Now and again, in dry, windy summers, the forest turns upon its destroyers and takes revenge. Dying, it involves their works and possessions in its own fiery death. A bush-fire is a fine sight when seen on windy nights, burning whole hill-sides, crawling slowly to windward, or rushing with the wind in leaping tongues and flakes that fly above the tree-tops. The roar, as of a mighty gale, the spouting and whirling of golden sparks, the hissing of sap and resin, and the glowing heat that may be felt a mile away, join grandly in furious energy. Nothing can be finer than the spectacle, just as nothing can be more dreary than the resulting ruin. A piece of bush accidentally burned has no touch of dignity in its wreck. It becomes merely an ugly and hateful jumble, begrimed, untidy, and unserviceable. A tract that has been cut down and fired deliberately is in a better case. Something more like a clean sweep has been made, and the young grass sprouting up gives promise of a better day. But bush through which fire has run too quickly is often spoiled as forest, without becoming of use to the farmer. The best that can be done when trees are thus scorched is for the saw-miller to pick out the larger timber and separate with his machinery the sound inside from the burned envelope. This he does skilfully enough, and much good wood--especially kauri--is thus saved. The simple-minded settler when selling scorched timber sometimes tries to charge for sound and injured portions alike; but the average saw-miller is a man of experience. [Illustration: TAREI-PO-KIORE] As I have said, fire sometimes sweeps down upon the forest’s enemies and carries all before it: saw-mills and their out-buildings are made into bonfires, and the stacks of sawn planks and litter of chips and sawdust help the blaze. The owner and his men are lucky if they save more than their portable belongings. Nor does the fire stop there. After making a mouthful of mills and woodcutters’ huts, it may set out for some small township not yet clear of stumps, dead trunks, and inflammable trash. All depends upon the wind. If the flames are being borne along upon the wings of a strong north-west wind--the “regular howling nor’-wester” of up-country vernacular--very little can be done except to take to flight, driving live-stock, and taking such furniture as can be piled on carts and driven away. Fences, house, machinery, garden, and miles of grass may be swept away in a few hours, the labour of half a lifetime may be consumed, and the burnt-out settler may be thankful if the Government comes to his aid with a loan to enable him to buy grass seed to scatter on his blackened acres after the long-desired rains have come.