d as the moon was at its full on that first
evening of our arrival, the scene was indescribably lovely. It was an
inspiration to stand on the shore of the lake, beholding the heavens
above, and their reflected glory in the mirror-like waters below. The
wailing, singing, and dancing among the natives had ceased; the
performers had rolled themselves in their blankets, and worn out with
excess were sleeping; the night and its peace were over all,--and yet
it was as light as mid-day. One certainly feels inclined to give New
Zealand moonlight precedence over anything of the sort elsewhere. How it
silvered the unruffled surface of the lake! So calm, so intense, so
dazzlingly brilliant were its shining waters that they seemed to put the
stars out of countenance. With a couple of tawny, tattooed natives we
took a long, lazy row upon Rotorua at midnight, "the dusky hour
friendliest to sleep and silence," permitting the boat at times to float
after its own fancy, while we dreamed a dream of peace. So quiet were
the scene and the hour that both oarsmen leaned upon the thwarts and
slept. It was enchantment verified; one was loath to break the spell by
arousing the sleepers and turning shoreward. By and by the silence, only
slightly broken by the light dip of the oars, became almost oppressive,
and we said, "Give us a song, men! a Maori song;" and those rough,
dark-hued rowers broke forth in a low, weird chant as we glided smoothly
over the water, seeming to be the only adjunct needed to fill the
measure of that midnight hour.

And yet it is difficult to say which was the more inspiring,--the sweet,
suggestive hours of the moon's reign, or those of the delicious break of
day across the lake, so quickly followed by the sunrise. How responsive
were the waiting waters to every fresh hue and color of the returning
morn! The moonlight had recalled many thoughts of the past, memories
both sad and joyous; while the sunlight was full of hope, promise, and
present grandeur. Those of our readers who have seen at the foot of the
Maritime Alps, on the shores of the Mediterranean, the change of night
into morning, will most readily understand what the break of day really
is over Lake Rotorua.

Once fairly within the area of this south land of varied wonders, the
most active volcanic region of the Antipodes, nothing seems too strange
to be true; geysers, fumaroles, boiling springs, and dry stones burning
hot beneath one's feet, as though the sur