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Updated: May 18, 2025
On a certain bright but cold Wednesday afternoon, F and I and our modest luggage started in a neighbour's "trap" for the station I have already mentioned on the Horarata, where Mr. C. H and I stopped on our way to Lake Coleridge. It is on the plains at the foot of a low range of downs, and about twelve miles from us.
She was only a grey Dorking hen, but no heroine in fact or fiction, no Lady Rachel Russell or Fleurange, ever exceeded Kitty in unswerving devotion to a beloved object, or rather objects. To see Kitty was to admire her, at least as I saw her one beautiful spring evening in a grassy paddock on the banks of the Horarata.
We made our first stage at the ever-hospitable station of the C 's, on the Horarata, but we could not remain to luncheon, as they wished, having to push on further; and, as it turned out, it was most fortunate we took advantage of the first part of the day to get over the ground between us and our destination, for the gentle breeze which had been blowing since we started gradually freshened into a tremendous "nor'-wester," right in our teeth all the rest of our way.
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