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. [Illustration] 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.