camp on the Saddle Hill Range, near Dunedin, we, as was our custom, let the riding-horses and pack-horse go among the cattle, to save them for the more severe work of returning after any beast which might stray on the back-track during the night, and because, our rate of travelling being slow, we were as well on foot. There was snow on the ground, and during the day we passed a miniature snow-hut, where lately a man and woman, having their horses bogged, had managed to exist through a stormy night. In fact, some person had lately found the lady's horse (presumably dead), and placed the side-saddle on a cairn of stones, with a paper attached asking that we take it on to the first house at the foot of Saddle Hill. Many cairns of stones were erected to direct the traveller round the bogs, but in our own case we omitted to notice a cairn at an angle, and, making a straight line to the cairn beyond, went into the morass, and lost some hours extricating the pack-horse, &c.

But to return to my proper subject. The three of us commenced to collect the cattle and drive them forward, we being on foot, when one of us was chased some distance by a wild cow that had become separated from her calf. This cow returning to the herd, we got the cattle moving in the right direction, but soon were chased by other cows, I having to flee to a cairn of stones in great fear and haste. It became evident that about twenty wild cows and a large wild bull had got into our mob. Being unable to get our riding-horses from amongst the cattle on account of these fierce cows, we seemed to have quite lost command of the situation. Presently the bull galloped down the sloping ground towards the forest (possibly above Blueskin), followed by the other wild animals, and with some twenty of our biggest steers following madly after. I was, as you may suppose, transfixed with horror at the sight, but started my sheep-dog Maori after them, and he actually ran in behind the wild cattle and luckily succeeded in checking the leaders of our mob till we came to his assistance. This action of the dog surely showed his great sagacity, and is well worthy of record.

In the great forest extending, till lately, some seventy miles in unbroken line on the south of Hawke's Bay and northern part of the Wellington Province many wild cattle have been killed, and noting those which I have seen, which resembled shorthorn cattle, it was evident that many showed the inclination to breed a black colour. I saw among ordinary colours some black-and-white cows, and dark-red-brown and brindled bulls—one cow a beautiful light-yellow and white patches. On questioning others who have hunted these cattle, they all agree that they incline to a darker or black colour among individuals of those seen. These cattle

feed on the leaves of certain small trees and shrubs, and have the peculiar habit of forcing even those about 7 in. in diameter at the butt to the ground by use of their horns, but more especially by breasting them down. At one place I noticed several acres of an area having every small tree laid over and mostly on the ground, this being all done by wild bulls breasting them down.

Tame cattle escaping to the forest at once become exceedingly timid and cunning. At one time in Otago I lost for some time a pair of barren cows which were leaders in my team of working bullocks, and could not find them high or low; but one day, when looking across the mountain valley (some mile in width), something curious was noticed below a tree at the edge of a small birch forest (Fagus, sp.), which on examination with a glass proved to be the face of Chloe, the smaller of the two cows. The face was then withdrawn and seen no more, but on going to this place next day I saw evidence that the two cows had been in hiding actually within a mile of my house, but being cunning, and remaining among the trees, never coming out on the grass land, except possibly after dark, had remained undiscovered.

The deep-voiced bellowing of a wild bull in the forest is something quite tragic, the boo'a, boo'a, bo, sometimes beginning in deep bass and ending in a shrill trumpet-sound. With three companions I was once travelling through the forest when we heard these deep resounding calls, giving the information that an old bull on the war-path was ascending the sloping hillside and approaching our position. The younger of the party, whose turn it was for next shot, carried the carbine, and so was expected to keep valiantly to the front. I myself was bringing up the rear, and must confess that as these deep roarings came nearer, and seemed to vibrate along the ground from no particular direction, the idea of seeking a safe harbour became predominant, so, rushing off to a large rata-tree, and then peeping from behind the tree-butt to see how the battle waged, I was surprised to see nothing of my two friends, whilst the third was seen hanging to the bough of a tree, and the carbine had fallen to the ground. One of the others (a surveyor) ran for the carbine, and took a hurried shot, causing the bull to retreat hurriedly, without my seeing what sort of an animal he was.

One can well suppose on hearing such sounds that the name “bull” is compounded of bo, the call or sound, and the root-word of Latin ul-are, to howl—as we also see in Latin ul, ul, a, an owl; also in our words howl and owl—vulgar English, ullet, the screech-owl. The bellowing of some dozen steers or young oxen, heard at midnight when trampling round and pawing up the earth about a bullock-hide which.

was pegged out to dry, once gave me a start; the united concert was truly diabolical.

Cattle will also congregate about a spot where blood has been spilt, or an animal killed, becoming quite mad in actions and bellowings; they are also dangerous to the wounded of their own kind, or to cows when calving. A cow with freedom to roam will, when calving, wander to a distance, and then hide the young calf in some concealment, herself feeding apart, but coming at times slyly to attend to the calf. It is not exactly safe for any person to come accidentally on this hiding-place.

Where domestic cattle are allowed to roam in large herds the bulls for a part of the year will leave the herd, and then three or more bulls may be found amicably associated together, notwithstanding their deadly hatred of each other at other seasons. This habit of the males becoming a bachelor party is also common to the sheep and goat, and may be taken as a good instance or proof that all three animals are descended from the same far-away ancestors. In fighting bulls decide a battle mainly by pushing with their heads locked together, rather than by goring with the horn; yet the vanquished when in flight may receive stabs if too exhausted to make a speedy retreat. I once saw the hunted bull run into at a right angle, lifted completely off his feet, and hurled down a steep terrace, which terrace had prevented his escape in a direct line.

Old bulls kept in paddocks (fields) often become very expert in lifting gates from their hinges when they wish to roam about. I had three generations of white bulls, all of whom learned this trick in their third year, when I used them in the bullock team as “polers,” and so gave them more travelling than they desired. This would seem an instance of inherited instinct.

About the year 1860, when I was living near the headwaters of the Oreti, or New River, and the surrounding country was as yet unknown to the pioneer settler or surveyor, Messrs. David McKellar and Gunn, neighbouring sheep-farmers, came to my log-and-thatched dwelling and stayed the night with me. They proposed to endeavour to find a way through or over the mountains westward to Martin's Bay, between the Mavora Lakes and head-waters of the Greenstone River. As I had already found a way to the northern end of the Mavora Valley, I agreed to pilot them thus far, wishing to explore the valley in search of stray cattle. These gentlemen did not reach the West Coast, but their journey is recorded in our maps by the names of Lake McKellar and Lake Gunn. We camped the first night at the head of Mavora Valley, near a small lagoon. The following

morning we separated, I following down the valley in the direction of the lakes, where I found about fifteen head of mixed cattle and one small calf. These I captured, and journeyed on along the west side of the lakes, and presently found the steep hillsides covered with “wild Irishman” (Maori, tamatakoura) and thick layers of dead grasses, the accumulation of many years, for the white man's fire had not yet roared along the mountain-side. A narrow belt of small shingle by the edge of the lake gave me a fair road till well along the side of the second or lower lake, when I noticed a single birch-tree (beach) branching low over the water, and also that the cattle, on going further out to get beyond the lower branch, were swimming, having gone over the edge of a sunken terrace into deep water. (This sudden deepening of the lake in terraces is a common peculiarity of most New Zealand lakes.) Thinking that with great care I might steer my horse round the tree without slipping into deep water, I followed on, but soon had my horse swimming, and he would persist in going under the bough, which then came directly across my chest. Hanging on by one hand to the saddle I kept the horse from progressing, but was unable to turn him outward beyond the bough. Finding my efforts fruitless, the only alternative was for me to turn a half-somersault over his tail, and sink to the bottom, some 10 ft. On coming up I followed my horse under the bough, and went along some distance further, where the precipitous rocks of the mountains reached out to the deep water. Seeing this I sent my dog Maori to turn the cattle back, keeping out of the way myself by standing among the prickly shrubs; but instead of turning back the cattle swam out into the lake, where I at once lost sight of their bobbing heads, for it was now the dusk of the evening. For a time their hard breathing was heard, and then no sound. After a while they were heard again, and I congratulated myself, thinking they were swimming ashore again; but no, all again were lost to hearing, and, as it was now almost dark, I felt considerably dejected, thinking of my drowning cattle. This, if I am not mistaken, was in the month of May, and as the nights were liable to be frosty I did not know how I should pass the night. My matches were wet, as also my clothing and my one blanket. No food, no fire. Collecting a large heap of the grass that was lying around as it had died—perhaps years ago, for the living grass grew in a straggling way up through this hay-like substance—I took off my wet clothing, and with some excusable shrinking put on my waterproof overcoat and crawled under the pigs' bed of dead grass. In the morning frost was on my clothing, so I waited for the sun to warm things up a bit before donning the wet