have been found ere now stranded on distant beaches after a voyage of several hundred miles. Like axemen and log-rollers, the river hands who look after dams and floating logs have their accidents and hairbreadth escapes. They have to trust to courage and to an amphibious dexterity, of which they exhibit an ample share. Watch a man standing upright on a log huge enough to be a mast, and poling it along as though it were a punt. That looks easier than it is. But watch the same man without any pole controlling a rolling log and steering it with feet alone. That does not even look easy. Some years ago, it is said, a mill hand, when opening a dam in a rain-storm, fell into the flood and was swept down among the released timber. Amid the crash of tumbling logs he was carried over the dam and over a waterfall farther down stream. Yet he reached the bank with no worse injury than a broken wrist! I tell the tale as it was printed in an Auckland newspaper. CHAPTER V FIRE AND WATER A long time ago, that is to say, in the twilight of Maori tradition, the chief Ngatoro and his wife, attended by a slave, landed on the shores of the Bay of Plenty. Thence they wandered inland through forests and over ferny downs, reaching at last a great central lake, beyond which high mountains stood sentry in the very heart of the island. One of these snow-clad summits they resolved to gain; but half-way on the climb the slave fell ill of sheer cold. Then the chief bethought him that in the Bay of Plenty he had noticed an island steaming and smoking, boiling with heat. Hot coals brought thence might warm the party and save the slave’s life. So Ngatoro, who was magician as well as chieftain, looked eastward and made incantations; and soon the fire rushing through the air fell at his feet. Another more prosaic version of the tale says that, Maori fashion, the kind-hearted hero despatched a messenger to bring the fire; he sent his wife. She, traversing land and sea at full speed, was soon back from White Island with a calabash full of glowing embers. From this, as she hurried along, sparks dropped here and there on her track. And wherever these fell the earth caught fire, hot springs bubbled up, and steam-jets burst through the fern. All her haste, however, went for nought; the slave died. Furious at his loss, her lord and master flung the red embers down one of the craters of Mount Tongariro, and from that day to this the mountains of Taupo have been filled with volcanic fires, smouldering or breaking out in eruption.[1] Such is one of the many legends which have grown up round the lakes and summits of the most famous volcanic province of New Zealand. It indicates the Maori understanding that the high cones south-west of Lake Taupo are one end of a chain of volcanic forces, and that the other end is White Island (Whaka-ari), the isolated crater which lifts its head above the sea twenty-seven miles out in the wide Bay of Plenty. It is a natural sulphur factory.