The Maori Dog.--A Romantic Island.--Sinking of a Maori Fort.--Volcanic Destruction.--A Country of Boiling Springs.--Idleness.--A Lazy Race of Savages.--Native Religion.--A Fitful Geyser.--Sophia, the Famous Guide.--A Funeral Dance.--The "Haka" Performance.--Maori Improvidence.--Rubbing Noses.--Native Babies.--Church-Going and Card-Playing.--The King's Country.--Eloquent Aborigines.--A Sanitarium.--Sulphur Point.--Future of New Zealand.
The funeral wailings of the natives during the day were not sufficient to fill the measure of uncanny noise; so at night--those wonderfully bright moonlight nights!--the dogs seemed to feel it incumbent upon them to take up the refrain, and they howled frightfully by the hour together. The Maori dog is quite different from any other specimen of the canine race; he is a mongrel of decidedly conglomerate character,--the most remarkable fact about these creatures being that no two of them are at all alike, or seemingly of the same breed. Why the Maoris keep these dogs we cannot conceive; they certainly have no food to spare for them, and the poor creatures look nearly starved with their thin bodies and protruding ribs. At Ohinemutu every cabin had at least one dog, and frequently three or four of these animals were seen lying before the entrance. They rushed out and barked fiercely at the passing stranger, but there the hostile demonstration ended. Dogs are not more numerous, in proportion to the population, in Cairo or Constantinople, nor more neglected, than here. We suggested to one of the half-castes that it would be possible to utilize these animals for food, but he shook his head knowingly and said, "No, no; him got no meat on him bones." Their pigs run wild, and feed themselves on fern-roots and sweet weeds; but their dogs, not being herbivorous, fare hardly for food.
Unable to sleep on account of these canine disturbers of the night, we rose long before daylight on the third day of our visit to Ohinemutu, and awaking a couple of natives, took a row-boat over to the island of Mokoia, which is situated about four miles from the mainland, toward the centre of Lake Rotorua. This island is itself a sleeping volcano, lying now placidly enough upon the bosom of the waters, but originally thrown up from the bottom of the lake in some past century. Though the natives evidently thought us crazy to abandon a comfortable bed at such an hour, we only gave them the necessary direction and sat down quietly in the stern of the boat. It was just sunrise as a landing was effected on the island, when a sight was enjoyed which had not been anticipated. As the monarch of day showed his face above the volcanic hills, the effect was superb. Mokoia is a well-wooded island, and on the side farthest from Ohinemutu there is some level fertile land occupied by natives; indeed, there is here quite a Maori village. It was once a favorite missionary station, but as such was long ago abandoned. It is a sort of second edition of the villages lying about the Lake House on the mainland. When the missionaries were here they planted fruit-trees, which are still thriving and annually productive of pears, apples, peaches, and the like. One of the boatmen spoke English after the Maori fashion, and wanted to relate the love-story of the island, the Hinemoa legend; but we knew it already. We did listen, however, to the story of the blood-thirsty chief Hongi, who came hither when Mokoia was the stronghold of a prosperous tribe, and putting them to the sword, killed one half and more in a terrible hand-to-hand fight; after which he and his followers feasted on their bodies for weeks. We got back to the Lake House by mid-day.