Chapter I: Part 1

A Southern Cross Fairy Tale

A
SOUTHERN CROSS
FAIRY TALE

BY
KATE McCOSH CLARK

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY R. ATKINSON AND THE AUTHOR_

LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEALE & RIVINGTON
_Limited_
St. Dunstan’s House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1891
[_All rights reserved_]

LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,
ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD.

TO
MY GODCHILD KITTY
AND TO MY
LITTLE NEPHEWS AND NIECES.

PREFACE.

The scenes of Christmas tales read by English-speaking children have been for the most part naturally laid amid winter, snow, and leafless landscape. The Yule-log and the holly-berry have been time-honoured “properties.” But there are, growing up under the Southern Cross, generations of children, with English speech and English hearts, to whom the Yule-log at Christmas is unmeaning and the snow unknown.

The little story which follows is written for such children as these, and also for those in the older land who have any desire to know what Christmas is like among their kin on the other side of the world.

While seeking to amuse, it is intended to convey pleasant information. New Zealand is a land full of natural wonders and natural beauty; its vegetation and its fauna are every way remarkable. In the following pages the allusions to these wonders and beauties, however playfully introduced, are intended to be truthful. The colours and habits of plants and animals are in sober reality just what they are made to appear in fairy-land. The illustrations are from nature, and will, it is hoped, bear out the text. For the loan of certain birds and clear descriptive notes upon them, I am deeply indebted to Mr. A. Reischek, F.L.S., the well-known naturalist. The kind interest of Professor Thomas, M.A., F.L.S., F.G.S., and the valuable notes given by him upon the Terraces, Geysers, &c., also lay me under much obligation.

K. C.

AUCKLAND, _July, 1889_.

“THE CHILDREN’S HOUR.”

The cawing rooks fly to their nests;
Again the song-birds hush their lay;
O’er all the world a stillness rests,
And twilight shadows dance and play.
The book is closed, hands folded o’er,
The work, that rests the while, undone;
See! glad young faces at the door,
And hark! the peals of mirth and fun.
Yes, ’tis the children’s hour,
To waiting arms they run.

The little faces vie to press
Warm kisses on our willing lips,
While loving prayers, unspoken, bless
The sunny heads, and finger tips
Pass gently o’er the cheek’s soft bloom—
That seems as stolen from the rose;
Then merry voices fill the room,
As round the fire-lit hearth we close,
For ’tis the children’s hour,
Which nought but brightness knows.

“Play with us, play!” Ah, yes, young hearts,
Well that your voices coax, and make
Us for awhile forget the smarts
Of striving day for your brief sake.
“Sing with us, sing!” and youthful notes
Rise shrill in some time-hallowed strain.
Discord—sweet discord round us floats,
And ageing hearts grow young again—
It is the children’s hour,
That knows nor care nor pain.

“Now tell us stories, mother, dear!”
How sweet the old and matchless word!
Sweeter than aught that else we hear
From children’s lips. What memories stirr’d
By that loved name rush o’er the soul!
For sheltering arms we once more yearn
Now folded ’neath the grassy knoll.
Would that the children’s hour
For her, too, could return.

“Come, children, nestle close to me
And question with your lips and eyes,
For, as ye listen, I would see
The starting flush and sweet surprise
At tales of brownie and of fay
That hide within your favourite glen,
And ’neath the moonlight’s flickering ray
Bring fairy gifts to slumbering men.”
Sweet lore of children’s hour,
Why need we further ken?

Ah! little ones, ye hold us fast
And thoughts of you like joy-bells chime
Around our lives, and link the past
And present in one long sweet rhyme.
And slumbering echoes wake anew,
For purity glows in your eyes,
And truth from out them shines so true
That from our hearts all falseness flies.
It is the children’s hour
When purest thoughts arise.

The years roll by and leave their taint
Of sin upon us, and the weight
Of self-wrought grief, until we faint
Beneath the burden grown so great.
Fretted by sight of others’ pain,
The voiceless suffering of the weak;
“Wherefore?” we cry, but all in vain,
No answering oracle doth speak.
And in the children’s hour
We fain for peace would seek.

Far off like some grand snowy height
That gleams anon through driving mist,
Some great End flashes on our sight;
And on that peak the sun hath kissed,
Could we but stand, thence gazing back
Perchance Heaven’s echoes we might hear,
Perchance Heaven’s light upon our track
Might show the good of every tear,
And in the children’s hour
Life’s riddles read more clear.

Speak to our hearts, each bright young heart,
Perfect in love and faith, and bid
Us know that e’en as petals part
To breathe the fragrance ’neath them hid,
So do ye breathe around life’s hours
The sweetness nought can steal away,
The sweetness of our cherished flowers.
Then ope bright blooms upon our way,
And make the children’s hour
With beauty crown each day.

Play on, ye little ones, play on,
And cheer us with your guileless mirth;
Too soon your careless days are gone
And later years see sorrow’s birth.
We love your bright eyes’ merry glance,
We love your voices’ gleesome ring;
To trip with you th’ unrhythm’d dance
Again doth childlike rapture bring.
It is the children’s hour,
Sing on, ye children, sing.

Ye cradle our lost dreams anew,
Ye make love’s echoes ceaseless sound,
And, if for some the stretching yew
O’erguards a tiny daisied mound,
They have but laid their treasures where
God’s angels tread with sacred feet;
They have but Heavenward sent a prayer
That, lisped before the mercy-seat,
In God’s own children’s hour
Shall win an answer sweet.

K. C.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

PAGE

Bell-Bird 1

“It is Christmas Eve! and the long soft shadows of a summer
night are quickly falling on the garden, fields, and
meadows” _To face_ 3

“Take that,” said Santa Claus; “it will give you light in
the darkest places” _To face_ 6

“We’re sorry we’re so big,” said Hal 13

Kiwi 14

Parson-Bird or Tui 15

Pied Fantail 15

Brown Owl or More-pork 16

Crow 17

Tuataras 19

Vegetable Caterpillar 20

Robins 22

Maori Hen 23

White Heron 25

“They are only Maories; and see, they are more frightened
of us than you are of them” _To face_ 26

On the top of the geyser were shot out a troop of laughing gnomes 29

“Run to the hill!” cried Red Cap _To face_ 38

Kea 47

“You must have been dreaming, Hal!” _To face_ 51

A SOUTHERN CROSS FAIRY TALE.

It is Christmas Eve! and the long soft shadows of a summer night are quickly falling on the garden, fields, and meadows of a New Zealand home. The feathery edge of the forest-clad hills behind the house stands out dark against the yellow light still lingering in the west; undulating grassy slopes creep down to where the graceful tree-ferns form a billowy mass of light and shade near the deep, dark creek, that divides the fields. The murmuring of the stream, in hidden depths below, rises like a lullaby, while countless shrill crickets sing their merry carols amid the trees. No sound of joyous bells is borne upon the air, as on the English Christmas Eves of pleasant memory, only the Bell-bird’s[1] chimes from the bush, and the distant cow-bell’s tinkle mid the shadowy Manuka clumps, where sentinel cabbage-palms[2] up-raise their helmeted heads erect and stern. Fair is that house built up by English hands in the New World; fair, not with the slowly gathered beauty of centuries gone by, the clinging ivy and the gaily painted lichens on the stones, but with the quick rich growth of the southern lands. The quaint low wooden gables are wreathed with creepers of many a shade and hue, and over the broad verandah and open casement doors, the scarlet passion-flowers gleam like burning stars amid their masses of glossy leaves, and the green egg-shaped fruit of its more modest cousin hang in rich profusion on the trellised arbour near by, the scene of many a childish frolic and out-door tea-party. Sweet scents arise from the nooks of the garden which is left half wild, where many an English flower carefully tended, tells of hearts in which still cling fond memories of a childhood’s home afar. Through the sombre pines that edge the spreading lawn, are seen the last long silvery streaks, quivering on the distant sea; overhead the busy starlings flit to and fro, or, perching on some tapering branch, give forth their short-lived song, while, now and again, the harsh call of the brown owl pierces the deepening shades. But suddenly is heard the sound of merry voices, and two little children run down the winding path leading to the house, then stop near to a rose-bed rich in bloom.

“It’s Christmas Eve, you know, little Cis,” said Hal, a merry strong-limbed, dark-eyed boy between nine and ten years old, to his little sister who stood near.

She was a quaint little maid of seven in whose wavy golden hair one might well think the summer sunbeams lingered; her large blue eyes, dark lashed, in her solemn moments looked like clear deep wells, but could dance with light and laughter at a tale of fun. Hers was a sweet child-nature “so easily moved to smiles or tears,” so full of sympathy was her loving little heart.

“It is Christmas Eve, you know, little Cis, and we must get some nice flowers to give mother to-morrow morning, mustn’t we?”

“Yes, Hal, and I want to find a lot of dear little red rose-buds,—oh! here’s one, and here’s another, I’m so glad!”

“Why _red_ ones, Cis?”

“’Cos mother likes red ones, I know; she told me about the prickly tree with red berries on it, which she used to gather bunches of at Christmas time when she was a little girl like me,—I expect she gave some to her mother, and I wonder if she pricked her fingers as I do mine—never mind, I am not going to cry, Hal, because it’s for mother. Do the thorns hurt you, Hal?”

“Yes, Cis, but I am a boy you know, and boys don’t cry; I am getting white rose-buds, because in mother’s tales about Christmas, there is always a lot of white snow. I wonder why God does not send us any snow here!”

“Perhaps He will one day if we are naughty, for it kills all the pretty flowers,” replied Cis.

“No, it doesn’t kill them all, Cis, it only covers them up; besides, it’s rare fun to make snow-balls, they say.”

“Children, children!” calls a voice from the open door, “it is nearly bed-time.”

“Yes, coming, mother dear,” and the two bunches of flowers were quickly hidden beneath the little coat and pinafore, while the children ran round to a side door and gave them into the nurse’s charge to put in water, and in a safe hiding place until the morning.

“Put them under our beds, Nursie, no one will see them there,” shouted Hal, as he rushed off with his sister to their mother for the good-night chat.

Page 3.]

In the well-known cosy room sat a slender figure in black, in a low wicker chair, and little Cis was already on her lap, her shining head nestled close in, her sweet face pressed to her mother’s, which if older and sadder, was not less sweet. Hal, taking his favourite stool, sat down close to her knee, and giving her hand a hasty boyish kiss, said: “Don’t send us to bed just yet, mother dear, ’tis Christmas Eve, you know.”

“Ah, yes! Christmas Eve,” she echoed, and her trembling voice told of the mingled memories that thronged her heart,—memories of past joys and sudden sorrow. Her thoughts flew to that time, “only a year ago,” when there came the hurried summons for her husband to a sick relative in a distant land—the hasty departure on the voyage,—and then the blank of a terrible silence,—and later, the tidings that she should see him no more till “the sea gives up her dead,”—and, laying her hand on Hal’s dark head, she pressed her fatherless little ones closer to her.

“Tell us a story, mother dear,” broke in Hal’s voice.

“Suppose you tell me one for a change, dear,” she replied.

“I don’t think I can, mother, but I’ll try,” said Hal’s determined tones, “it will be very hard, but you’ll help me, little Cis, when I stick, won’t you? Shall it be a real story or a made up one?”

“Oh! a real one, Hal, it won’t be so hard,” said little Cis.

“All right,” replied Hal, “just wait a moment whilst I think,” and the boy’s face took an earnest, thoughtful expression not often seen on it, for he was a light-hearted laddie full of the joy of a happy, careless childhood.

“We had three baby guinea-pigs this morning,” began he musingly, “but, I suppose I couldn’t make a tale out of that,—and the little white bantam was drowned in the duck-pond, and Cis and I put it in a box with flowers and buried it under the apple-tree, but, I suppose that wouldn’t do either;—and the parrot bit my fingers dreadfully, and I—no, I didn’t cry, I only howled. Oh! mother, you tell a tale, I can’t.”

Then a minute’s silence followed, broken only by the purring of Hal’s favourite, the black cat “Smut,” who was rubbing against his master’s leg, where the kneeless stocking told of the day’s exploits.

Darker grew the shadows in the long low room; the clock ticked on its monotonous “Gone by! gone by!” the faint whisper of the evening breeze through the pines came in at the window; the last rays died in the west, and once again the evening star looked out from the darkening sky upon the mother, and the child within her arms—a picture that in all its varied phases is as beauteous in our great to-day, as at that Christmas-time at Bethlehem in ages past. And little Cis, watching the shining star, raised her head from her mother’s shoulder, and said in a hushed voice:

“Do you think the angels will come to-night, mother dear?”

“Angels! why, little one?” she replied.

“Because there’s the star, mother, and I think it must be the one you told me about, that came when the angels sang, because it’s, oh! so beautiful! I should like them to come to-night; perhaps dear father will send them. Do you think if we sat ever so still they _would_ fly down near us? You know, when I sit down under the big trees up the hills for a long time, the little birds fly down and close up their wings and come and look at me, and angels have wings, haven’t they, mother dear? and so perhaps they will come.”

“Oh!” cried Hal, “if they can fly about like that, Cis, I shouldn’t like it to-night, for there are a lot of Christmas-plums ripe on the tree in the orchard, and if they come near I expect they would want them,—I should. But I didn’t take any to-day, mother; we are saving them for to-morrow as you told us to do; I only sat down under the tree and picked up any that fell down. You know you told us not to run about when it was very hot, so I thought if I was good and sat still, God would make some plums drop down. But, I say, mother, what sort of hat does God wear?”

“Hat, my boy! what do you mean?”

“Why, mother, you said I must keep my hat on these hot days or I’d get sunstroke, and I’m sure it must be dreadfully hot for God up in the sky; there are no trees there to sit under.”

What merry laughter from little Cis followed Hal’s remark, but his mother said quietly, “Hush, my boy, we must not speak lightly of Him whose ways are not as ours.” Hal’s merry face became thoughtful, and the children were silent for a few moments; then the favourite tales were won from mother by many a caress,—tales, of which the words fell on the children’s ears like the pleasant dropping of summer rain, bringing forth sweet flowers of thought, may be in later years to bear a precious fruit. Then came the patter of little feet up the stairs, and merry chatter, as the stockings were hung up ready for Santa Claus; and then, when mother came, there were murmurs of sleepy voices, as the two little white-robed figures knelt with folded hands on their curtained beds, and lay down with the last words of their childish prayer on their rosy lips—

“In the Kingdom of Thy Grace,
Give a little child a place.”

“A place!” Aye, would that many an older child of earth could claim such a place as His little ones have! Then, with mother’s last “tuck up” and good-night kiss, and one last look to make sure that the stockings were all right, silence fell on the little restless tongues, and closed the sleepy eyes.

* * * * *

It was midnight, but no Christmas waits disturbed the stillness round the quiet house. The southern cross gleamed clear and bright in the dark blue heavens, and the moon sailed high, silvering the feathery clouds that here and there floated across the star-lit depths, as though some angels passing by had left stray pinions there. The distant ocean had waked from its evening dreams with a thousand twinkling smiles; the tree-ferns trembled beneath the moonbeams’ soft caress; but, brighter than all others were the rays that, creeping through the window to the white curtained beds, kissed so lovingly the sweet faces lying there, lingering round the tumbled curls of little Cis, and on the dimpled arm thrown over her head, and crowning Hal’s dark hair with a soft halo.

Page 6.]

Then a clear voice broke the stillness of that summer night, making the children stir in their slumbers ... then, once again the silvery voice rang forth, “Wake up, little ones!”

And, starting up, Cis and Hal rubbed their eyes, and wonderingly gazed around.

And there, where the moonbeams fell upon the floor, stood a lad with a smiling face, and on his head was a crown of twinkling stars, and beneath the stars these words shone, “I bring good gifts to all.” A robe of deepest blue hung down in soft shimmering folds near to his feet; and in his hand was a wand, on the tip of which shone the evening star.

Then Hal, without fear, though in a dreamy voice, asked, “Please are you a fairy, little man?”

And Cis in a low voice added, “It’s the Angel of the Stars!”

“No, little ones,” said he, “I am neither a fairy nor an angel; I am only Santa Claus.”

“Why, I thought Santa Claus was an old man,” said Hal.

“So I am, in the Old World,” replied he, “but here, in the New World, I am young like it.”

“But,” exclaimed Hal, “where are your reindeer, and where’s the sleigh with all the good things in it I always thought you brought? Because it won’t be fair if you don’t give us anything. It’s Christmas Eve, you know, and we have put our stockings ready for you.”

“I have left my reindeer and the snow and frost in the Old World,” said Santa Claus; “but never fear, I have not forgotten you and little Cis; my wand, with the star of Love on it, is better than my sleigh full of presents. But come along, little ones; dress quickly, for I am going to take you where many wonderful things are waiting to be seen by bright young eyes.”

“All right; I am ready,” cheerily replied Hal.

But little Cis said, “I don’t know, Hal; what will mother say! Mayn’t I go and tell her, Mr. Santa Claus?”

“No need, little Cis; she knew I was coming to you to-night.”

“Yes, it’s all right,” said Hal eagerly, “come, dress quickly, Cis, we shall see lots of wonderful things, and bring some back to mother too.”

So the children dressed, and, led by their guide, went hand in hand with light steps down the stairs and out into the moonlit world.

How beautiful it looked! The drooping grasses shone with drops of dew; the tall white lilies gleamed fair as the driven snow; a white-tailed rabbit skipped across their path and then peered with bright eyes at them from high bracken; a solitary night-bird chirped out its sleepy notes; but as the children, led by Santa Claus, came near to the creek, the voice of the stream sang out cheerily. A mossy trunk lay across the waters, and Santa Claus stepped lightly along it, followed by Hal, who held the hand of little Cis tightly in his, and, guiding her, went across the slippery bridge.

“It _is_ dark down here,” murmured Cis, as they stepped on the bank where high fern-trees and thick bushes shaded the gully.

Turning round, Santa Claus placed in Hal’s hand the wand whereon so brightly shone the star of Love. “Take that,” he said, “it will give you light in the darkest places;” and, as the light from the star fell around, the black waters danced and gleamed, and the dark mosses shone.

“Please do stop a little while, here, Mr. Santa Claus,” begged Hal, “I want so much to have a look at that big carp I saw the other day in the pool,” and, as he spoke, the fish, his gold and silver scales glittering in the light, came near, and amid the rippling of the waters the children heard a little voice singing:—

“Here in the cool waters
Who will catch me now?
Come, ye children, twine ye
Green weeds round your brow.

“Play ye while the shallows
Sunny are and bright,
Sing ye while the still depths
Dance with sparkling light.

“Little streams flow onward,
On by moor and lea.
Singing ever brightly,
Gay their life and free.]

“When they join the river
Silenced is their song,
Slow and dark the current,
Rough the way and long.

“In the mighty ocean
All are lost at last,
All the play-time over!
All the singing past!

“So play ye while the shallows
Sunny are and bright,
And sing ye while the still depths
Dance with sparkling light.”]

“Can’t we catch him, Mr. Santa Claus?” shouted Hal, “I should like that fellow, for he talks like a book!”

But the fish only waved his tail and glided down the stream.

Then their guide beckoned them forwards, and Cis, wondering, asked, “Did you make the fish speak, Mr. Santa Claus?”

“Yes, little Cis,” answered he, “and the gift I bring you and Hal this night, is the gift that makes you know and understand Nature’s many voices.”

“Does any one else know them?” asked Hal.

“Yes, children, to some pure and simple souls the gift is given through life to interpret them to man; and sometimes to the aged and the weak it is granted to find strength anew, in flowery woods and birds’ and insects’ song;—to you, ye little ones, Nature shall to-night speak out in clearest voices, to echo in your hearts perchance in years to come.”

“I hope he isn’t going to preach,” whispered Hal to his sister, “I shan’t like him half so much if he does.” Then he added aloud, “I don’t quite understand you, Mr. Santa Claus, but never mind, I don’t understand the sermons our old clergyman preaches; mother says it is good to try and listen, but I think they forget about the little children in church!”

“Perhaps the preacher does not know we are there, Hal, we are so little, you know,” added Cis in an apologetic tone, “and there is a long way between us and the pulpit.”

“Perhaps so,” said Hal absently, for he was wondering if he could put his Star of Love over the pulpit on Christmas Day; it would make a bright light, and perhaps the preacher would remember them then,—and he added aloud, “But if he did remember us, Cis, I expect he’d be cross if we didn’t sit _quite_ still, as I heard him say one day we ought.”

“I suppose it is such a long time since he was a little child, that he forgets how hard it is,” said little Cis.

But by this time they had got out of the thickest part of the bush, and were walking along a little winding path near a precipice. On the upper side was a bank from which dainty ferns hung their graceful fronds, and beneath them, on the moss, the tiny lamps of myriad glow-worms shone like specks of fire. As the children stopped to gaze, they heard the glow-worms singing:—

“Children of the earth are we,
Small and brown and ill to see;
But we can make our lamps at night
In dreary places show their light.
Travellers oft might miss the way,
Warned we not their footsteps back,
When upon the narrow track
Near the precipice they stray.
Children of the earth are we,
Small and brown and ill to see;
Still our tiny lamps we trim;
Children, let not yours grow dim!”

“We have got no lamps, you stupid little glow-worms,” said Hal, “unless you call this Star of Love that we carry a lamp. But couldn’t you sing something more lively to us?” he added. Then the glow-worms brightened up and sang to a merry tune:—

“Oh! stay, ye children, stay,
And listen to our song,
For childhood’s hour is short,
And manhood’s day is long.
Come, see our fairy haunts,
And we will light the way;
Come, join the merry dance,
And dance till break of day.”

“Please may we go to the dance, Mr. Santa Claus?” begged Hal; their guide nodded assent, and they watched the glow-worms form into a long line, two and two, and creep between two high moss-grown rocks.

“It’s all very well to say ‘come,’” remarked Hal, “but how are we to get through that place, I should like to know?”

“Hold Love’s wand high overhead,” answered Santa Claus, “and much that is difficult will be made easy.”

“Oh, dear! he has begun preaching again,” cried Hal, but he held the star over his own and his sister’s head, and, pushing some overhanging brambles aside, they found that they could easily go where the glow-worms led.

On, on went the long procession of shining lights, and the little voices were heard, now faint, now clear:—

“Come, see the fairy haunts.
And we will light the way;
Come, join the merry dance,
And dance till break of day.”

And soon what a sight met the eyes of the children! In an open space surrounded by high trees, on a bright ring of green grass, a number of little fairies were dancing, their tiny twinkling feet scarcely seeming to touch the lightly bending blades. And what merry music! a band of locusts with their shining wings beat tunes upon the brown tree-trunks; big night-moths hummed their low songs, and drowsy beetles droned fitfully, while from the trees o’erhead the bell-birds rang their clear high notes. It was a gala night, and birds and insects had come to join in the dance.

On a branch near by sat a small brown owl, round-eyed and solemn, beating with a raupo stem the time, which no one tried to keep. “Too fast, stop them!” cried he, in his harsh, cold voice; but no one took any notice except the Tui in a bush, who repeated his words;—and the music played, and the dancers danced as madly as before.

Then, out from the dark wood there came a motley throng; bright golden-eyed green lizards, their long tails waving like shining river-weeds; sleek-coated rats, and solemn Maori hens; fat caterpillars waddling through the grass, and snorting kiwis[3] following close behind; while sombre-coloured crows and starlings tripped on in pairs.

Now, by the laws of fairy-land, no bird could feed upon insects so long as the night revels were kept up; nevertheless the caterpillars did not feel quite comfortable, for many a sly poke they got to “hurry up” from the kiwis’ long bills, with which these birds gave disappointed snaps, as they saw such tempting morsels near by.

Then came whole families of green parrakeets, proudly holding up their red-crested heads, and chattering all the scandal of the forest; black-feathered Tuis[4] with their white neckties cleanly washed; tiny Fantails,[5] their fans spread out, for the night was warm: and Robins too, were there, some in dark grey garb, and some in black with yellow and white breast-fronts newly smoothed;—and as the fresh comers appeared, the music struck up with renewed vigour, and the glow-worms, nodding, made their lamps burn brighter still.

All were soon joining in the dance,—fairies, birds and insects, and Hal and Cis, seeing Santa Claus sit down under a tree-fern, joined too.

“We’re sorry we are so big,” said Hal, “but Cis and I will try and not knock any of you over. Would you mind tucking your tail up under your arm?” he said to a young lady lizard near whom he was dancing in a waltz. “Allow me to help you;” and help he did, for the tail came off in his hand! “I beg your pardon,” said Hall.

“Don’t mention it, tails always grow quickly, you know,” replied the lizard with a laugh, as she skipped gaily on.

“Please, Mr. Kiwi, would you oblige me by dancing on two legs instead of three,” asked little Cis, for the Kiwi was her partner, and was using his bill as a support, and often pricked her toes.

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” said he in a huff, “it’s my bill! but perhaps you don’t know what a bill is!”

“I’ve only heard mother say that no one likes long bills,” said little Cis.

At this the Kiwi snorted contemptuously, and left her, and the brown owl,[6] seeing something was wrong, thought it must be the music, and shouted out, “Too fast! stop them!” but no one took any heed, for he was only an old croaker, and could not be expected to keep pace with the young people. So he dropped his raupo-stem, and sulked on the bough. Soon afterwards the band stopped, and some strange flute-like notes were heard in the distance.

The Tui called out excitedly, “Make haste! take your places if you want to see the Gavotte, here comes the great dancer of the evening!” and all the birds and fairies hurried to get good places on the branches near by, while caterpillars and lizards stood up on their tails. Then out from the thick underwood came two crows,[7] proudly strutting side by side; the male bird took his place upon a straight leafless branch, well in sight of all the expectant throng, while the female bird sat down on a fallen mossy bough, where she could see her mate.

Then he began the Gavotte, and what a lively performance it was! up and down, up and down the branch, springing, pirouetting, tail and wings out-spread, with many a fanciful step and flourish, danced the crow right merrily to his own sweet gurgling music. Truly he was a mate worthy of the little wife he had won by his dancing at pairing time; she was sitting near, watching, and when the dance was ended he looked down at her proudly, while the on-lookers applauded.

“Capital! capital!” shouted little Cis and Hal, clapping, and the Tui overhead echoed their words.

“How nice to have a husband who can dance and sing so well!” said one of the parrakeets.

“Yes,” said the lady crow, “it is nice, of course, but there are other things to be considered in choosing a husband; still he is a good one on the whole, though sometimes I should like to join in the whistling and dancing, too. Let us have a dance all together now!” she added, and the owl, having got over his fit of the sulks, asked for his raupo stem to be handed to him again, and started the music afresh.

The crow, offended by his wife’s remarks, chose another partner for a while, but Cis, watching, saw that he soon went back to her, and a little later on the pair slipped away into the wood together, so she supposed they had made up their tiff.

Then the dancers took a rest, for they were all rather tired.

“Oh, look!” said the grey robin, who was still sitting on the bush near Cis, “there are the Tuataras; what a wonder it is for them to come and see us. How do you do?” called out the bird, at the same time nodding his head condescendingly to two large stone-coloured lizards with a row of white spines down their backs, who glided into the open space, and, lying down on some stones, watched the scene with solemn bright eyes.

“They did not answer you!” said Cis, “do they never speak?”

“Not often to us,” replied the bird, “they are too proud of their old family to talk to ordinary dwellers in the forest; those two must have come a long way to visit us to-night, for, some years ago, the Tuataras said they did not like the fast ways of the inhabitants of this part of the country, and they all retired to an island off the coast, where their only companions are the mutton-birds who live in holes in the ground;—and, I think, it is so mean of the lizards, they share the mutton-birds’ holes, and then often feed upon their young ones.”

“Do not the Tuataras[8] get any food themselves?” asked Cis.

“Yes, at night,” replied the robin, “they only go out then; _I_ think there must be something wrong when people always do things in the dark, do not you?”

“I do not know,” said Cis, “perhaps they have reasons we do not understand.”

“My mother was told by a learned man that the Tuataras have _three_ eyes,” continued the bird.

“If so, they can see more than other people, and that is why they look so wise,” said little Cis.

“Perhaps so,” replied the bird, “but none of us have ever seen the third eye, and it is funny where it can be.”

“If you looked carefully you would find it on the top of our heads,” said the mellow voice of a Tuatara who had evidently been listening; “our ancestors were great star-gazers, but we have given up that sort of nonsense, we find it quite enough to attend to things on the earth, so we all agreed to shut one eye; it is best to do so sometimes,” added the lizard musingly.

“Indeed!” said the robin, and he put his head on one side and looked very unbelieving.

Just then two cockroaches, more curious than the rest, ran up the stones near where the lizards sat, who, suddenly turning their heads, seized and swallowed them.

How indignant all the birds and insects were at this transgression of the laws of fairy-land, and loud cries arose from all sides of “Shame! shame!”

“Peck out their eyes!” cried the Kiwi, who had, however, been thinking he should like a meal himself.

“Off with their tails!” croaked a bright green frog.

“Off with their tails!” repeated the Tui in a shrill voice.

But the Tuataras, hearing the noise, glided down from the stones into the fern; Hal and the birds went after them, but the lizards were soon lost to sight in a hole.

“We shall have to give it up,” said Hal, “we could not get them out of that hole except by digging; let us go back to the others:” so they returned, and Hal, sitting down by Santa Claus, said, “This is all great fun,—I wonder when they will begin dancing again, I never enjoyed a dance so much before.”

A stout caterpillar,[9] who sat near, and was troubled with asthma, overhearing this, put in his word. “It is only because you are young that it all seems so good; wait till you are old and stout like me, and you won’t be so mad at dancing!”

“But you will be a lovely butterfly by-and-by,” added little Cis.

“Not I!” said the caterpillar, “I would not be anything so flighty.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“I mean to retire to some quiet spot on the earth,” said the caterpillar, “and be of some use in the world. I have heard that some of my brothers who have buried themselves grew after a while into plants which are much sought for and valued, and I intend to try it too, I admire variety, for what is the good of being one of the common herd, I should like to know?” and the caterpillar stopped, panting, for it was a long speech for him with his short breath.

“I should do what other caterpillars do, if I were you,” said little Cis thoughtfully, “for I’ve heard that the hearts of those caterpillars you speak of, get harder and harder, till, when the plant grows from them, they turn into wood, too, and die.”

“May be! may be! but I don’t care what people say,” replied he in impatient husky tones, as he turned away and began to dig in the earth under a big rata-tree as quickly as he could.

“Too fast, stop him!” shouted the brown owl.

“Hold your tongue!” cried the caterpillar, “what do you know about it? Who asked you to preach?”

“Oh! don’t quarrel!” said the gentle voice of little Cis; “let me give you a little more light, Mr. Caterpillar, if you _will_ bury yourself,” and she ran and picked up Hal’s wand, and threw the light of Love’s Star on the old grubber. The owl above only blinked, and said in surly tones that he knew he was right, and he wished people wouldn’t try to throw light on his eyes.

Little Cis, being left by her partner, sat down on a mossy bank, and was watching the rest, when she heard some twittering notes near, and looking down saw two little birds close to her feet, one all grey, one grey with a yellow breast, their bright eyes twinkling, their little tails wagging.

“We thought you looked lonely,” said the grey bird, “so we have come to talk to you.”

“What are your names, little birds?” said Cis.

“We are robins,”[10] said they.

“Robins, are you?” replied little Cis, “why, mother used to tell me that robins had red breasts.”

“Oh! so I’ve heard it said they have on the other side of the world,” replied the grey bird, who seemed to be the greater talker of the two, “but we don’t care for so much red, as everything else here is so bright, our family only go in for quiet colours; it’s more ladylike. What do you think of our ball?” he added, and then continued, “I don’t care much for dancing myself; I like afternoon-teas better. I am very fond of company, and one hears all the news of the country-side at a tea-party; it is much more sociable too.”

“Perhaps so,” said little Cis in a doubtful voice, for she had only been to dolls’ tea-parties, and no one talked there.

“Yes,” went on the grey robin, “there are three charming parrakeets, who live in a wood near by, and they sometimes give afternoon teas, and, really, it is as good as reading a newspaper to hear all the tales told of the neighbours.”

“Kind tales?” asked Cis.

“Well, I don’t exactly know,” said the grey robin, “but that doesn’t matter; the parrakeets[11] say the great thing is to have something to talk about.”

“Don’t say that,” put in the yellow-breasted robin, “the old owl tells us never to repeat an unkind thing; it is only the busy-bodies of the Tui family who do that, and they often whistle the tales they hear so badly, that you’d scarcely know them to be the same.”

“Perhaps they can’t help it, you know,” remarked little Cis; “it is not every one who has a good ear; and, besides, Tuis talk so much, that they can’t have much time to think about what they say. I don’t expect they mean to alter things. Mother told me never to tell any but good tales of Hal, but it is difficult sometimes when he teases me,” and little Cis sighed.

“I think this is a very nice ball with you to talk to,” said the grey robin; “do you mind if we stay near you?”

“Oh, no, I shall like it,” replied Cis; so the robins perched on a bush close by, and with their heads on one side eyed the dancers (who had started afresh), and they now and again added their sweet low notes to the music.

“We don’t sing much,” said they, “but we like to do our best to make things lively.”

Just then, such a scuffling was heard in the long grass, that Cis jumped up to see what was the matter, and there were two Maori hens[12] fighting over some bright buttons, tied together with string, which Hal had thrown down. They were jumping round and round each other in the maddest excitement, heads and short tails bobbing, and wings flapping. The brown owl cried, “Too fast, stop them!” but the music and the noise drowned his voice. At last the fatter of the two hens stopped a minute to get breath, and the other, seizing its opportunity, gave an extra tug, and carried off the buttons under the bushes. The fat hen ran after as fast as possible, calling out, “Stop thief! stop thief!” then they both disappeared in the bushes.

Little Cis thought she heard a parrot on a tree overhead call out something about “The pot calling the kettle black,” but as she did not see any signs of cooking near, she thought she must be mistaken.

Meanwhile, Hal had been gossiping with the birds and insects, and hearing many tales of fun and frolic in the greenwood, and many too of hair-breadth escapes from hard-hearted hunters and cruel boys.

“Do you know I am uncommonly hungry,” said Hal, coming up to where Santa Claus was watching. Hal had a little fairy with lovely gauze wings perched on each of his shoulders, and he added, “And these little friends of mine are thirsty too, and all the flowers are shut up, so they can’t get any dew; it really is too bad for them to close so early.”

At a nod from Santa Claus the birds flew off, and quickly returned with numberless fruits and berries; huge mushroom-tables sprang up rapidly, and soon were bending with the weight of the good things. Blue-bells held out their cups of sparkling dew to all, and the Tui and the Bell-bird revelled in honey, pure and golden, which the small wild-bees brought.

The fairies lightly perched on toadstools and the blades of grass, and were gallantly waited upon by long-legged spiders, whilst the birds vied with each other in paying attentions to little Cis.

Long and merry was the feast, only the Kiwi sat grumpily by, and, eyeing some curled-up earthworms, sniffed and said that there was nothing for him to eat. But alas! old Time stays not his flight, even in the brightest hours, and Santa Claus, pointing to the moon sinking low in the sky, the happy revel ceased, and good-byes were said. The fairies winged their flight to hide in the flowers’ sweet hearts; the insects sought their secret haunts in rugged bark and crannied soil; the birds flew off to their leafy homes, except the Kiwi, and he could not, having no wings, poor fellow! so he scuttled quickly about, hunting around for food, but alas! the earthworms and grubs had already hidden in the mossy soil, or beneath the dead leaves.

“Gone! gone!” snorted the disappointed bird, hungry and cross, “and hard work I shall have to dig them out.”

“Too fast, stop them!” excitedly shrieked the brown owl, who was watching some caterpillars waddling off as quickly as they could.

“What is the good of saying that?” asked the Tui, “I shan’t imitate you anymore. It is not likely the caterpillars, if they heard you, would stop to be eaten to please you. I’m off to the bush, near the stream,” continued the Tui, “where the white heron[13] is bringing up her aristocratic family in her nest in the tree-fern, I shall get some conversation worth listening to with her, for she’s a lady of education, and does not mix with every one!” and the Tui flew off.

“I say, old fellow,” called out Hal to the owl, “that was rather hard on you. I’d change my tune if I were you, I think.”

The owl put his brown head on one side, looked very wise for a moment, then shouted out at the top of his shrill voice, “More pork! more pork!”

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you,” laughed Hal, “but if you’ll go farther into the bush you might tackle a few wild pigs if you like.”

“I expect he means ‘more mice,’” said little Cis; “perhaps he’s getting old, poor thing!”

But the owl shouted out “More pork! more pork!” and does so to this day.

“Come, children,” said Santa Claus, “I have more wonderful things to show you before the sun rises;” and he led them out of the forest and up a hill, from the brow of which they looked on a plain broken by deep gullies and bounded afar by dark mountain ranges. Scattered trees loomed vast and unreal in the misty light, and the children walked on silently, almost wishing they were at home again, but yet curious to know what else Santa Claus had to show them. Suddenly a miserable little cur ran out of the bushes, barking, and amidst the manuka and cabbage-trees they saw a raupo whare. Grotesque heads carved upon the gable and on the corner posts of the low roof grinned hideously at Hal and Cis, and they were very startled when some dark figures, wrapped in loose mats, ran out hastily, looking big and weird in the dim and uncertain light.

“They are not giants, are they?” whispered little Cis in a timid tone.

“No, no,” replied Hal, “they are only Maories; and see, they are more frightened of us than you are of them.”

The Maories, indeed, on seeing Santa Claus, his starry crown shining like a halo round his head, and Hal, whose face was lighted up by the Star of Love which he carried, were terrified, and uttering loud cries of “Aue! Aue!” they rushed back into their hut.

Page 26.]

“Why do they run away from us?” asked Cis.

“They, no doubt, thought we were spirits,” answered Santa Claus; “Maories are very much afraid of their dead grandfathers and grandmothers,” added he, laughing.

“I wonder why that is,” said Hal, “I should have thought they would be glad to see the people again who are kind and good, as grandfathers and grandmothers always are.”

By this time they had gone some little distance past the whare, and at the bottom of the hill they came to a narrow valley,[14] the sides of which were clad with a luxuriant growth of feathery manuka, so white with its numberless small blossoms, that in the faint light that comes before the summer dawn, the valley looked as though a snowstorm had passed over it. From hidden places amongst the shrubs, thick curling steam arose, now hiding the trees and bushes, and even veiling the faint stars above for a few seconds, then melting into thin air, leaving a warm dripping moisture on everything around. Mysterious hissing noises filled the air, and ever and anon the earth shook as though with fear.

The wondering, half-frightened children, tightly clasping each other’s hands, followed Santa Claus along the steep, zig-zag path that led down to the bottom of the valley; then, feeling the ground warm beneath her feet, little Cis said, “I am so frightened, Mr. Santa Claus, please may we go back?”

“Yes, I think we _ought_ to go back,” added Hal, “for it must be getting near breakfast-time now.”

“Do not be afraid, children, I will take care of you,” replied Santa Claus, “and I have such wonderful things to show you.”

Reassured by his kind voice, the children followed, keeping close together; Hal, with one arm round Cis, and with the other holding the Star of Love high above their heads, as they followed the path to the bottom of the valley. There they saw a stream rippling along; clear as crystal were its waters, and its banks covered with drooping ferns and tender mosses. Little Cis, stooping to gather some of the ferns, dipped her hand into a pool of water near by, and cried out, “Why, Hal, it’s quite hot!”

Yes, hot it was, and the steam itself still hotter, while amid the bushes, countless merry little springs bubbled up, boiling, from basins of yellow and pink stone.

“Why, it smells exactly like lucifer matches,—do they make them here, Mr. Santa Claus?” asked Hal, looking at the bright yellow sulphur on the ground.

“No,” laughed Santa Claus, “but I think they might.”

“I shall bring our cook here,” went on Hal, “she needn’t have a fire at all to cook our meals or to wash our clothes.” And he looked down into the clear steaming pool close by, edged with crumbling, many-coloured soil, and around, and even within which, delicate ferns were growing.

But Santa Claus’ starry crown was already shining faint on the pathway ahead, and the children tripped on lightly after him.

What lovely fairy glens they saw at each turn of the little path, carpeted with soft, bright green, and overhung with tender foliage, and Cis wished it were midnight that she might see the fairies dance. What fairy ball-rooms, too, with floors of pale pink marble, and pretty streamlets of warm water trickling near, for tired feet to paddle in!

But Santa Claus had stopped, and the children hurried up to his side, and there, in the midst of the thick bushes, they saw a small lake of clearest blue, and to its edge sloped down a gleaming floor of white, and the trees that drooped near to the water’s edge shone white, as though a hoar-frost had silvered each trunk and tiny twig.

“Oh! how lovely!” cried little Cis. “Is this like the snow in England, Mr. Santa Claus?”

“Not quite,” he answered, “though it is as beautiful. But listen, little ones!”

And as he spoke a chorus of voices was heard, faint, as though from the bowels of the earth, and then a low rumbling noise was followed by a mighty burst of steam from a hole a little way off, and on the top of it were shot out a troop of laughing gnomes.

What funny little fellows they looked, with their long yellow legs, short bodies, and merry round faces beneath their yellow hats of all shapes and sizes. With many wild antics and strange capers they danced round the blue lake, singing:—

“Ha, ha! ha, ha! how jolly is life,
We know no care, we know no strife;
We dance, we sing, and merrily play
The long night through; and then by day
We work, we delve in the ground below,
And make Earth’s fountains merrily flow.
We feed the fires, till the cold streams boil;
We spare no trouble, we spare no toil,
We make the dark pools bubble and hiss,
Till the waters leap up the trees to kiss,
With a roar, and a whirr, and a rush so high,
That the bright drops sparkle and dance in the sky,
Then fall with a soft tra la la! tra la la!
And we laugh as they fall, ha, ha! ha, ha!”

Then all the little gnomes, headed by Red Cap, their leader, jumped with merry shouts and laughter into the clear warm pool near by.

The children watched them for awhile, then Cis wandered off, picking up bits of petrified ferns and sticks out of a hot bubbling pool, and choice pieces of yellow sulphur, which, when broken off the steaming ground, showed myriads of sparkling crystals, and kind Santa Claus packed all her treasures in soft moss in a bag which he carried on his back.

Meanwhile, Hal envied the merry bathers, and as they called out to him to “come, too,” he quickly threw off his clothes and jumped into the little lake.