Good Advice from Invercargill

Thanks for your request for a contribution. I have been sitting, this wonderful spring morning, in an old-fashioned garden, hoping—but in vain—for the Muse to sing again after years of silence. Suspicions of colour can be felt in the English trees, the pussy-willow is a-hum with bees, and the silver poplars shower a cascade of tassels behind. There is a yellow blaze of daffodils on the sward below, terminating in a vasty sweep of rhododendrons, where precocious red buds are dotted here and there. Beyond, the cedar holds its ever-drooping leaves, the tall Lawsonianas sway their fern-like branches, and the clouds drift slowly past the background of pines. For the moment the world of mortgages and probates and writs is a thing apart.

There are many great joys of which I could write you—of the bivouac on the Hump, watching the sun rise over a sea of mist, with the Princess Mountains towering in pink glory above the whiteness; of a week's camping in the glades of Manapouri; of the mosses and lichens of the fairy-like track to Doubtful Sound; of the long arms of Te Anau; of the Milford track, with its miles of cascades, towering peaks, and rumbling glaciers; and of the mirrored waters of Milford and the greenstone of Anita Bay. But without the leisure I cannot do it justice, and can only advise your readers to come and tarry awhile in this beauty spot of New Zealand.