and angry, that
they gave up the idea of going on to Christchurch that night, especially
as they were wet through to their chins, for both horses swam very low
in the water, with only their heads to be seen above it.

The next thing to be considered was how to get back to the house. It
never would do to risk taking the horses into danger again when they
were so exhausted; so they rode round by the homestead, crossed the
creek higher up, where it was much wider but comparatively shallow
(if anything could be called shallow just now), and came home over the
hills. Good old Jack had an extra feed of oats that evening, a reward to
which he is by no means insensible; and indeed it probably is the only
one he cares for.

The Fates had determined, apparently, that I also should come in for
my share of watery adventures, for we had an engagement of rather long
standing to ride across the hills, and visit a friend's station about
twelve miles distant, and the day we had promised to go was rather more
than a week after F----'s attempted journey. In the meantime, the waters
had of course gone down considerably, and there was quite an excitement
in riding and walking about our own run, and seeing the changes the
flood had made, and the mischief it had done to the fencing;--this was
in process of being repaired. We lost very few sheep; they were all up
at the tops of the high hills, their favourite summer pasture.

I think I have told you that between us and Christchurch there is but
one river, a most peaceable and orderly stream, a perfect pattern to the
eccentric New Zealand rivers, which are so changeable and restless. Upon
this occasion, however, the Selwyn behaved quite as badly as any of its
fellows; it was not only flooded for miles, carrying away quantities of
fencing near its banks, and drowning confiding sheep suddenly, but at
one spot about four miles from us, just under the White Rocks, it
came down suddenly, like what Miss Ingelow calls "a mighty eygre," and
deserted its old timeworn bed for two new ones: and the worst of the
story is that it has taken a fancy to our road, swept away a good deal
of it, breaking a course for itself in quite a different place; so now,
instead of one nice, wide, generally shallow river to cross, about
which there never has been an evil report, we have two horrid mountain
torrents of which we know nothing: no one has been in yet to try their
depth, or to find out the best place at which