little shipping in the harbor. The red roofs of the town and smaller cottages clinging to the knolls and shoulders of the hills promised from a distance a beauty which was not realized upon closer acquaintance. It was a typical New Zealand winter's day according to the New Zealanders who were travelling with us. The air and the temperature reminded me of Martha's Vineyard in early February. We went ashore as soon as the boat docked and walked up the deserted main street. The rules for Sunday con- duct are very strict in New Zealand. The cinema houses are closed. All sorts of sports and other diversions are forbidden. Consequently a number of the soap box Bolsheviks get up in the public places and have their say. They speak on everything from the evils of the government to the proper interpretation of hell in the Bible. In the region of the piers and dockyards we saw a number of these men. They spoke with a mania and pre- cipitated jeers and cries of assent and dissent from their audiences. As there was nothing else to do we wandered up to the Grand Hotel and put our names down for the evening meal. It turned out to be a surprisingly good one, one of the best meals I have ever eaten. Maybe all the well- meaning Auckland citizens, sorry for the infinite boredom that their city offers the visitor on Sundays, combine to make it up to him partially by planning that evening meal at the Grand. We walked through the town after dinner and saw a number of the population who were thronging