We had hardly lost sight of the land, when Polly’s capture gave birth to a kid.  This event was the most interesting thing that had happened on board for a great while, and the funny little visitor would have run great risk of being completely spoiled had he lived.  But, to our universal sorrow, the mother’s milk failed —­from want of green food, I suppose—­and we were obliged to kill the poor little chap to save him from being starved to death.  He made a savoury mess for some whose appetite for flesh-meat was stronger than any sentimental considerations.

To an ordinary trader, the distance between the Kermadecs and the Bay of Islands, New Zealand, roughly represents a couple of days’ sail; but to us, who were apparently incapable of hurry under any circumstances, it meant a good week’s bludgeoning the protesting waves before the grim outliers of the Three Kings came into view.  Even then, although the distance was a mere bagatelle, it was another two days before we arrived off that magnificent harbour where reposes the oldest township in New Zealand—­Russell, where rest the mortal remains of the first really Pakeha Maori, but which, for some unaccountable reason, is still left undeveloped and neglected, visited only by the wandering whalers (in ever-decreasing numbers) and an occasional trim, business-like, and gentlemanly man-o’-war, that, like a Guardsman strolling the West End in mufti, stalks the sea with never an item of her smart rig deviating by a shade from its proper set or sheer.

*

CHAPTER XXIV

THE BAY OF ISLANDS AND NEW ZEALAND COAST

In a comparative new colony like New Zealand, where the marvellous growth of the young state can be traced within living memory, from the privations of the pioneer to the fully developed city with all the machinery of our latest luxurious civilization, it is exceedingly interesting to note how the principal towns have sprung up arbitrarily, and without any heed to the intentions of the ruling powers.  The old-fashioned township of Kororarika, or Port Russell, is a case very much in point.  As we sailed in between the many islets from which the magnificent bay takes its name, for all appearances to the contrary, we might have been the first, discoverers.  Not a house, not a sail, not a boat, broke the loneliness and primeval look of the placid waters and the adjacent shores.  Not until we drew near the anchorage, and saw upon opening up the little town the straight-standing masts of three whale-ships, did anything appear to dispel the intense air of solitude overhanging the whole.  As we drew nearer, and rounded-to for mooring, I looked expectantly for some sign of enterprise on the part of the inhabitants—­some tradesman’s boat soliciting orders; some of the population on the beach (there was no sign of a pier), watching the visitor come to an anchor.  Not a bit of it.  The whole place seemed a maritime sleepy hollow, the dwellers in which had lost all interest in life, and had become far less energetic than the much-maligned Kanakas in their dreamy isles of summer.