“They, no doubt, thought we were spirits,” answered Santa Claus; “Maories are very much afraid of their dead grandfathers and grandmothers,” added he, laughing.
“I wonder why that is,” said Hal, “I should have thought they would be glad to see the people again who are kind and good, as grandfathers and grandmothers always are.”
By this time they had gone some little distance past the whare, and at the bottom of the hill they came to a narrow valley,[14] the sides of which were clad with a luxuriant growth of feathery manuka, so white with its numberless small blossoms, that in the faint light that comes before the summer dawn, the valley looked as though a snowstorm had passed over it. From hidden places amongst the shrubs, thick curling steam arose, now hiding the trees and bushes, and even veiling the faint stars above for a few seconds, then melting into thin air, leaving a warm dripping moisture on everything around. Mysterious hissing noises filled the air, and ever and anon the earth shook as though with fear.
The wondering, half-frightened children, tightly clasping each other’s hands, followed Santa Claus along the steep, zig-zag path that led down to the bottom of the valley; then, feeling the ground warm beneath her feet, little Cis said, “I am so frightened, Mr. Santa Claus, please may we go back?”
“Yes, I think we ought to go back,” added Hal, “for it must be getting near breakfast-time now.”
“Do not be afraid, children, I will take care of you,” replied Santa Claus, “and I have such wonderful things to show you.”
Reassured by his kind voice, the children followed, keeping close together; Hal, with one arm round Cis, and with the other holding the Star of Love high above their heads, as they followed the path to the bottom of the valley. There they saw a stream rippling along; clear as crystal were its waters, and its banks covered with drooping ferns and tender mosses. Little Cis, stooping to gather some of the ferns, dipped her hand into a pool of water near by, and cried out, “Why, Hal, it’s quite hot!”
Yes, hot it was, and the steam itself still hotter, while amid the bushes, countless merry little springs bubbled up, boiling, from basins of yellow and pink stone.
“Why, it smells exactly like lucifer matches,—do they make them here, Mr. Santa Claus?” asked Hal, looking at the bright yellow sulphur on the ground.
“No,” laughed Santa Claus, “but I think they might.”