket, long since christened “Phyllis” by Mrs Greendays because it was, she declared, her “only joy,” was a source of great interest and admiration to Ramaka, especially the spirit-stove!

We felt very much happier after this novel luncheon, and set off to see the “Sights” in great spirits. They were all on the other side of the river, though, and the crossing of the Waikato was quite a perilous proceeding. The current was so strong that Ramaka was hard put to it to prevent our being swept away down the rapids, but he manoeuvred the boat very well, and we landed in safety on the opposite shore. The first wonder we were introduced to was a geyser that departed from the usual way of geysers and spouted horizontally out of a cave. Its water petrifies everything it flows over, and we picked up pockets-full of petrified manuka berries, small branches and twigs, out of the path it made for itself.

Then we crossed the terraces which are the nearest approach New Zealand has now to her famous pink and white ones, that were destroyed in the eruption of Tarawera. These are only in process of forming, but one gets a very good idea of what the old ones must have been like, though of course the colours are as yet indefinite. On the cliffs above there are boiling pools galore, and it is presumably the coloured clay from these, mingling in the water that flows over the cliff from the geysers, that gives the tint to the terraces.

The old Maori led us up a winding path beyond the level of the hot pools until we came to a high wooden palisade. Here he unlocked a gate and discovered a fernery—great tree-fern fronds forming the roof, and below them the loveliest ferns and creepers, in a dim green light with an atmosphere as warm and humid as if the place had been heated in the orthodox way with steam pipes, while the sound of trickling water completed the illusion.

We stood looking in in amazed delight, but Ramaka was waiting, inviting us to enter, and as we crossed the threshold we found ourselves at the top of