Here is the old flood, spouting and streaming as of yore, through the basalt pillars.

There stand the three fern trees, too, above the dark scrub on the island.

Now up the rock bank, and away across the breezy plains due North.
Brushing through the long grass tussocks, he goes his way singing, his dog Rover careering joyously before him.

The horse is clearly for a gallop, but it is too hot to-day.

The tall flat-topped volcanic hill which hung before him like a grey faint cloud, when he started, now rears its fluted columns overhead, and now is getting dim again behind him.