Little New Zealanders run about with very little on, as a general thing, but they all have cloaks—­they call them “mats.”  Their mother sits on the ground with a little weaving frame about two feet high before her, and makes them of what is called New Zealand flax.  The long threads hang down in rows of fringes, one over the other, and shine like silk.  They have also water-proofs, or “rain-mats,” made of long polished leaves that shed the water.  When a little New Zealand girl pulls this over her head she does not mind any shower.  You may see a circle of these funny objects sitting in the pelting rain, talking to each other and looking just like tiny haystacks.

New Zealand children have, strange to say, many toys.  They swim like ducks, and, as I have said, revel in the natural hot baths, where they will sit and talk by the hour.  In fact, the life of a New Zealand child is full of occupation, and both girls and boys are bright, light-hearted, and intelligent.

The Breeze from the Peak.

A stiff Sea Breeze was having the wildest, merriest time, rocking the sailboats and fluttering the sails, chasing the breakers far up the beach, sending the fleecy cloudsails scudding across the blue ocean above, making old ocean roar with delight at its mad pranks, while all the little wavelets dimpled with laughter; the Cedar family on the shore, old and rheumatic as they were, laughed till their sides ached, and the children shouted and cheered upon the beach.  How fresh and strong and life-giving it was.  The children wondered why it was so jolly, but never guessed the reason; and its song was so wonderfully sweet, but only the waves understood the words of the wild, strange melody.

“I have come,” it sang, “from a land far across the water.  My home was on the mountain top, high up among the clouds.  Such a white, white world as it was!  The mountain peak hooded in snow-ermine, and the gray-white clouds floating all around me; and it was so very still; my voice, the only sound to be heard, and that was strange and muffled.  But though the fluffy clouds were so silent, they were gay companions and full of fun; let them find me napping once, and, puff!  Down they would send the feathery snow, choking and blinding me, then would come a wild chase; once in a mad frolic my breath parted the clouds and I saw down the mountain side!  Never shall I forget the picture I saw that day, framed by the silvery clouds.  I, who had known nothing but that pale stillness and bitter cold, for the first time saw life and color, and a shimmering, golden light, resting on tree and river and valley farm; do you wonder I forgot the mountain peak, the clouds—­everything that was behind, and, without even a last farewell, spread my wings and flew swiftly down the mountain side?  Very soon I was far below that snowy cloud world, with a bright blue sky above me, and patches of red gravel and green moss and gray lichens beneath.  Once I stopped to rest upon a great rock, moss-covered, and with curling ferns at its base; from its side flowed a crystal spring, so clear and cool that I caught up all I could carry to refresh me on my journey; but it assured me I need not take that trouble, for it was also on its way down the mountain side.