he beach, which is over three miles
distant; and shell-fish was by no means the principal item of the Maori
commissariat.

"That must have been the way they went," said Old Colonial, looking in a
direction where a strip of the Arapaoa was visible through a gap made
in the ranges by a narrow gully.

"Who went?" I asked, for I did not follow his thought.

"Hoosh!" cried he. "Do you mean to say you've never heard the story of
the battle and capture of Marahemo, the tale of Te Puke Tapu?"

No, I had not heard it. At least, I remembered only some confused
account of a conflict having taken place at the latter spot, which,
being our show-place, I had often seen and knew well.

"Well," said Old Colonial, "there's no time now; but we've got to get
some schnapper for supper to-night, so you and I will go and fish down
the Arapaoa yonder; then I'll tell you."

In the evening we were sitting in the boat, anchored in the river nearly
opposite our much venerated show-place. We were fishing with line and
bait, diligently securing a supper and breakfast for ourselves and the
rest of the company who make our shanty their home. Every now and then
either of us would pull up a great pink slab-sided schnapper, a
glistening silvery mullet, or a white-bellied whapuka; we were in a good
pitch, and the fish were biting freely. Our minds were relieved from the
anxiety of a possible shortness of provisions. The scenery around us is
truly magnificent, if only it were possible to describe it. I must,
however, try to convey an idea of its outlines.

We are lying in the Arapaoa Firth, at the point where it loses its
distinctive name and divides into three heads. These three lesser
firths, together with the main creek that flows into each above the
point where the tide reaches, are respectively the Pahi, the Paparoa,
and the Matakohe.

Our boat seems to be floating in a lake, rather than in a river, for
here the Arapaoa is between three and four miles across. Looking down to
the right we see it stretching away, between bold, high banks of
irregular outline, flowing down to the harbour and the sea thirty miles
off. To our left is our own river, the Pahi, narrower than the other. It
is, perhaps, a mile across at the mouth. Its shores present a
diminishing perspective of woods; and, as mangroves line the beach on
either side, the leafage and the water seem to melt into one another.
Five or six miles up, the ranges rise higher and run together,