‘You’ve killed our friends, our best friends, our very dear friends!’ replied the sobbing molly-hawks; ‘we can never fly after your ships any more.’
At this point the tears came pattering down like rain, as if there had been a thunderstorm.
‘Be more explicit, companions of the pastures,’ yelled the big sheep through the trumpet. ‘We do not wish to lose your pleasant company.’
‘Why,’ said the molly-hawks, ‘the gentlemen you have been stringing up practised economy. They allowed the cooks to buy bad butter, so that the passengers would not eat the beefsteak-pies and pastry they made, which were therefore all thrown overboard to us. All the birds in the South Pacific knew this, and it can’t happen any more.’
Then they wept until the sheep had to put on their oilskin coats for fear of spoiling their uniforms.
The day after we left Gisborne, we steamed into Auckland. Auckland harbour is decidedly pretty, and well sheltered. On one side of it there is an island-like promontory, covered with volcanic cones and villas, and at one end are several batteries. Now that the batteries have been made, the Aucklanders feel that cruisers cannot lie off the town and dictate terms.
On the opposite side, where the steamers lie against the wharf, is the town. The ground on which it is built is irregular. Behind it rises Mount Eden, another old volcano. There are volcanic cones even in the town itself.
When you walk along a street in Auckland, you are as likely to find yourself climbing up an old volcanic slope as not. People live in volcanoes, sometimes even in their craters. You can hear people discussing the price of certain volcanoes.
‘You know, £4,000 is what I could give for little Pluto,’ says one man.
‘Well, I only wanted the crater,’ says another.