867. I am quite sorry that the season for setting
fire to the long grass, or, as it is technically called, "burning the
run," is fairly over at last. It has been later than usual this year, on
account of the snow having lain such an unusual time on the ground and
kept the grass damp. Generally September is the earliest month in which
it begins, and November the latest for it to end; but this year the
shady side of "Flagpole" was too moist to take fire until December.

It is useless to think of setting out on a burning expedition unless
there is a pretty strong nor'-wester blowing; but it must not be _too_
violent, or the flames will fly over the grass, just scorching it
instead of making "a clean burn." But when F---- pronounces the wind to
be just right, and proposes that we should go to some place where the
grass is of two, or, still better, three years' growth, then I am
indeed happy. I am obliged to be careful not to have on any inflammable
petticoats, even if it is quite a warm day, as they are very dangerous;
the wind will shift suddenly perhaps as, I am in the very act of setting
a tussock a-blaze, and for half a second I find myself in the middle
of the flames. F---- generally gets his beard well singed, and I have
nearly lost my eyelashes more than once. We each provide ourselves with
a good supply of matches, and on the way we look out for the last year's
tall blossom of those horrid prickly bushes called "Spaniards," or a
bundle of flax-sticks, or, better than all, the top of a dead and
dry Ti-ti palm. As soon as we come to the proper spot, and F---- has
ascertained that no sheep are in danger of being made into roast mutton
before their time, we begin to light our line of fire, setting one large
tussock blazing, lighting our impromptu torches at it, and then starting
from this "head-centre," one to the right and the other to the left,
dragging the blazing sticks along the grass. It is a very exciting
amusement, I assure you, and the effect is beautiful, especially as it
grows dusk and the fires are racing up the hills all around us. Every
now and then they meet with a puff of wind, which will perhaps strike a
great wall of fire rushing up-hill as straight as a line, and divide it
into two fiery horns like a crescent; then as the breeze changes again,
the tips of flame will gradually approach each other till they meet, and
go on again in a solid mass of fire.

If the weather has been very dry for some time an