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.

A SOUTHERN CROSS FAIRY TALE.

Bell-Bird.

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.

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

[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.

“Take that,” said Santa Claus: “it will give you light in the darkest places.”

[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:—

The Song of the Carp.

“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.”

“We’re sorry we’re so big,” said Hal.

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.

Kiwi.

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.

Parson-bird or Tui.

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.

Pied Fantail.

“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!”

Brown Owl or More-pork.

“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.