Evening-heralding snow on the Ranges.

The lake waters are dark and forbidding in aspect, and white teeth show where the reef runs out from the point of the bay. The hills in the distance, the island and the cliffs, far and near, stand out like etchings.

The uneven blue of the Kaimanawhas, show bleak in the evening light. The masses of grey cloud and mist that rest low on them, and the snow capped volcanoes, half an hour before had been glowing pink and gold against a sunset sky of blue and primrose. A “bite” in the air notifies that winter still holds a weakening sway—Watchman, what of the morrow?

The morrow—Taupo in a snowy mood. Raging water, green rollers thundering on the beaches, spray far-flung into ti-tree and tussock, sleety snow-showers on a howling wind, clouds heavy and black with streaming edges, others shredded into wee grey wisps driving pell-mell across the sky.

Wonderful—the air, so full of turmoil, yet seems so pure and strengthening, that in place of shrinking away, one takes a real delight in standing “four-square” to the gale; though the hair crackles, and clothing seems to turn to ice. Ever and anon, the bleak pall over range and mountain seems to divide and a rift of blue-green sky appears, at times a ray of sunshine.