tch immense valleys (or
"flats," as they are called here), which are warm and sheltered in
winter, and afford plenty of food for them; then, in summer, they go up
to the mountains: but it is very difficult to "muster" these ranges. I
am almost ashamed to confess to another meal before we returned home,
but there was a lovely tempting spot in a little harbour, and so we
landed and boiled some water and had a capital cup of tea. You require
to be out as we were from morning till night in such an air as this to
know what it is to feel either hungry or sleepy in perfection! The next
day we made a similar excursion, exploring the opposite shore of the
lake; but, before we started, our host distrusted the appearance of
certain clouds, and sent round horses to meet us at the point where
we were going to lunch; and it was just as well he did so, for a stiff
breeze sprang up from the south-west, which would have kept us out all
night. So we mounted the horses instead of re-embarking, having first
secured the boat, and cantered home. We passed several smaller lakes;
there is a perfect chain of them among these hills, and I was much
amused at the names bestowed on them, according to the tastes or caprice
of the station-owners whose runs happen to include them: for instance,
two are called respectively "Geraldine" and "Ida," whilst three, which
lie close together, rejoice in the somewhat extraordinary names of "the
World," "the Flesh," and "the Devil."

Letter XVII: My first and last experience of "camping out."

Broomielaw, April 1867. I have nothing to tell you this mail, except
of a rather ridiculous expedition which we made last week, and which
involved our spending the whole night on the top of the highest hill on
our run. You will probably wonder what put such an idea into our heads,
so I must preface my account by a little explanation. Whenever I meet
any people who came here in the very early days of the colony--only
sixteen years ago, after all!--I delight in persuading them to tell me
about their adventures and hardships during those primitive times, and
these narratives have the greatest fascination for me, as they always
end happily. No one ever seems to have died of his miseries, or even
to have suffered seriously in any way from them, so I find the greatest
delight in listening to the stories of the Pilgrims. I envy them
dreadfully for having gone through so much with such spirit and
cheerfulness, and ever si