and rocks of its cold streams and dripping mountain gorges. Nature did not furnish New Zealand much better with fresh-water fish than with quadrupeds: her allowance of both was curiously scanty. A worthless little bull-trout was the most common fish, and that white men found uneatable, though the Maoris made of it a staple article of diet. Large eels, indeed, are found in both lakes and rivers, and where they live in clear, clean, running water, are good food enough; but the excellent whitebait and smelts which go up the tidal rivers can scarcely be termed dwellers in fresh water; and for the rest, the fresh waters used to yield nothing but small crayfish. Here our acclimatisers had a fair field before them, and their efforts to stock it have been on the whole successful, though the success has been chequered. For fifty years they have striven to introduce the salmon, taking much care and thought, and spending many thousands of pounds on repeated experiments; but the salmon will not thrive in the southern rivers. The young, when hatched out and turned adrift, make their way down to the sea, but never return themselves. Many legends are current of their misadventures in salt water. They are said, for instance, to be pursued and devoured by the big barracouta, so well known to deep-sea fishermen in the southern ocean. But every explanation of the disappearance of the young salmon still lacks proof. The fact is undoubted, but its cause may be classed with certain other fishy mysteries of our coast. Why, for instance, does that delectable creature the frost-fish cast itself up on our beaches in the coldest weather, committing suicide for the pleasure of our _gourmets_? Why does that cream-coloured playfellow of our coasters, Pelorus Jack, dart out to frolic round the bows of steamships as they run through the French Pass? [Illustration: AT THE HEAD OF LAKE WAKATIPU]