out a 'by your leave,' gets out of patience at last with the froward sparrow, and dabs it on the sconce," elegantly, as if fencing in a court suit, but severely, as one who is master of his weapon.

So that the chaffinches, both Celebs and Colebs' wife, are selfrespecting persons, and, as all such should be, are respected. And when they combine to build a nest, and are themselves satisfied with their work, you may depend upon it that there is but little reason for disparagement. Their house beautiful" may be long in the building, but when built it is fit for lovers of their art to live in.

But enough of chaffinches. Let me tell you, indulgent reader, of the manner of the passing of Grey Rabbit.

Grey Rabbit was the oldest rabbit in the warren, and he had just waked up in the long cool grass of the meadow, where he had been lying with his ears shut up and laid along his back, and his nose between his fore-paws. It was too hot to go regularly to bed, one of those days, as he said, "when the bedclothes look as if they had been kicking about all night, and the pillow hasn't had a wink of sleep." So he was going to "lie out" where he was in the meadow. He had already scratched his head on both sides very carefully and sleepily, and had stretched himself out so long to yawn that he looked like a rabbit-skin, and he was just wondering whether he should go and have a light breakfast of carrot-tops in the garden close by, or stay and pick out the young clover growing amongst the hay, when & strange thing happened. Grey Rabbit heard a whirring noise at the bottom of the paddock. And it did not stop, but went on, whirr-rrDragon-flies overhead? Oh no, for there were men's voices talking to horses. And the noise grew fainter and fainter, and, just as Grey Rabbit felt sure it was gone altogether, it grew louder and louder and louder, and came closer and closer and closer. And he squatted down as flat as he could, and kept his ears quiet, and the Thing that whirred came past him.

Tr-rr.

He heard a man talking to horses quite plainly, but he saw nothing. Then the noise died away in the distance again, and Grey Rabbit scratched his head thoughtfully, wondered over the thing that had happened, and was just going to nibble off a tuft of young clover when-whirr-rr-rr-he heard the Thing coming again. And again the sound grew fainter, and again it grew louder, and came closer and closer and passed. And Grey Rabbit saw the top of a man go by: he was high up in the air and moved slowly past, whirring all the time. This was even more wonderful. Grey Rabbit had never, all the number of times that he had peeped out from among tall grass at men passing by, on foot, on horses and in carts, seen anything like this man who sat in the air and whirred as he went along. Never.

Just then Madam Pheasant came by with her head bent low. "Chuck!

chuck!" she said nervously, and ten gawky young pheasants, with all their heads down, followed at her tail.

"Whither away so fast?" said Grey Rabbit jauntily, as a man of the world who had seen things in his time, "is the sky falling?' "Chuck! chuck!" said the pheasant in an agitated, hurried way, and the last of the ten gawky youngsters disappeared from his

view.

Always was a silly old mollycoddle," said Grey Rabbit, taking a mouthful of grass just to assure himself that he was not getting nervous. "I wonder what she's in such a fright about?"

But he sat where he was. Experience had taught him in all previous dangers that sitting still until compelled to run was always the safest thing to do. And he heard the noise rising and falling far away, and then it came closer and grew louder, and the man in the air went by again. And this time Grey Rabbit thought he saw the top of a horse in front of the man.

But the Thing went away again just as before, and his spirits as before began to revive, and the larks came running through the grass past him.

"Whither away?" said he quite bravely, "is the sky falling?"

But the larks said nothing: they ran a little farther, chirping, so it seemed, very sadly, and then flew up into the sky, and Grey Rabbit saw them flying round and round, but neither of them was singing. "That's odd," thought he, "for the larks have a nest full of young ones near the edge of the meadow."

And whirr-rr-rr came the Thing again, and a young rabbit, nearly out of its wits with fright, came creeping along. And Grey Rabbit felt quite glad of the company even of so small a bunny. So he said, "Stop, stop, where are you going? What are you frightened at?" And the little one, who had great respect for the oldest inhabitant, stopped.

"Listen," it whispered. Whirr-rr-rr came the Thing.

"Oh!" said the old one, "that's nothing. I've heard it ever so often this morning, and though it comes it always goes away again. There's a man "-and he suddenly stopped. For this time he could see quite plainly there was а man sitting on something and driving two horses, who nodded their heads at every step. And Grey Rabbit could see that their manes and tails were long, and looked as if they had been bleached by sun and rain. He saw, too, that as the man passed, the hay between himself and the man grew much thinner: indeed, he could see now right across the meadow to the hedge. He heard, too, another sound that he had not heard before, a whispering, lisping sound in the grass that went by with the man.

66

There," said he to the small bunny, "I told you it would go

away. All you have to do is to lie quite quiet and do nothing, and things will go away-most of them."

And the small bunny thanked him gratefully, and seeing Grey Rabbit scratch his ear with a hind foot-just to show that he did not allow miraculous occurrences to make any difference in his ordinary conduct -took heart of grace and scratched its ear too.

So there they sate, the little rabbit in the shadow of its reverend relative, just behind the big one, and listened to the rising and falling of the sound in the ups and downs of the sloping meadow. And listening, they became aware that it was again coming up to them, and the whirr-rr grew louder and louder and louder. louder and louder and louder. The small rabbit could not, for the life of it, help sitting up just a little and looking at the Thing as it came along.

How slowly it moved! and the horses bobbed their heads at every step, and whisked their tails, and, strange to say, the hay, as the horses passed, bowed down and lay flat. The bunny could see that the meadow was all empty in front of it, and still the Thing came on, never changing the tone of its voice, and the horses bobbed at every step. It was very solemn, the little rabbit thought, and very exciting.

And Grey Rabbit saw everything, too, but besides the man and the horses he heard, coming along through the grass, the same hissing noise he had heard the last time. He could not understand it, but it was a very suspicious sound, and perplexed him. So he laid his ears flat along either side of his head and got his feet well up under him, so as to be ready to make his famous jump at the first sign of danger. And the hissing noise came nearer and nearer and nearer. How thin the grass was getting! how Something touched his fur! And the little bunny saw its great grandsire make a motion as of jumping when -blip!

Grey Rabbit's head went off all by itself! And the hay bowed down and lay flat, covering up its body.

And a great fear, out of all proportion to the size of its little person, seized upon the bunny and it fled. What had happened to Grey Rabbit it never knew, for before next hay-time it died from a sudden attack of Bang-Bang, and so it never had another chance of seeing a hay-making machine.

PHIL ROBINSON.

NEW ZEALAND.

HERE is, judging by what appears in the public journals, a great

social and legislative experiments we are making in the Australasian colonies-especially in New Zealand. It may happen, when what we have done is carefully analysed, that it will be seen that we have no new ideas to offer, but that we have only put into practice very old suggestions.

To understand our experiments, however, the point of view of colonists should be ascertained. Those who have lived in the colonies for over thirty years are struck with the changed view of colonial life which prevails to-day. In the olden days most immigrants came to the colony intending merely a temporary sojourn, and a return to the land of their birth when their fortunes were made. The institutions of the colony were regarded from that point of view. All this has changed. To more than half of our population New Zealand is the birthplace as well as the present home. And there has grown up a strong feeling that no country in the world equals New Zealand in all the elements that go to make for happiness. We are fast acquiring a national spirit and developing a local patriotism. There is, it is true, still a strong "Home-land" feeling, but perhaps that is waning. Not many more than one-fourth of our people have ever seen any part of the United Kingdom, and many of those who were born in England, Scotland, or Ireland were so young when they came to New Zealand that the "Home-land" is but a vague memory to them. They consider themselves as much New Zealanders as if they were native born. This change in the feelings of the people has altered the old point of view, and with that change have followed many other changes in our colonial life. Of course, England herself has changed.

The village life portrayed by Miss Mitford-or even by Charlotte Brontë is not, I suppose, the prevailing type of village life in England to-day. In the colonies we seem to be drifting further and further apart from the ways of our Mother-land. This may be seen in many directions. Even our language is becoming a distinct type. We use words not used in England, and others in a sense different from English usage. And the pronunciation of our youths is characteristic. If a stranger were to pass down the streets of Wellington or Auckland, and to listen to the ordinary conversation of our youths, he would realise that he was not in an English, Scotch, or Irish town. Nor do we speak as the Americans or Canadians speak, but we are rapidly developing a variety of the English tongue all our own. Our life, also, must be on somewhat different lines from life in England, though, no doubt, it has much in common with it. I judge that there is a considerable difference, from what I learn from those who have recently visited the Home-land, and from the perusal of English books, journals, and newspapers. Our physical environment is considerably different. We have more sunshine and no severe winter. Frost and snow are practically unknown on the seacoast of the North Island, and even in the South Island the winters are mild compared with those of Southern England. The eyes of the English people do not, however, seem to be turned to the climatic and physical advantages of our life. Social reformers and philanthropists are discussing certain legislative or governmental experiments that we have made and are making, and these seem to be the cause of more debate and discussion in Britain than in New Zealand. We take them as a phase of the necessary evolution of our life. One law for the reform of social abuses has succeeded another, and we did not know that we were making ourselves famous till some able men in London discovered it and told us. Can our experiments, or the reasons why we have made them, be even appreciated if our point of view is not clearly understood?

There are two experiments, if I may so call them (though we ourselves hardly consider that they are experiments), which may illustrate our colonial point of view. The one dealing with Labour, and the other with the attitude of the State towards the Church, will show our view of the functions of the Government, and will serve as a key to explain the principles which guide us. Government is, to us, a powerful institution as powerful as the Tsar appears to be to his subjects—and it is considered to be benign. The socialistic wave has reached us, and has affected us. And, although we have not any socialistic societies, nor any community-settlements, we appeal to the Government whenever a social wrong is proved to exist to redress it. Is there anything, we ask, which the State cannot set right? And the reply to our query is, Nothing. Our labour laws are a product of