the apple, but the railroads in Tasmania and England, the merchants who handle it at both ends of the route, the sailors who manage the vessel, the miners who dig the coal which makes the steam, as well as some others who have more or less to do with it before it is sold for the English boy's pennies. This could not be done were not millions of other apples shipped the same way, and vast quantities of goods made in England and sent back in exchange. This is one of the wonders of commerce.

W

IO. NEW ZEALAND

E are in our first great storm at sea. We had some heavy winds about southern Australia, and we thought it rough while crossing Bass Strait, but we have had nothing like this. We are now in the Roaring Forties, a part of the ocean so called from its terrible storms. Our ship has been rolling about ever since we left Hobart four days ago, and here, at the southern end of New Zealand, the water is rougher than ever. We hold to the rail, and bend to and fro to balance ourselves as we walk. When we sit, our chairs must be tied to keep them from sliding, and at every meal wooden racks are placed on the tables that our plates may not slide into our laps. Now and then our coffee spills as we try to drink it, and when the ship pitches, a spray from our soup plates sometimes spatters our neighbors.

And still the ocean is grand! The sea, green from its shallow depth at this place, is rolling vast waves to and fro. Whitecaps are everywhere. We are rising and

falling upon green hills dotted with foam and blanketed in places with white. Great billows are chasing one another like race horses over the roads of the ocean; they roar with the thunder of a thousand Niagaras.

Now the waves meet, and the foam dashes up in a spray which the sun catches and turns into rainbows. The sun is low in the heavens, making the rainbows extend straight out from the ship. They are so close that we can almost wash our fingers in them. They come and they go; they dance in and dance out; they ride as it were on the crest of the waves; they shine a moment and then give place to others.

How the ship struggles and creaks! The timbers seem to be breaking as we strain our way onward. Now the clouds have swallowed the sun, and we are enveloped in mist. The fog horn blows every few minutes. Suppose we should have a collision and go down in this cold, awful storm!

Now it is night. The wind has increased, and the rolling is greater than ever. We tie our trunks fast in the cabins, and hold tight to keep from being thrown from our berths. We are tossed about all night, but the ship struggles onward. At last morning breaks, the sea is quieter, the motion decreases, and finally there is none at all. We spring out of bed and look through the portholes. We are at anchor in the harbor of Bluff at the southern end of New Zealand.

Before going ashore, let us glance at the map to see where we are. We are southeast of Tasmania, so far away that our steamer has taken almost five days to reach here. We are more than twelve hundred miles from Aus

tralia, and it would take the greater part of a week to sail back to Sydney.

New Zealand, although its people are English and much like the Australians, is a country of itself, with its own government and its own peculiarities.

It is an archipel

ago of two large islands and many small ones.

The chief

part of the group is like a great boot, with the sole turned toward the Equator and the toes toward Australia. It consists of North Island, South Island, and Stewart Island. North Island is the foot of the boot, South Island its leg, and little Stewart Island, opposite where we now are, is the loop through which one puts his finger to pull the boot on.

This boot is about as long as the distance from New York to Chicago, and in one place its width is almost equal to the distance from New York to Boston. North Island

is a little larger than Ohio, South Island is larger than Michigan, and Stewart Island one third as large as Delaware. All are mountainous. North Island has active volcanoes, hot springs, and geysers like those of Yellowstone Park, and in South Island are the Southern Alps, which are grander in some respects than the mountains of Switzerland. The higher peaks are clad in perpetual

Mitre Peak rises almost precipitously above it."

snow, and on the slopes are glaciers grander than those of Mont Blanc. The Tasman Glacier is so big that if it stood on a plain, it would make a wall of ice higher than the highest church steeple, a mile wide and eighteen miles long. The mountains have green woods to the snow line. The glaciers extend through the woods almost to the sea, and when the sun shines upon them, they make you think of great streams of silver incrusted with diamonds.