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We left the Express at Frankton Junction and changed into a local for Te Aroha,—a local loiterer that spent ages at every little station and siding. But it was still fairly early in the afternoon when we arrived at Te Aroha, and immediately fell in love with the prettiest place our travels in New Zealand had so far revealed.

The little township lies at the foot of a steep hill covered with trees, and is girdled by a winding, willow-fringed river. The Government has built a very handsome Bath Pavilion, greatly superior to anything at Rotorua, which stands in the middle of extensive and beautifully kept gardens at the base of the hill, with tennis and croquet lawns, a bowling green, and all sorts of happy devices for the amusement of visitors. And in the Pavilion Buildings is the town circulating library, so that a languid convalescent after taking the baths can read the papers, look through the magazines, or stroll in the gardens, watching the players, without having to go out of the grounds.

We spent Tuesday morning on the hill,—it took us nearly three hours to get to the top, and longer coming down because we kept stopping to examine the ferns, and photograph bits of the exquisite bush and tree-fern. The view from the summit extends for a very great distance over the surrounding plains, and we could see the hills of the gold-mining district of Thames, or imagined we Rh