A few miles after starting we passed close to a place called Onehunga, where there are some large works for the conversion of iron-sand into iron. The sand is collected on the sea-shore, then dried, and passed through a magnetic arrangement by which the black sand is separated from earthy impurities with which it may be mixed. Next it is mixed with charcoal and deoxidized in retorts. From the retorts, where it ought not to come in contact with the air, it is passed into reverberatory furnaces, where it is puddled and made into blooms. After this it passes through shingling machines, steam-hammers, and rolls, as in ordinary ironworks.
On the beach where the ore occurs, an old Maori cooking-stove was turned up. The method of cooking was to heat stones, which were then put into a small pit and covered with a few ferns. The food was placed on the ferns, and after being moistened to cause the generation of steam, the whole was closed in with more ferns and a cloth, and allowed to sweat.
Eight or nine human skeletons gave a clear idea of the nature of the joints. At one time Maoris were in great force about Auckland. This is indicated by the remains of many old fortifications or Pahs.
The top of Mount Eden is terraced and embanked all round its summit with the remains of such fortifications. The number of old shell-heaps or kitchen-middens which cover the mountain also points to a former population.
For sixteen miles or so, we ran along between green fields and green volcanic cones. Here and there moss-covered black stones indicated the line of a lava stream. Many of the fields were walled with blocks of lava, whilst the line on which we ran was ballasted for miles with volcanic ash and scoria. At Mercer we struck the Waikata River, and the country became undulating and swampy. Parts of it were covered with Ti bush, and the whole looked like a brown moorland.
Our average rate of travelling was about ten miles an hour, a pace which might have delighted Stephenson, but which we found tedious. When we arrived in Wonderland, as the lake country is called, our companion wished us to go some 120 miles in the bush to interview the Maori king, to whom he kindly offered a letter of introduction. As Mac and I didn’t hanker after copper-coloured royalty, we politely declined the invitation. The reason that the lake district is called Wonderland is on account of visitors wondering why they were ever induced to pay it a visit.
At one of the small stations an untidy little man, with a shock head, a fuzzy beard, and a pair of spectacles, joined us.
‘One of our traffic managers,’ whispered our Maori-speaking friend; ‘I’ll have a talk to him.’
‘Good-morning, Mr. Smith,’ said Maori.
‘Good-morning, good-morning, Mr. Maori,’ was Mr. Smith’s reply.