The Waimakiriri is the next river to the
northward of the Rakaia.
That night we camped as before, only I was more knowing, and slept with
my clothes on, and found a hollow for my hip-bone, by which contrivances
I slept like a top. Next morning, at early dawn, the scene was most
magnificent. The mountains were pale as ghosts, and almost sickening
from their death-like whiteness. We gazed at them for a moment or two,
and then turned to making a fire, which in the cold frosty morning was
not unpleasant. Shortly afterwards we were again en route for the
station from which we had started. We burnt the flats as we rode down,
and made a smoke which was noticed between fifty and sixty miles off. I
have seen no grander sight than the fire upon a country which has never
before been burnt, and on which there is a large quantity of Irishman.
The sun soon loses all brightness, and looks as though seen through
smoked glass. The volumes of smoke are something that must be seen to
be appreciated. The flames roar, and the grass crackles, and every now
and then a glorious lurid flare marks the ignition of an Irishman; his
dry thorns blaze fiercely for a minute or so, and then the fire leaves
him, charred and blackened for ever.
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