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Title: Station Amusements

Author: Lady Barker

Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5992]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on October 9, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STATION AMUSEMENTS ***




Produced by P J Riddick







STATION AMUSEMENTS IN NEW ZEALAND

by

Lady Barker



Preface.


The interest shown by the public in the simple and true account of
every-day life in New Zealand, published by the author three years
ago, has encouraged her to enlarge upon the theme.  This volume is
but a continuation of "Station Life," with this difference: that
whereas that little book dwelt somewhat upon practical matters,
these pages are entirely devoted to reminiscences of the idler hours
of a settler's life.

Many readers have friends and relations out in those beautiful
distant islands, and though her book should possess no wider
interest, the author hopes that these at least will care to know
exactly what sort of life their absent dear ones are leading.  One
thing is certain: that few books can ever have afforded so much
pleasure to their authors, or can have appeared more completely to
write themselves, than "Station Life," and this, its sequel.
M. A. B.



Chapter I: A Bush picnic.


Since my return to England, two years ago, I have been frequently
asked by my friends and acquaintances, "How did you amuse yourself
up at the station?"  I am generally tempted to reply, "We were all
too busy to need amusement;" but when I come to think the matter
over calmly and dispassionately, I find that a great many of our
occupations may be classed under the head of play rather than work.
But that would hardly give a fair idea of our lives there, either.
It would be more correct to say perhaps, that most of our simple
pleasures were composed of a solid layer of usefulness underneath
the froth of fun and frolic. I purpose therefore in these sketches
to describe some of the pursuits which afforded us a keen enjoyment
at the time,--an enjoyment arising from perfect health, simple
tastes, and an exquisite climate.

It will be as well to begin with the description of one of the
picnics, which were favourite amusements in our home, nestled in a
valley of the Malvern Hills of Canterbury.  These hills are of a
very respectable height, and constitute in fact the lowest slopes of
the great Southern Alps, which rise to snow-clad peaks behind them.
Our little wooden homestead stood at the head of a sunny, sheltered
valley, and around it we could see the hills gradually rolling into
downs, which in their turn were smoothed out, some ten or twelve
miles off, into the dead level of the plains.  The only drawback to
the picturesque beauty of these lower ranges is the absence of
forest, or as it is called there, bush.  Behind the Malvern Hills,
where they begin to rise into steeper ascents, lies many and many a
mile of bush-clad mountain, making deep blue shadows when the
setting sun brings the grand Alpine range into sharp white outline
against the background of dazzling Italian sky.  But just here,
where my beloved antipodean home stood, we had no trees whatever,
except those which we had planted ourselves, and whose growth we
watched with eager interest.  I dwell a little upon this point, to
try to convey to any one who may glance at these pages, how we all,
--dwellers among tree-less hills as we were,--longed and pined for
the sights and sounds of a "bush."

Quite out of view from the house or garden, and about seven miles
away, lay a mountain pass, or saddle, over a range, which was
densely wooded, and from whose highest peak we could see a wide
extent of timbered country.  Often in our evening rides we have gone
round by that saddle, in spite of a break-neck track and quicksands
and bogs, just to satisfy our constant longing for green leaves,
waving branches, and the twitter of birds. Whenever any wood was
wanted for building a stockyard, or slabbing a well, or making a
post-and-rail fence around a new paddock, we were obliged to take
out a Government license to cut wood in this splendid bush.  Armed
with the necessary document the next step was to engage "bushmen,"
or woodcutters by profession, who felled and cut the timber into the
proper lengths, and stacked it neatly in a clearing, where it could
get dry and seasoned.  These stacks were often placed in such
inaccessible and rocky parts of the steep mountain side, that they
had to be brought down to the flat in rude little sledges, drawn by
a bullock, who required to be trained to the work, and to possess so
steady and equable a disposition as to be indifferent to the
annoyance of great logs of heavy wood dangling and bumping against
his heels as the sledge pursued its uneven way down the bed of a
mountain torrent, in default of a better road.

Imagine, then, a beautiful day in our early New Zealand autumn.  For
a week past, a furious north-westerly gale had been blowing down the
gorges of the Rakaia and the Selwyn, as if it had come out of a
funnel, and sweeping across the great shelterless plains with
irresistible force.  We had been close prisoners to the house all
those days, dreading to open a door to go out for wood or water,
lest a terrific blast should rush in and whip the light shingle roof
off.  Not an animal could be seen out of doors; they had all taken
shelter on the lee-side of the gorse hedges, which are always
planted round a garden to give the vegetables a chance of coming up.
On the sky-line of the hills could be perceived towards evening,
mobs of sheep feeding with their heads _up_-wind, and travelling to
the high camping-grounds which they always select in preference to a
valley.  The yellow tussocks were bending all one way, perfectly
flat to the ground, and the shingle on the gravel walk outside
rattled like hail against the low latticed windows.  The uproar from
the gale was indescribable, and the little fragile house swayed and
shook as the furious gusts hurled themselves against it. Inside its
shelter, the pictures were blowing out from the walls, until I
expected them to be shaken off their hooks even in those rooms which
had plank walls lined with papered canvas; whilst in the kitchen,
store-room, etc., whose sides were made of cob, the dust blew in
fine clouds from the pulverized walls, penetrating even to the
dairy, and. settling half an inch thick on my precious cream.  At
last, when our skin felt like tightly drawn parchment, and our ears
and eyes had long been filled with powdered earth, the wind dropped
at sunset as suddenly as it had risen five days before.  We ventured
out to breathe the dust-laden atmosphere, and to look if the swollen
creeks (swollen because snow-fed) had done or threatened to do any
mischief, and saw on the south-west horizon great fleecy masses of
cloud driving rapidly up before a chill icy breeze.  Hurrah, here
comes a sou'-wester!  The parched-up earth, the shrivelled leaves,
the dusty grass, all needed the blessed damp air.  In an hour it was
upon us.  We had barely time to house the cows and horses, to feed
the fowls, and secure them in their own shed, and to light a roaring
coal (or rather lignite, for it is not true coal) fire in the
drawing-room, when, with a few warning splashes, the deluge of cold
rain came steadily down, and we went to sleep to the welcome sound
of its refreshing patter.

All that I have been describing was the weather of the past week.
Disagreeable as it might have been, it was needed in both its hot
and cold, dry and wet extremes, to make a true New Zealand day.  The
furious nor'-wester had blown every fleck of cloud below the
horizon, and dried the air until it was as light as ether.  The
"s'utherly buster," on the other hand, had cooled and refreshed
everything in the most delicious way, and a perfect day had come at
last.  What words can describe the pleasure it is to inhale such an
atmosphere?  One feels as if old age or sickness or even sorrow,
could hardly exist beneath such a spotless vault of blue as
stretched out above our happy heads.  I have often been told that
this feeling of intense pleasure on a fine day, which is peculiar to
New Zealand, is really a very low form of animal enjoyment.  It may
be so, but I only know that I never stood in the verandah early in
the morning of such a day as I am trying to sketch in pen and ink
now, without feeling the highest spiritual joy, the deepest
thankfulness to the loving Father who had made His beautiful world
so fair, and who would fain lead us through its paths of
pleasantness to a still more glorious, home, which will be free from
the shadows brooding from beneath sin's out-stretched wings over
this one.  As I stood in the porch I have often fancied I could
seethe animals and even the poultry expressing in dumb brute
fashion, their joy and gratitude to the God from whom all blessings
flow.

But to return to the verandah, although we have never left it.
Presently F--- came out, and I said with a sigh, born of deep
content and happiness, "What a day!"  "Yes," answered F---: "a
heavenly day indeed: well worth waiting for.  I want to go and see
how the men are getting on in the bush.  Will you like to come too?"
"Of course I will.  What can be more enchanting than the prospect of
spending such sunny hours in that glorious bush?"  So after
breakfast I give my few simple orders to the cook, and prepare, to
pack a "Maori kit," or flat basket made of flax, which could be
fastened to my side-saddle, with the preparations for our luncheon.
First some mutton chops had to be trimmed and prepared, all ready to
be cooked when we got there.  These were neatly folded up in clean
paper; and a little packet of tea, a few lumps of white sugar, a
tiny wooden contrivance for holding salt and pepper, and a couple of
knives and forks, were added to the parcel.

So much for the contents of the basket.  They needed to be carefully
packed so as not to rattle in any way, or Helen, my pretty bay mare,
would soon have got rid of the luncheon--and me.  I wrapped up three
or four large raw potatoes in separate bits of paper, and slipped
them into F---'s pockets when he was looking another way, and then
began the real difficulty of my picnic: how was  the little tin
tea-pot and an odd delf cup to be carried?  F--- objected to put
them also in his pocket, assuring me that I could make very good tea
by putting my packet of the fragrant leaves into the bushmen's
kettle, and drinking it afterwards out of one of their pannikins.
He tried to bribe me to this latter piece of simplicity by promising
to wash the tin pannikin out for me first.  Now I was not dainty or
over particular; I could not have enjoyed my New Zealand life so
thoroughly if I had been either; but I did not like the idea of
using the bushmen's tea equipage.  In the first place, the tea never
tastes the same when made in their way, and allowed to boil for a
moment or two after the leaves have been thrown in, before the
kettle is taken off the fire; and in the next place, it is very
difficult to drink tea out of a pannikin; for it becomes so hot
directly we put the scalding liquid into it, that long after the tea
is cool enough to drink, the pannikin still continues too hot to
touch.  But I said so pathetically, "You know how wretched I am
without my tea," that F---'s heart relented, and he managed to stow
away the little teapot and the cup.  That cup bore a charmed life.
It accompanied me on all my excursions, escaping unbroken; and is, I
believe, in existence now, spending its honoured old age in the
recesses of a cupboard.

After the luncheon, the next question to be decided is, which of the
dogs are to join the expedition.  Hector, of course; he is the
master's colley, and would no more look at a sheep, except in the
way of business, than he would fly.  Rose, a little short-haired
terrier, was the most fascinating of dog companions, and I pleaded
hard for her, as she was an especial pet; though there were too many
lambs belonging to a summer lambing (in New Zealand the winter is
the usual lambing season) in the sheltered paddocks beneath the
bush, to make it quite safe for her to be one of the party.  She
would not kill or hurt a lamb on any account, but she always
appeared anxious to play with the little creatures; and as her own
spotless coat was as white as theirs, she often managed to get quite
close to a flock of sheep before they perceived that she belonged to
the dreaded race of dogs.  When the timid animals found out their
mistake, a regular stampede used to ensue; and it was not supposed
to be good for the health of the old or young sheep to hurry up the
hill-sides in such wild fashion as that in which they rushed away
from Rose's attempts to intrude on their society.  Nettle may come,
for he is but a tiny terrier, and so fond of his mistress that he
never strays a yard away from her horse's heels.  Brisk, my
beautiful, stupid water-spaniel, is also allowed an outing.  He is
perfect to look at, but not having had any educational advantages in
his youth, is an utter fool; amiable, indeed, but not the less a
fool.  Garibaldi, another colley, is suffering a long penal sentence
of being tied up to his barrel, on account of divers unlawful chases
after sheep which were not wanted; and dear old Jip, though she
pretends to be very anxious to accompany us; is far too fat and too
rheumatic to keep pace with our long stretching gallop up the
valley.

At last we were fairly off about eleven o'clock, and an hour's easy
canter, intersected by many "flat-jumps," or rather "water-jumps,"
across the numerous creeks, brought unto the foot of the bush-clad
mountain.  After that our pace became a very sober one, as the.
track resembled a broken rocky staircase more than a bridle-path.
But such as it was, our sure-footed horses carried us safely up and
down its rugged steeps, without making a single false step.  No mule
can be more sure-footed than a New Zealand horse.  He will carry his
rider anywhere, if only that rider trusts entirely to him, nor
attempts to guide him in any way.  During the last half-hour of our
slow and cat-like climb, we could hear the ring of the bushmen's
axes, and the warning shouts preceding the crashing fall of a Black
Birch.  Fallen logs and deep ruts made by the sledges in their
descent, added to the difficulties of the track; and I was so
faint-hearted as to entreat piteously, on more than one occasion,
when Helen paused and shook her head preparatory to climbing over a
barricade, to be "taken off."  But F--- had been used to these
dreadful roads for too many years to regard them in the same light
as I did, and would answer carelessly, "Nonsense: you're as safe as
if you were sitting in an arm-chair."  All I can say is, it might
have been so, but I did not feel at all like it.

However, the event proved him to have been right, and we reached the
clearing in safety.  Here we dismounted, and led the horses to a
place where they could nibble some grass, and rest in the cool
shade.  The saddles and bridles were soon removed, and halters
improvised out of the New Zealand flax, which can be turned to so
many uses.  Having provided for the comfort of our faithful animals,
our next step was to look for the bushmen.  The spot which we had
reached was their temporary home in the heart of the forest, but
their work was being carried on elsewhere.  I could not have told
from which side the regular ringing axe-strokes proceeded, so
confusing were the echoes from the cliffs around us; but after a
moment's silent pause F--- said, "If we follow that track (pointing
to a slightly cleared passage among the trees) we shall come upon
them."  So I kilted up my linsey skirt, and hung up my little
jacket, necessary for protection against the evening air, on a bough
out of the wekas' reach, whilst I followed F--- through tangled
creepers, "over brake, over brier," towards the place from whence
the noise of falling trees proceeded.  By the time we reached it,
our scratched hands and faces bore traces of the thorny undergrowth
which had barred our way; but all minor discomforts were forgotten
in the picturesque beauty of the spot.  Around us lay the
forest-kings, majestic still in their overthrow, whilst substantial
stacks of cut-up and split timber witnessed to the skill and
industry of the stalwart figures before us, who reddened through
their sunburn with surprise and shyness at seeing a lady.  They need
not have been afraid of me, for I had long ago made friends with
them, and during the preceeding winter had established a sort of
night-school in my dining-room, for all the hands employed on the
station, and these two men had been amongst my most constant pupils.
One of them, a big Yorkshire-man, was very backward in his
"larning," and though he plodded on diligently, never got beyond the
simplest words in the largest type.  Small print puzzled him at
once, and he had a habit of standing or sitting with his back to me
whilst repeating his lessons.  Nothing would induce him to face me.
The moment it became his turn to go on with the chapter out of the
Bible, with which we commenced our studies, that instant he turned
his broad shoulders towards me, and I could only, hear the faintest
murmurs issuing from the depths of a great beard.  Remonstrance
would have scared my shy pupil away, so I was fain to put up with
his own method of instruction.

But this is a digression, and I want to make you see with my eyes
the beautiful glimpses of distant country lying around the bold
wooded cliff on which we were standing.  The ground fell away from
our feet so completely in some places, that we could see over the
tops of the high trees around us, whilst in others the landscape
appeared framed in an arch of quivering foliage.  A noisy little
creek chattered and babbled as it hurried along to join its big
brother down below, and kept a fringe of exquisite ferns, which grew
along its banks, brightly green by its moisture.  Each tree, if
taken by itself, was more like an umbrella than anything else to
English eyes, for in these primitive forests, where no kind pruning
hand has ever touched them, they shoot up, straight and branchless,
into the free air above, where they spread a leafy crown out to the
sunbeams.  Beneath the dense shade of these matted branches grew a
luxuriant shrubbery, whose every leaf was a marvel of delicate
beauty, and ferns found here a home such as they might seek
elsewhere in vain.  Flowers were very rare, and I did not observe
many berries, but these conditions vary in different parts of the
beautiful middle island.

That was a fair and fertile land stretching out before us,
intersected by the deep banks of the Rakaia, with here and there a
tiny patch of emerald green and a white dot, representing the house
and English grass paddock of a new settler.  In the background the
bush-covered mountains rose ever higher and higher in bolder
outline, till they shook off their leafy clothing, and stood out in
steep cliffs and scaurs from the snow-clad glacier region of the
mountain range running from north to south, and forming the back
bone of the island.  I may perhaps make you see the yellow,
river-furrowed plains, and the great confusion of rising ground
behind them, but cannot make you see, still less feel, the
atmosphere around, quivering in a summer haze in the valley beneath,
and stirred to the faintest summer wind-sighs as it moved among the
pines and birches overhead.  Its lightness was its most striking
peculiarity.  You felt as if your lungs could never weary of
inhaling deep breaths of such an air.  Warm without oppression, cool
without a chill.  I can find nothing but paradoxes to describe it.
As for fatigue, one's muscles might get tired, and need rest, but
the usual depression and weariness attending over-exertion could not
exist in such an atmosphere.  One felt like a happy child; pleased
at nothing, content to exist where existence was a pleasure.

You could not find more favourable specimens of New Zealand
colonists than the two men, Trew and Domville, who stood before us
in their working dress of red flannel shirts and moleskin trousers,
"Cookham" boots and digger's plush hats.  Three years before this
day they had landed at Port Lyttleton, with no other capital than
their strong, willing arms, and their sober, sensible heads.  Very
different is their appearance to-day from what it was on their
arrival; and the change in their position and circumstances is as
great.  Their bodily frames have filled out and developed under the
influence of the healthy climate and abundance of mutton, until they
look ten years younger and twice as strong, and each man owns a
cottage and twenty acres of freehold land, at which he works in
spare time, as well as having more pounds than he ever possessed
pence in the old country, put safely away in the bank.  There can be
no doubt about the future of any working man or woman in our New
Zealand colonies.  It rests in their own hands, under God's
blessing, and the history of the whole human race shows us that He
always has blessed honest labour and rightly directed efforts to do
our duty in this world.  Sobriety and industry are the first
essentials to success.  Possessing these moral qualifications, and a
pair of hands, a man may rear up his children in those beautiful
distant lands in ignorance of what hunger; or thirst, or grinding
poverty means.  Hitherto the want of places of worship, and schools
for the children, have been a sad drawback to the material
advantages of colonization at the Antipodes; but these blessings are
increasing every day, and the need of them creates the supply.

The great mistake made in England, next to that of sending out
worthless idle paupers, who have never done a hand's turn for
themselves here, and are still less likely to do it elsewhere, is
for parents and guardians to ship off to New Zealand young men who
have received the up-bringing and education of gentlemen, without a
shilling in their pockets, under the vague idea that something will
turn up for them in a new place.  There is nothing which can turn
up, for the machinery of civilization is reduced to the most
primitive scale in these countries; and I have known 500 pounds per
annum regarded as a monstrous salary to be drawn by a hard-worked
official of some twenty years standing and great experience in the
colony.  From this we may judge of the chances of remunerative
employment for a raw unfledged youth, with a smattering of classical
learning.  At first they simply "loaf" (as it is called there) on
their acquaintances and friends.  At the end of six months their
clothes are beginning to look shabby; they feel they _ought_ to do
something, and they make day by day the terrible discovery that
there is nothing for them to do in their own rank of life.  Many a
poor clergyman's son, sooner than return to the home which has been
so pinched to furnish forth his passage money and outfit, takes a
shepherd's billet, though he generally makes a very bad shepherd for
the first year or two; or drives bullocks, or perhaps wanders
vaguely over the country, looking for work, and getting food and
lodging indeed, for inhospitality is unknown, but no pay.  Sometimes
they go to the diggings, only to find that money is as necessary
there as anywhere, and that they are not fitted to dig in wet holes
for eight or ten hours a day.  Often these poor young men go home
again, and it is the best thing they can do, for at least they have
gained some knowledge of life, on its dark as well as its brighter
side.  But still oftener, alas, they go hopelessly to the bad,
degenerating into billiard markers, piano players at dancing
saloons, cattle drivers, and their friends probably lose sight of
them.

Once I was riding with my husband up a lovely gulley, when we heard
the crack of a stockwhip, sounding strangely through the deep
eternal silence of a New Zealand valley, and a turn of the track
showed us a heavy, timber-laden bullock-waggon labouring slowly
along.  At the head of the long team sauntered the driver, in the
usual rough-and-ready costume, with his soft plush hat pulled low
over his face, and pulling vigorously at a clay pipe.  In spite of
all the outer surroundings, something in the man's walk and dejected
attitude struck my imagination, and I made some remark to my
companion.  The sound of my voice reached the bullock-driver's ears;
he looked up, and on seeing a lady, took his pipe out of his mouth,
his hat off his head, and forcing his beasts a little aside, stood
at their head to let us pass.  I smiled and nodded, receiving in
return a perfect and profound bow, and the most melancholy glance I
have ever seen in human eyes.  "Good gracious, F---," I cried, when
we had passed, "who is that man?"  "That is Sir So-and-So's third
son," he replied: "they sent him out here without a shilling, five
years ago, and that is what he has come to: a working man, living
with working men.  He looks heart-broken, poor fellow, doesn't he?"
I, acting upon impulse, as any woman would have done, turning back
and rode up to him, finding it very difficult to frame my pity and
sympathy in coherent words.  "No thank you, ma'am," was all the
answer I could get, in the most refined, gentlemanly tone of voice:
"I'm very well as I am.  I should only have the struggle all over
again if I made any change now.  It is the truest kindness to leave
me alone."  He would not even shake hands with me; so I rode back;
discomfited, to hear from F--- that he had made many attempts to
befriend him, but without success.  "In fact," concluded F---, with
some embarrassment, "he drinks dreadfully, poor fellow.  Of course
that is the secret of all his wretchedness, but I believe despair
drove him to it in the first instance."

I have also known an ex-dragoon officer working as a clerk in an
attorney's office at fifteen shillings a week, who lived like a
mechanic, and yet spake and stepped like his old self; one listened
involuntarily for the clink of the sabre and spur whenever he moved
across the room.

This has been a terrible digression, almost a social essay in fact;
but I have it so much at heart to dissuade fathers and mothers from
sending their sons so far away without any certainty of employment.
Capitalists, even small ones, do well in New Zealand: the labouring
classes still better; but there is no place yet for the educated
gentleman without money, and with hands unused to and unfit for
manual labour and the downward path is just as smooth and pleasant
at first there, as anywhere else.

Trew and Domville soon got over their momentary shyness, and
answered my inquiries about their families.  Then I had a short talk
with them, but on the principle that it is "ill speaking to a
fasting man," we agreed to adjourn to the clearing, where they had
built a rough log hut for temporary shelter, and have our dinner.
They had provided themselves with some bacon; but were very glad to
accept of F---'s offer of mutton, to be had for the trouble of
fetching it.  When we reached the little shanty, Trew produced some
capital bread, he had baked the evening before in a camp-oven; F---'s
pockets were emptied of their load of potatoes, which were put to
roast in the wood embers; rashers of bacon and mutton chops
spluttered and fizzed side-by-side on a monster gridiron with tall
feet, so as to allow it to stand by itself over the clear fire, and
we turned our chops from time to time by means of a fork
extemporized out of a pronged stick.

Over another fire, a little way to leeward, hung the bushmen's
kettle on an iron tripod, and, so soon as it boiled, my little
teapot was filled before Domville threw in his great fist-full of
tea.  I had brought a tiny phial of cream in the pocket of my
saddle, but the men thought it spoiled the flavour of the tea, which
they always drink "_neat_," as they call it.  The Temperance Society
could draw many interesting statistics from the amount of hard work
which is done in New Zealand on tea.  Now, I am sorry to say, beer
is creeping up to the stations, and is served out at shearing time
and so on; but in the old days all the hard work used to be done on
tea, and tea alone, the men always declaring they worked far better
on it than on beer.  "When we have as much good bread and mutton as
we can eat," they would say, "we don't feel to miss the beer we used
to drink in England;" and at the end of a year or two of tea and
water-drinking, their bright eyes and splendid physical condition
showed plainly enough which was the best kind of beverage to work,
and work hard too, upon.

So there we sat round the fire: F--- with the men, and I, a little
way off, out of the smoke, with the dogs.  Overhead, the sunlight
streamed down on the grass which had sprung up, as it always does in
a clearing; the rustle among the lofty tree tops made a delicious
murmur high up in the air; a waft of cool breeze flitted past us
laden with the scent of newly-cut wood (and who does not know that
nice, _clean_ perfume?); innumerable paroquets almost brushed us
with their emerald-green wings, whilst the tamer robin or the dingy
but melodious bell-bird came near to watch the intruders.  The sweet
clear whistle of the tui or parson-bird--so called from his glossy
black suit and white wattles curling exactly where a clergy-man's
bands would be,--could be heard at a distance; whilst overhead the
soft cooing of the wild pigeons, and the hoarse croak of the ka-ka
or native parrot, made up the music of the birds' orchestra.  Ah,
how delicious it all was,--the Robinson Crusoe feel of the whole
thing; the heavenly air, the fluttering leaves, the birds' chirrups
and whistle, and the foreground of happy, healthy men!

Rose and I had enough to do, even with Nettle's assistance, in
acting as police to keep off those bold thieves, the wekas, who are
as impudent as they are tame and fearless.  In appearance they
resemble exactly a stout hen pheasant, without its long tail; but
they belong to the apterix family, and have no wings, only a tiny
useless pinion at each shoulder, furnished with a claw like a small
fish-hook: what is the use of this claw I was never able to
discover.  When startled or hunted, the weka glides, for it can
scarcely be called running, with incredible swiftness and in perfect
silence, to the nearest cover.  A tussock, a clump of flax, a tuft
of tall tohi grass, all serve as hiding-places; and, wingless as she
is, the weka can hold her own very well against her enemies, the
dogs.  I really believe the great desire of Brisk's life was to
catch a weka.  He started many, but used to go sniffing and barking
round the flax bush where it had taken refuge at first, long after
the clever, cunning bird had glided from its shelter to another
cover further off.

After dinner was over and Domville had brought back the tin plates
and pannikins from the creek where he had washed them up, pipes were
lighted, and a few minutes smoking served to rest and refresh the
men, who had been working since their six o'clock breakfast.  The
daylight hours were too precious however to be wasted in smoking.
Trew and Domville would not have had that comfortable nest-egg
standing in their name at the bank in Christchurch, if they had
spent much time over their pipes; so after a very short "spell" they
got up from the fallen log of wood which had served them for a
bench, and suggested that F--- should accompany them back to where
their work lay.  "You don't mind being left?" asked F---. "Certainly
not," replied I.  "I have got the dogs for company, and a book in my
pocket.  I daresay I shall not read much, however, for it is so
beautiful to sit here and watch the changing lights and shadows."

And so it was, most beautiful and thoroughly delightful.  I sat on
the short sweet grass, which springs upon the rich loam of fallen
leaves the moment sunlight is admitted into the heart of a bush.  No
one plants it; probably the birds carry the seeds; yet it grows
freely after a clearing has been made.  Nature lays down a green
sward directly on the rich virgin mould, and sets to work besides to
cover up the unsightly stems and holes of the fallen timber with
luxuriant tufts of a species of hart's-tongue fern, which grows
almost as freely as an orchid on decayed timber.  I was so still and
silent that innumerable forest birds came about me.  A wood pigeon
alighted on a branch close by, and sat preening her radiant plumage
in a bath of golden sunlight.  The profound stillness was stirred
now and then by a soft sighing breeze which passed over the tree
tops, and made the delicate foliage of the undergrowth around me
quiver and rustle.  I had purposely scattered the remains of our
meal in a spot where the birds could see the crumbs, and it was not
long before the clever little creatures availed themselves of the
unexpected feast.  So perfectly tame and friendly were they, that I
felt as if I were the intruder, and bound by all the laws of aerial
chivalry to keep the peace.  But this was no easy matter where Rose
and Nettle were concerned, for when an imprudent weka appeared on
the sylvan scene, looking around-as if to say, "Who's afraid?" it
was more than I could do to keep the little terriers from giving
chase.  Brisk, too, blundered after them, but I had no fear of his
destroying the charm of the day by taking even a weka's life.

Thus the delicious afternoon wore on, until it was time to boil the
kettle once more, and make a cup of tea before setting out
homewards.  The lengthening shadows added fresh tenderness and
beauty to the peaceful scene, and the sky began to paint itself in
its exquisite sunset hues.  It has been usual to praise the tints of
tropic skies when the day is declining; but never, in any of my
wanderings to East and West Indies, have I seen such gorgeous
evening colours as those which glorify New Zealand skies.

A loud coo-ee summoned F--- to tea, and directly afterwards the
horses were re-saddled, the now empty flax basket filled with the
obnoxious teapot and cup, wrapped in many layers of flax leaves, to
prevent their rattling, and we bade good night to the tired bushmen.
We left them at their tea, and I was much struck to observe that
though they looked like men who had done a hard day's work, there
was none of the exhaustion we often see in England depicted on the
labouring man's face.  Instead of a hot crowded room, these bushmen
were going to sleep in their log hut, where the fresh pure air could
circulate through every nook and cranny.  They had each their pair
of red blankets, one to spread over a heap of freshly cut tussocks,
which formed a delicious elastic mattrass, and the other to serve as
a coverlet.  During the day these blankets were always hung outside
on a tree, out of the reach of the most investigating weka.  You may
be sure I had not come empty-handed in the way of books and papers,
and my last glance as I rode away rested on Trew opening a number of
_Good Words_ [Note: _Evening Hours_ was not in existence at that
time, or else its pages are just what those simple God-fearing men
would have appreciated and enjoyed.  _Good Words_ and the _Leisure
Hour_ used to be their favourite periodicals, and the kindness of
English friends kept me also well supplied with copies of Miss
Marsh's little books, which were read with the deepest and most
eager interest.] with the pleased-expression of a child examining a
packet of toys.

And so we rode slowly home through the delicious gloaming, with the
evening air cooled to freshness so soon as the sun had sunk below
the great mountains to the west, from behind which he shot up
glorious rays of gold and crimson against the blue ethereal sky,
causing the snowy peaks to look more exquisitely pure from the
background of gorgeous colour.  During the flood of sunlight all
day, we had not perceived a single fleck of cloud; but now lovely
pink wreaths, floating in mid-air, betrayed that here and there a
"nursling of the sky" lingered behind the cloud-masses which we
thought had all been blown away yesterday.

The short twilight hour was over, and the stars were filtering their
soft radiance on our heads by the time we heard the welcoming barks
of the homestead, and saw the glimmer of the lighted lamp in our
sitting-room, shining out of the distant gloom.  And so ended, in
supper and a night of deep dreamless sleep, one of the many happy
picnic days of my New Zealand life.



Chapter II: Eel-fishing.


One of the greatest drawbacks in an English gentleman's eyes to
living in New Zealand is the want of sport.  There is absolutely
none.  There used to be a few quails, but they are almost extinct
now; and during four years' residence in very sequestered regions I
only saw one.  Wild ducks abound on some of the rivers, but they are
becoming fewer and shyer every year.  The beautiful Paradise duck is
gradually retreating to those inland lakes lying at the foot of the
Southern Alps, amid glaciers and boulders which serve as a barrier
to keep back his ruthless foe.  Even the heron, once so plentiful on
the lowland rivers, is now seldom seen.  As I write these lines a
remorseful recollection comes back upon me of overhanging cliffs,
and of a bend in a swirling river, on whose rapid current a
beautiful wounded heron--its right wing shattered--drifts helplessly
round and round with the eddying water, each circle bringing it
nearer in-shore to our feet.  I can see now its bright fearless eye,
full of suffering, but yet unconquered: its slender neck proudly
arched, and bearing up the small graceful head with its coronal or
top-knot raised in defiance, as if to protest to the last against
the cruel shot which had just been fired.  I was but a spectator,
having merely wandered that far to look at my eel-lines, yet I felt
as guilty as though my hand had pulled the trigger.  Just as the
noble bird drifted to our feet,--for I could not help going down to
the river's edge, where Pepper (our head shepherd) stood, looking
very contrite,--it reared itself half out of the water, with a
hissing noise and threatening bill, resolved to sell its liberty as
dearly as it could; but the effort only spread a brighter shade of
crimson on the waters surface for a brief moment, and then, with
glazing eye and drooping crest, the dying creature turned over on
its side and was borne helpless to our feet.  By the time Pepper
extended his arm and drew it in, with the quaint apology, "I'm sorry
I shot yer, old feller! I, am, indeed," the heron was dead; and that
happened to be the only one I ever came across during my mountain
life.  Once I saw some beautiful red-shanks flying down the gorge of
the Selwyn, and F--- nearly broke his neck in climbing the crag from
whence one of them rose in alarm at the noise of our horses' feet on
the shingle.  There were three eggs in the inaccessible cliff-nest,
and he brought me one, which I tried in vain to hatch under a
sitting duck.  Betty would not admit the intruder among her own
eggs, but resolutely pushed it out of her nest twenty times a day,
until at last I was obliged to blow it and send it home to figure in
a little boy's collection far away in Kent.

I have seen very good blue duck shooting on the Waimakiriri river,
but 50 per cent. of the birds were lost for want of a retriever bold
enough to face that formidable river.  Wide as was the beautiful
reach, on whose shore the sportsmen stood, and calmly as the deep
stream seemed to glide beneath its high banks, the wounded birds,
flying low on the water, had hardly dropped when they disappeared,
sucked beneath by the strong current, and whirled past us in less
time than it takes one to write a line.  We had retrievers with us
who would face the waves of an inland lake during a nor'-wester,
--which is giving a dog very high praise indeed; but there was no
canine Bayard at hand to brave those treacherous depths, and bring
out our game, so the sport soon ceased; for what was the good of
shooting the beautiful, harmless creatures when we could not make
use of them as food?

I often accompanied F--- on his eel-fishing expeditions, but more
for the sake of companionship than from any amusement I found in the
sport.  I may here confess frankly that I cannot understand anyone
being an inveterate eel-fisher, for of all monotonous pursuits, it
is the most self-repeating in its forms.  Even the first time I went
out I found it delightful only in anticipation; and this is the one
midnight excursion which I shall attempt to re-produce for you.

It had been a broiling midsummer day, too hot to sit in the
verandah, too hot to stroll about the garden, or go for a ride, or
do anything in fact, except bask like a lizard in the warm air.  New
Zealand summer weather, however high the thermometer, is quite
different from either tropical or English heat. It is intensely hot
in the sun, but always cool in the shade.  I never heard of an
instance of sun-stroke from exposure to the mid-day sun, for there
always was a light air--often scarcely perceptible until you were
well out in the open,--to temper the fierce vertical rays.  It
sometimes happened that I found myself obliged, either for business
or pleasure, to take a long ride in the middle of a summer's day,
and my invariable reflection used to be, "It is not nearly so hot
out of doors as one fancies it would be."  Then there is none of the
stuffiness so often an accompaniment to our brief summers, bringing
lassitude and debility in its train.  The only disadvantage of an
unusually hot season with us was, that our already embrowned
complexions took a deeper shade of bronze; but as we were all
equally sun-burnt there was no one to throw critical stones.

What surprised me most was the utter absence of damp or miasma.
After a blazing day, instead of hurrying in out of reach of
poisonous vapours as the tropic-dweller must needs do, we could
linger bare-headed, lightly clad, out of doors, listening to the
distant roar of a river, or watching the exquisite tints of the
evening sky.  I dwell on this to explain that in almost any other
country there would have been risk in remaining out at night after
such still, hot days.

On this particular evening, during my first summer in the New
Zealand Malvern Hills, after we had watered my pet flowers near the
house, and speculated a good deal as to whether the mignonette seed
had all been blown out of the ground by the last nor'-wester or not,
F--- said, "I shall go eel-fishing to-night to the creek, down the
flat.  Why don't you come too?  I am sure you would like it."  Now,
I am sorry to say that I am such a thorough gipsy in my tastes that
any pursuit which serves as an excuse for spending hours in the open
air, is full of attraction for me; consequently, I embraced the
proposal with ardour, and set about gathering, under F---'s
directions, what seemed to bid fair to rival the collection of an
old rag-and-bottle merchant.  First of all, there was a muster of
every empty tin match-box in the little house; these were to hold
the bait-bits of mutton and worms.  Then I was desired to hunt up
all the odds and ends of worsted which lurked in the scrap-basket.
A forage next took place in search of string, but as no parcels were
ever delivered in that sequestered valley, twine became a precious
and rare treasure.  In default of any large supply being obtainable,
my lamp and candle-wick material was requisitioned by F--- (who, by
the way, is a perfect Uhlan for getting what he wants, when bent on
a sporting expedition); and lastly, one or two empty flour-sacks
were called for.  You will see the use of this heterogeneous
collection presently.

It was of no use starting until the twilight had darkened into a
cloudy, moonless night; so, after our seven o'clock supper, we
adjourned into the verandah to watch F--- make a large round ball,
such as children play with, out of the scraps of worsted with which
I had furnished him.  Instead of cutting the wool into lengths,
however, it was left in loops; and I learned that this is done to
afford a firm hold for the sharp needle-like teeth of an inquisitive
eel, who might be tempted to find out if this strange round thing,
floating near his hole, would be good to eat.  I was impatient as a
child,--remember it was my first eel-fishing expedition,--and I
thought nine o'clock would never come, for I had been told to go and
dress at that hour; that is to say, I was to change my usual
station-costume, a pretty print gown, for a short linsey skirt,
strong boots and kangaroo-skin gaiters.  F---, and our cadet, Mr. 
U---, soon appeared, clad in shooting coats instead of their alpaca
costumes, and their trousers stuffed into enormous boots, the upper
leathers of which came beyond their knees.

"Are we going into the water?" I timidly inquired.

"Oh, no,--not at all: it is on account of the Spaniards."

No doubt this sounds very unintelligible to an English reader; but
every colonist who may chance to see my pages will shiver at the
recollection of those vegetable defenders of an unexplored region in
New Zealand.  Imagine a gigantic artichoke with slender instead of
broad leaves, set round in dense compact order.  They vary, of
course, in size, but in our part of the world four or six feet in
circumference and a couple of feet high was the usual growth to
which they attained, though at the back of the run they were much
larger.  Spaniards grow in clusters, or patches, among the tussocks
on the plains, and constitute a most unpleasant feature of the
vegetation of the country. Their leaves are as firm as bayonets, and
taper at the point to the fineness of a needle, but are not nearly
so easily broken as a needle would be.  No horse will face them,
preferring a jump at the cost of any exertion, to the risk of a stab
from the cruel points.  The least touch of this green bayonet draws
blood, and a fall _into_ a Spaniard is a thing to be remembered all
one's life.  Interspersed with the Spaniards are generally clumps of
"wild Irishman," a straggling sturdy bramble, ready to receive and
scratch you well if you attempt to avoid the Spaniard's weapons.
Especially detrimental to riding habits are wild Irishmen; and there
are fragments of mine, of all sorts of materials and colours,
fluttering now on their thorny branches in out-of-the-way places on
our run.  It is not surprising, therefore, that we guarded our legs
as well as we could against these foes to flesh and blood.

"We are rather early," said the gentlemen, as I appeared, ready and
eager to start; "but perhaps it is all the better to enable you to
see the track."  They each flung an empty sack over their shoulders,
felt in their pockets to ascertain whether the matches, hooks, boxes
of bait, etc., were all there, and then we set forth.

At first it appeared as if we had stepped from the brightness of the
drawing-room into utter and pitchy blackness; but after we had
groped for a few steps down the familiar garden path, our eyes
became accustomed to the subdued light of the soft summer night.
Although heavy banks of cloud,--the general precursors of wind,--
were moving slowly between us and the heavens, the stars shone down
through their rifts, and on the western horizon a faint yellowish
tinge told us that daylight was in no hurry to leave our quiet
valley.  The mountain streams or creeks, which water so well the
grassy plains among the Malvern Hills, are not affected to any
considerable extent by dry summer weather.  They are snow-fed from
the high ranges, and each nor'-wester restores many a glacier or
avalanche to its original form, and sends it flowing down the steep
sides of yonder distant beautiful mountains to join the creeks,
which, like a tangled skein of silver threads, ensure a good water
supply to the New Zealand sheep-farmer.  In the holes, under steep
overhanging banks, the eels love to lurk, hiding from the sun's rays
in cool depths, and coming out at night to feed.  There are no fish
whatever in the rivers, and I fear that the labours of the
Acclimatization Society will be thrown away until they can persuade
the streams themselves to remain in their beds like more civilised
waters.  At present not a month passes that one does not hear of
some eccentric proceeding on. the part of either rivers or creeks.
Unless the fish are prepared to shift their liquid quarters at a
moment's notice they will find themselves often left high and dry on
the deserted shingle-bed.  But eels are proverbially accustomed to
adapt themselves to circumstances, and a fisherman may always count
on getting some if he be patient.

About a mile down the flat, between very high banks, our principal
creek ran, and to a quiet spot among the flax-bushes we directed our
steps.  By the fast-fading light the gentlemen set their lines in
very primitive fashion.  On the crumbling, rotten earth the New
Zealand flax, the _Phormium tenax_, loves to grow, and to its long,
ribbon-like leaves the eel-fishers fastened their lines securely,
baiting each alternate hook with mutton and worms.  I declared this
was too cockney a method of fishing, and selected a tall slender
flax-stick, the stalk of last year's spike of red honey-filled
blossoms, and to this extempore rod I fastened my line and bait.
When one considers that the old whalers were accustomed to use ropes
made in the rudest fashion, from the fibre of this very plant, in
their deep-sea fishing for very big prey, it is not surprising that
we found it sufficiently strong for our purpose.  I picked out,
therefore, a comfortable spot,--that is to say, well in the centre
of a young flax-bush, whose satiny leaves made the most elastic
cushions around me; with my flax-stick held out over what was
supposed to be a favourite haunt of the eels, and with Nettle asleep
at my feet and a warm shawl close to my hand, prepared for my vigil.
"Don't speak or move," were the gentlemen's last words: "the eels
are all eyes and ears at this hour; they can almost hear you
breathe."  Each man then took up his position a few hundred yards
away from me, so that I felt, to all intents and purposes,
absolutely alone.  I am "free to confess," as our American cousins
say, that it was a very eerie sensation.  It was now past ten
o'clock; the darkness was intense, and the silence as deep as the
darkness.

Hot as the day had been, the night air felt chill, and a heavy dew
began to fall, showing me the wisdom of substituting woollen for
cotton garments.  I could see the dim outlines of the high hills,
which shut in our happy valley on all sides, and the smell of the
freshly-turned earth of a paddock near the house, which was in
process of being broken up for English grass, came stealing towards
me on the silent air.  The melancholy cry of a bittern, or the
shrill wail of the weka, startled me from time to time, but there
was no other sound to break the eternal silence.

As I waited and watched, I thought, as every one must surely think,
with strange paradoxical feelings, of one's own utter insignificance
in creation, mingled with the delightful consciousness of our
individual importance in the eyes of the Maker and Father of all.
An atom among worlds, as one feels, sitting there at such an hour
and in such a spot, still we remember with love and pride, that not
a hair of our head falls to the ground unnoticed by an Infinite Love
and an Eternal Providence.  The soul tries to fly into the boundless
regions of space and eternity, and to gaze upon other worlds, and
other beings equally the object of the Great Creator's care; but her
mortal wing soon droops and tires, and she is fain to nestle home
again to her Saviour's arms, with the thought, "I am my Beloved's,
and He is mine."  That is the only safe beginning and end of all
speculation.  It was very solemn and beautiful, that long dark
night,--a pause amid the bustle of every day cares and duties,--
hours in which one takes counsel with one's own heart, and is still.

Midnight had come and gone, when the sputter and snap of striking a
match, which sounded almost like a pistol shot amid the profound
silence, told me that one of the sportsmen had been successful.  I
got up as softly as possible, wrapped my damp shawl round my still
damper shoulders, and, fastening the flax-stick securely in the
ground, stole along the bank of the creek towards the place where a
blazing tussock, serving as a torch, showed the successful
eel-fisher struggling with his prize.  Through the gloom I saw
another weird-looking figure running silently in the same direction;
for the fact was, we were all so cramped and cold, and, weary of
sitting waiting for bites which never came, that we hailed with
delight a break in the monotony of our watch.  It did not matter now
how much noise we made (within moderate limits), for the peace of
that portion of the creek was destroyed for the night.  Half-a-dozen
eels must have banded themselves together, and made a sudden and
furious dash at the worsted ball, which Mr. U--- had been dangling
in front of their mud hall-door for the last two hours.  Just as he
had intended, their long sharp teeth became entangled in the worsted
loops, and although he declared some had broken away and escaped,
three or four good-sized ones remained, struggling frantically.

It would have been almost impossible for one man to lift such a
weight straight out of the water by a string; and as we came up and
saw Mr. U---'s agitated face in the fantastic flickering light of
the blazing tussock, which he had set on fire as a signal of
distress, I involuntarily thought of the old Joe Miller about the
Tartar: "Why don't you let him go?"  "Because he has caught _me._"
It looked just like that.  The furious splashing in the water below,
and Mr. U--- grasping his line with desperate valour, but being
gradually drawn nearer to the edge of the steep bank each instant.
"Keep up a good light, but not too much," cried F--- to me, in a
regular stage-whisper, as he rushed to the rescue.  So I pulled up
one tussock after another by its roots,--an exertion which resulted
in upsetting me each time,--and lighted one as fast as its
predecessor burned out.  They were all rather damp, so they did not
flare away too quickly.  By the blaze of my grassy torches I saw F---
first seize Mr. U--- round the waist and drag him further from the
bank; but the latter called out, "It's my hands,--they have no skin
left: do catch hold, there's a good fellow."  So the "good fellow"
did catch hold, but he was too experienced an eel-fisher to try to
lift a couple of dozen pounds weight of eels out of the water by a
perpendicular string; so he tied it to a flax-bush near, and,
stooping down in order to get some leverage over the bank, very soon
drew the ball, with its slimy, wriggling captives, out of the water.
Just as he jerked it far on shore, one or two of the creatures broke
loose and escaped, leaving quite enough to afford a most disgusting
and horrible sight as they were shuffled and poked into the empty
flour-sack.

The sportsmen were delighted however, and departed to a fresh bend
of the creek, leaving me to find my way back to my original post.
This would have been difficult indeed, had not Nettle remained
behind to guard my gloves, which I had left in his custody.  As I
passed, not knowing I was so near the spot, the little dog gave a
low whimper of greeting, sufficient to attract my attention and
guide me to where he was keeping his faithful watch and ward.  I
felt for my flax-stick and moved it ever so gently.  A sudden jerk
and splash startled me horribly, and warned me that I had disturbed
an eel who was in the act of supping off my bait.  In the momentary
surprise I suppose I let go, for certain it is that the next instant
my flax-stick was rapidly towed down the stream.

Instead of feeling provoked or mortified, it was the greatest relief
to know that my eel-fishing was over for the night, and that now I
had nothing to do except "wait till called for."  So I took Nettle
on my lap and tried to abide patiently, but I had not been long
enough in New Zealand to have any confidence in the climate, and as
I felt how damp my clothes were, and recollected with horror my West
Indian experiences of the consequences of exposure to night air and
heavy dew, my mind _would_ dwell gloomily on the prospect of a
fever, at least.  It seemed a long and weary while before I
perceived a figure coming towards me; and I am afraid I was both
cross and cold and sleepy by the time we set our faces homewards.
"I have only caught three," said F---. "How many have you got?"
"None, I am happy to say," I answered peevishly, "What could Nettle
and I have done with the horrible things if we had caught any?"

The walk, or rather the stumble home, proved to be the worst part of
the expedition.  Not a ray of starlight had we to guide us,--nothing
but inky blackness around and over us. We tried to make Nettle go
first, intending to follow his lead, and trusting to his keeping the
track; but Nettle's place was at my heels, and neither coaxing nor
scolding would induce him to forego it.  A forlorn hope was nothing
to the dangers of each footstep.  First one and then the other
volunteered to lead the way, declaring they could find the track.
All this time we were trying to strike the indistinct road among the
tussocks, made by occasional wheels to our house, but the marks,
never very distinct in daylight, became perfect will-o'-the-wisps at
night.  If we crossed a sheep-track we joyfully announced that we
had found the way, but only to be undeceived the next moment by
discovering that we were returning to the creek.

From time to time we fell into and over Spaniards, and what was left
of our clothes and our flesh the wild Irishmen devoured.  We must
have got home somehow, or I should not be writing an account of it,
at this moment, but really I hardly know how we reached the house.
I recollect that the next day there was a great demand for
gold-beater's skin, and court-plaster, and that whenever F--- and
Mr. U--- had a spare moment during the ensuing week, they devoted
themselves to performing surgical operations on each other with a
needle; and that I felt very subdued and tired for a day or two.
But there was no question of fever or cold, and I was stared at when
I inquired whether it was not dangerous to be out all night in heavy
dew after a broiling day.

We had the eels made into a pie by our shepherd, who assured me that
if I entrusted them to my cook she would send me up such an oily
dish that I should never be able to endure an eel again.  He
declared that the Maoris, who seem to have rather a horror of
grease, had taught him how to cook both eels and wekas in such a way
as to eliminate every particle of fat from both.  I had no
experience of the latter dish, but he certainly kept his word about
the eels, for they were excellent.



Chapter III: Pig-stalking.


It was much too hot in summer to go after wild pigs.  That was our
winter's amusement, and very good sport it afforded us, besides the
pleasure of knowing that we were really doing good service to the
pastoral interest, by ridding the hills around us of almost the only
enemies which the sheep have.  If the squatter goes to look after
his mob of ewes and lambs in the sheltered slopes at the back of his
run, he is pretty nearly certain to find them attended by an old sow
with a dozen babies at her heels.  She will follow the sheep
patiently from one camping ground to another, watching for a
new-born and weakly lamb to linger behind the rest, and then she
will seize and devour it.  Besides this danger, the presence of pigs
on the run keeps the sheep in an excited state.  They have an uneasy
consciousness that their foes are looking after them, and they move
restlessly up and down the hills, not stopping to feed sufficiently
to get fat.  If a sheep-farmer thinks his sheep are not in good
condition, one of the first questions he asks his shepherd is, "Are
there any pigs about?"  Our run had a good many of these troublesome
visitors on it, especially in the winter, when they would travel
down from the back country to grub up acres on acres of splendid
sheep pasture in search of roots.  The only good they do is to dig
up the Spaniards for the sake of their delicious white fibres, and
the fact of their being able to do this will give a better idea of
the toughness of a wild pig's snout than anything else I can say.

It may be strange to English ears to hear a woman of tolerably
peaceful disposition, and as the advertisements in the _Times_ so
often state, "thoroughly domesticated," aver that she found great
pleasure in going after wild pigs; but the circumstances of the ease
must be taken into consideration before I am condemned.  First of
all, it seemed terribly lonely at home if F--- was out with his
rifle all day.  Next, there was the temptation to spend those
delicious hours of a New Zealand winter's day, between ten and.
four, out of doors, wandering over hills and exploring new gullies.
And lastly, I had a firm idea that I was taking care of F---.  And
so I was in a certain sense, for if his rifle had burst, or any
accident had happened to him, and he had been unable to reach the
homestead, we should never have known where to find him, and days
would probably have passed before every nook and corner of a run
extending over many thousand acres could have been thoroughly
searched.

I had heard terrible stories of shepherds slipping down and injuring
themselves so that they could not move, and of their dead bodies
being only found after weeks of careful seeking.  F--- himself
delighted to terrify me by descriptions of narrow escapes; and, as
the pigs had to be killed, I resolved to follow in the hunter's
train.  The sport is conducted exactly like deer stalking, only it
is much harder work, and a huge boar is not so picturesque an object
as a stag of many tines, when you do catch sight of him.  There is
just the same accurate knowledge needed of the animal's habits and
customs, and the same untiring patience.  It is quite as necessary
to be a good shot, for a grey pig standing under the lee of a
boulder of exactly his own colour is a much more difficult object to
hit from the opposite side of a ravine than a stag; and a wild boar
is every whit as keen of scent and sharp of eye and ear as any
antlered "Monarch of the Glen."

Imagine then a beautiful winter's morning without wind or rain.
There has been perhaps a sharp frost over-night, but after a couple
of hours of sunshine the air is as warm and bright as midsummer.  We
used to be glad enough of a wood fire at breakfast; but after that
meal had been eaten we went into the verandah, open to the
north-east (our warm quarter), which made a delicious winter
parlour, and basked in the blazing sunshine.  I used often to bring
out a chair and a table, and work and read there all the morning,
without either hat or jacket.  But it sometimes happened that once
or twice a week, on just such a lovely morning, F--- would proclaim
his intention of going out to look for pigs, and, sooner than be
left behind, I nearly always begged to be allowed to come too.
There was no fear of my getting tired or lagging behind; and as I
was willing to make myself generally useful, by carrying the
telescope, a revolver for close quarters, and eke a few sandwiches,
the offer of my company used to be graciously accepted.  We could
seldom procure the loan of a good pig-dog, and after one excursion
with a certain dog of the name of "Pincher," I preferred going out
by ourselves.

 On that occasion F--- did not take his rifle, as there was no
chance of getting a long shot at our game; for the dog would surely
bring the pig to bay, and then the hunter must trust to a revolver
or the colonial boar-spear, half a pair of shears (I suppose it
should be called _a shear_) bound firmly on a flax stick by green
flax-leaves.  We had heard of pigs having been seen by our
out-station shepherd at the back of the run, and as we were not
encumbered by the heavy rifle, we mounted our horses and rode as far
as we could towards the range where the pigs had been grubbing up
the hill sides in unmolested security for some time past.  Five
miles from home the ground became so rough that our horses could go
no further; we therefore jumped off, tied them to a flax-bush,
taking off the saddles in case they broke loose, and proceeded on
foot over the jungly, over-grown saddle.  On the other side we came
upon a beautiful gully, with a creek running through it, whose banks
were so densely fringed with scrub that we could not get through to
the stream, which we heard rippling amid the tangled shrubs.  If we
could only have reached the water our best plan would have been to
get into it and follow its windings up the ravine; but even Pincher
could hardly squeeze and burrow through the impenetrable fence of
matapo and goi, which were woven together by fibres of a thorny
creeper called "a lawyer" by the shepherds.


It was very tantalising, for in less than five minutes we heard
trusty Pincher "speaking" to a boar, and knew that he had baled it
up against a tree, and was calling to us to come and help him.  F---
ran about like a lunatic, calling out; "Coming Pincher: round him
up, good dog!" and so forth; but they were all vain promises, for he
could not get in.  I did my best in searching for an opening, and
gave many false hopes of having found one.  At last I said, "If I
run up the mountain side, and look down on that mass of scrub,
perhaps I may see some way into it from above."  "No: do you stay
here, and see, if the pig breaks cover, which way he goes."  Up the
steep hill, therefore, F--- rushed, as swiftly and lightly as one of
his own mountain sheep; and in a minute or two I saw him standing,
revolver in hand, on an overhanging rock, peering anxiously down on
the leafy mass below.

Pincher and the creek made such a noise between them that I could
not hear what F--- said, and only guessed from his despairing
gestures that there was no trap door visible in the green roof.  I
signalled as well as I could that he was to come down directly, for
his-standing-place looked most insecure.  Insecure indeed it proved.
As I spoke the great fragment of rock loosely embedded in earth on
the mountain side gave way with a crash, and came tumbling
majestically down on the top of the scrub.  As for F---, he
described a series of somersaults in the air, which however
agreeable in themselves, were very trying to the nerves of the
spectatrix below.  My first dread was least the rock should crush
him, but to my great joy I saw at once that it was rolling slowly
down the hill, whilst F---'s vigorous bound off it as it gave way,
had carried him well into the middle of the leafy cushion beneath
him, where he presently landed flat on his back!

I expected every moment to hear the revolver go off, but mercifully
it did not do so; and as his thorny bed was hardly to be endured, 
F--- soon kicked himself off it, and before I could realize that he
was unhurt, had scrambled to his feet, and was rushing off, crying
in school-boy glee, "That will fetch him out"  That (the rock)
certainly did fetch him (the pig) out in a moment, and Pincher
availed himself of the general confusion to seize hold of his
enemy's hind leg, which he never afterwards let go.  The boar kept
snapping and champing his great tusks; but Pincher, even with the
leg in his mouth, was too active to be caught: so as the boar found
that it was both futile and undignified to try to run away with a
dog hanging on his hind-quarters, he tried another plan.  Making for
a clump of Ti-ti palms he went to bay, and contrived to take up a
very good defensive position.  Pincher would have never given up his
mouthful of leg if F--- had not called him off, for it seemed
impossible to fire the revolver whilst the dog held on.  This change
of tactics was much against Pincher's judgment, and he kept rushing
furiously in between F--- and the boar.  As for me, I prudently
retired behind a big boulder, on which I could climb if the worst
came to the worst, and called out from time to time, to both dog and
man, "Oh, don't!"

They did not even hear me, for the din of battle was loud.  The pig
dodged about so fast, that although F---'s bullets lodged in the
palm tree at his back, not one struck a vulnerable part, and at last
F---, casting his revolver behind him for me to pick up and reload,
closed with his foe, armed only with the shear-spear.  Pincher
considered this too dangerous, and rushed in between them to
distract the boar's attention.  Just as F--- aimed a thrust at his
chest,--for it was of no use trying to penetrate his hide,--the boar
lowered his head, caught poor faithful Pincher's exposed flank, and
tore it open with his razor-like tusk; but in the meantime the spear
had gone well home into his brawny chest, exactly beneath the left
shoulder, and his life-blood came gushing out.  I was so infuriated
at the sight of Pincher's frightful wound that I felt none of my
usual pity for the victim; and rushing up to F--- with the revolver,
of which only a couple of chambers were loaded, thrust it into his
hand with an entreaty to "kill him quickly."  This F--- was quite
willing to do for his own sake, as a wounded boar is about the most
dangerous beast on earth; and although the poor brute kept snapping
at the broken flax-stick sticking in his heart, he fired a steady
shot which brought the pig on his knees, only to roll over dead the
next moment.

I cannot help pausing to say that I sewed up Pincher's wound then
and there, with some of the contents of my Cambusmore house-wife;
which always accompanied me on my sporting expeditions, and we
carried him between us down to where the horses were fastened.
There I mounted; and F--- lifting the faithful creature on my lap,
we rode slowly home, dipping our handkerchiefs in cold water at
every creek we crossed, and laying them on his poor flank.  He was
as patient and brave as possible, and bore his sufferings and
weakness for days afterwards in a way which was a lesson to one, so
grateful and gentle was he.  His brave and sensible behaviour met
its due reward in a complete though slow recovery.

I have only left myself space for one little sketch more; but it
comes so vividly before me that I cannot shut it out.  After a long
day's walking, over the hills and vallies, so beautiful beneath our
azure winter-sky, walking which was delightful as an expedition, but
unsuccessful as to sport, we crossed the track of a large boar.  We
knew he was old by his being alone, and it was therefore very
certain that he would show fight if we came up with him.  Patiently
we followed the track over a low saddle, through a clump of
brushwood menuka, the broken twigs of which showed how large an
animal had just passed by.  Here and there a freshly grubbed-up
Spaniard showed where he had paused for a snack; but at length we
dropped down on the river bed, with its wide expanse of shingle, and
there we lost all clue to our game.

After a little hesitation, F--- decided on climbing a high cliff on
the right bank of the river, and trying to catch a glimpse of him.
The opposite hill-side was gaunt and bare; a southern aspect shut
out the sun in winter, and. for all its rich traces of copper ore,
"Holkam's Head" found no favour in the eyes of either shepherds or
master.  Grass would not grow there except in summer, and its gray,
shingly sides were an eye-sore to its owner.  We sat down on the
cliff, and looked around carefully.  Presently F--- said, in a
breathless whisper of intense delight, "I see him."  In vain I
looked and looked, but nothing could my stupid eyes discover.  "Lie
down," said F--- to me, just as if I had been a dog.  I crouched as
low as possible, whilst F---settled himself comfortably flat on his
stomach, and prepared to take a careful aim at the opposite side of
the hill.

After what seemed a long time, he pulled his rifle's trigger, and
the flash and crack was followed apparently by one of the gray
boulders opposite leaping up, and then rolling heavily down the
hill.  F--- jumped up in triumph crying, "Come along, and don't
forget the revolver." When we had crossed the river, reckless of
getting wet to our waists in icy-cold water, F--- took the revolver
from me and went first; but, after an instant's examination, he
called out, "Dead as a door-nail! come and look at him."  So I came,
with great caution, and a more repulsive and disgusting sight cannot
be imagined than the huge carcass of our victim already stiffening
in death.  The shot had been a fortunate one, for only an inch away
from the hole the bullet had made his shoulders were regularly
plated with thick horny scales, off which a revolver bullet would
have glanced harmlessly, and he bore marks of having fought many and
many a battle with younger rivals.  His huge tusks were notched and
broken, and he had evidently been driven out from among his fellows
as a quarrelsome member of their society. Already the keen-eyed
hawks were hovering above the great monster, and we left him to his
fate in the solitary river gorge, where all was bleak and cold and
gloomy,--a fitting death-place for the fierce old warrior.



Chapter IV: Skating in the back country.


I do not believe that even in Canada the skating can be better than
that which was within our reach in the Malvern Hills.  Among our
sheltered valleys an sunny slopes the hardest frost only lasted a
few hour after dawn; but twenty-five miles further back, on the
border of the glacier region, the mountain tarns could boast of ice
several feet thick all the winter.  We heard rumours of far-inland
lakes, across which heavily-laden bullock-teams could pass in
perfect safety for three months of the year, and we grumbled at the
light film over our own large ponds, which would not bear even my
little terrier's weight after mid-day: and yet it was cold enough at
night, during our short bright winters, to satisfy the most
icy-minded person.  I think I have mentioned before that the wooden
houses in New Zealand, especially those roughly put together
up-country, are by no means weather-tight.  Disagreeable as this may
be, it is doubtless the reason of the extraordinary immunity from
colds and coughs which we hill-dwellers enjoyed.  Living between
walls formed by inch-boards over-lapping each other, and which can
only be made to resemble English rooms by being canvassed and
papered inside, the pure fresh air finds its way in on all sides.  A
hot room in winter is an impossibility, in spite of drawn curtains
and blazing fires, therefore the risk of sudden changes of
temperature is avoided.

Some such theory as this is absolutely necessary to account for the
wonderfully good health enjoyed by all, in the most capricious and
trying climate I have ever come across.  When a strong nor'-wester
was howling down the glen, I have seen the pictures on my
drawing-room walls blowing out to an angle of 45 degrees, although
every door and window in the little low wooden structure had been
carefully closed for hours.  It has happened to me more than once,
on getting up in the morning, to find my clothes, which had been
laid on a chair beneath my bedroom window overnight, completely
covered by powdered snow, drifting in through the ill-fitting
casement.  This same window was within a couple of feet of my bed,
and between me and it was neither curtain nor shelter of any sort.
Of a winter's evening I have often been obliged to wrap myself up in
a big Scotch maud, as I sat, dressed in a high linsey gown, by a
blazing fire, so hard was the frost outside; but by ten o'clock next
morning I would be loitering about the verandah, basking in the
sunshine, and watching the light flecks of cloud-wreaths and veils
floating against an Italian-blue sky.  Yet such is the inherent
discontent of the human heart, that instead of rejoicing in this
lovely mid-day sunshine, we actually mourned over the vanished ice
which at daylight had been found, by a much-envied early riser,
strong enough to slide on for half an hour.  It seemed almost
impossible to believe that any one had been sliding that morning
within a few feet of where I sat working in a blaze of sunshine,
with my pretty grey and pink Australian parrot pluming itself on the
branch of a silver wattle close by, and "Joey," the tiny monkey from
Panama, sitting on the skirt of my gown, with a piece of its folds
arranged by himself shawl-wise over his glossy black shoulders.  If
either of these tropical pets had been left out after four o'clock
that sunny day, they, would have been frozen to death before our
supper time.

It was just on such a day as this, and in just such a bright mid-day
hour, that a distant neighbour of ours rode up to the garden gate,
leading a pack horse.  Outside the saddle-bags, with which this
animal was somewhat heavily laden, could be plainly seen a beautiful
new pair of Oxford skates, glinting in the sunshine; and it must
have been the sight of these beloved implements which called forth
the half-envious remark from one of the gentlemen, "I suppose you
have lots of skating up at your place?"

"Well, not exactly at my station, but there is a capital lake ten
miles from my house where I am sure of a good day's skating any time
between June and August," answered Mr. C. H---, our newly arrived
guest.

We all looked at each other. I believe I heaved a deep sigh, and
dropped my thimble, which "Joey" instantly seized, and with a low
chirrup of intense delight, commenced to poke down between the
boards of the verandah.  It was too bad of us to give such broad
hints by looks if not by words.  Poor Mr. C. H--- was a bachelor in
those days: he had not been at his little out-of-the-way homestead
for some weeks, and was ignorant of its resources in the way of
firing (always an important matter at a station), or even of tea and
mutton.  He had no woman-servant, and was totally unprepared for an
incursion of skaters; and yet,--New Zealand fashion,--no sooner did
he perceive that we were all longing and pining for some skating,
than he invited us all most cordially to go up to his back-country
run the very next day, with him, and skate as long as we liked.
This was indeed a delightful prospect, the more especially as it
happened to be only Monday, which gave us plenty of time to be back
again by Sunday, for our weekly service.  We made it a rule never to
be away from home on that day, lest any of our distant congregation
should ride their twenty miles or so across country and find us
absent.

When the host is willing and the guests eager, it does not take long
to arrange a plan, so the next morning found three of us, besides
Mr. C. H--- mounted and ready to start directly after breakfast.  I
have often been asked how I managed in those days about toilette
arrangements, when it was impossible to carry any luggage except a
small "swag," closely packed in a waterproof case and fastened on
the same side as the saddle-pocket.  First of all I must assure my
lady readers that I prided myself on turning out as neat and natty
as possible at the end of the journey, and yet I rode not only in my
every-day linsey gown, which could be made long or short at
pleasure, but in my crinoline.  This was artfully looped up on the
right side and tied by a ribbon, in such a way that when I came out
ready dressed to mount, no one in the world could have guessed that
I had on any _cage_ beneath my short riding habit with a loose tweed
jacket over the body of the dress.  Within the "swag" was stowed a
brush and comb, collar, cuffs and handkerchiefs, a little necessary
linen, a pair of shoes, and perhaps a ribbon for my hair if I meant
to be very smart.  On this occasion we all found that our skates
occupied a terribly large proportion both of weight and space in our
modest kits, but still we were much too happy to grumble.

Where could you find a gayer quartette than started at an easy
canter up the valley that fresh bracing morning?  From the very
first our faces were turned to the south-west, and before us rose
the magnificent chain of the Southern Alps, with their bold snowy
peaks standing out in a glorious dazzle against the cobalt sky.  A
stranger, or colonially speaking, a "new chum," would have thought
we must needs cross that barrier-range before we could penetrate any
distance into the back country, but we knew of long winding vallies
and gullies running up between the giant slopes, which would lead
us, almost without our knowing how high we had climbed, up to the
elevated but sheltered plateau among the back country ranges where
Mr. C. H---'s homestead stood.  There was only one steep saddle to
be crossed, and that lay between us and Rockwood, six miles off.  It
was the worst part of the journey for the horses, so we had easy
consciences in dismounting and waiting an hour when we reached that
most charming and hospitable of houses.  I had just time for one
turn round the beautiful garden, where the flowers and shrubs of old
England grew side by side with the wild and lovely blossoms of our
new island home, when the expected coo-e rang out shrill and clear
from the rose-covered porch.  It was but little past mid-day when we
made our second start, and set seriously to work over fifteen miles
of fairly good galloping ground.  This distance brought us well up
to the foot of a high range, and the last six miles of the journey
had to be accomplished in single file, and with great care and
discretion, for the track led through bleak desolate vallies, round
the shoulder of abutting spurs, through swamps, and up and down
rocky staircases.  Mr. C. H--- and his cob both knew the way well
however, and my bay mare Helen had the cleverest legs and the wisest
as well as prettiest head of her race.  If left to herself she
seldom made a mistake, and the few tumbles she and I ever had
together, took place only when she found herself obliged to go my
way instead of her own.  We entered the gorges of the high mountains
between us and the west, and soon lost the sun; even the brief
winter twilight faded away more swiftly than usual amid those dark
defiles; and it was pitch dark, though only five o'clock, when we
heard a sudden and welcome clamour of dog voices.

These deep-mouthed tones invariably constitute the first notes of a
sheep-station's welcome; and a delightful sound it is to the belated
and bewildered traveller, for besides guiding his horse to the right
spot, the noise serves to bring out some one to see who the
traveller may be.  On this occasion we heard one man say to the
other, "It's the boss:" so almost before we had time to dismount
from our tired horses (remember they had each carried a heavy "swag"
besides their riders), lights gleamed from the windows of the little
house, and a wood fire sparkled and sputtered on the open hearth.
Mr. C. H--- only just guided me to the door of the sitting-room,
making an apology and injunction together,--"Its very rough I am
afraid: but you can do what you like;"--before he hastened back to
assist his guests in settling their horses comfortably for the
night.  Labour used to be so dear and wages so high, especially in
the back country of New Zealand, that the couple of men,--one for
indoor work, to saw wood, milk, cook, sweep, _wash_, etc., and the
other to act as gardener, groom, ploughman, and do all the numerous
odd jobs about a place a hundred miles and more from the nearest
shop,--represented a wage-expenditure of at least 200 pounds a year.
Every gentleman therefore as a matter of course sees to his own
horse when he arrives unexpectedly at a station, and I knew I should
have at least half an hour to myself.

The first thing to do was to let down my crinoline, for I could only
walk like a crab in it when it was fastened up for riding, kilt up
my linsey gown, take off my hat and jacket, and set to work  The
curtains must be drawn close, and the chairs moved out from their
symmetrical positions against the wall; then I made an expedition
into the kitchen, and won the heart of the stalwart cook, who was
already frying chops over the fire, by saying in my best German," I
have come to help you with the tea."  Poor man! it was very unfair,
for Mr. C. H--- had told me during our ride that his servitor was a
German, and I had employed the last long hour of the journey in
rubbing up my exceedingly rusty knowledge of that language, and
arranging one or two effective sentences.  Poor Karl's surprise and
delight knew no bounds, and he burst forth into a long monologue, to
which I could find no readier answers than smiles and nods, hiding
my inability to follow up my brilliant beginning under the pretence
of being very busy.  By the time the gentlemen had stabled and fed
the horses and were ready, Karl and I between us had arranged a
bright cosy little apartment with a capital tea-dinner on the table.
After this meal there were pipes and toddy, and as I could not
retire, like Mrs. Micawber at David Copperfield's supper party, into
the adjoining bedroom and sit by myself in the cold, I made the best
of the somewhat dense clouds of smoke with which I was soon
surrounded, and listened to the fragmentary plans for the next day.
Then we all separated for the night, and in two minutes I was fast
asleep in a little room no bigger than the cabin of a ship, with an
opossum rug on a sofa for my bed and bedding.

It was cold enough the next morning, I assure you: so cold that it
was difficult to believe the statement that all the gentlemen had
been down at daybreak to bathe in the great lake which spread like
an inland sea before the bay-window of the little sitting room.
This lake, the largest of the mountain chain, never freezes, on
account partly of its great depth, and also because of its sunny
aspect.  Our destination lay far inland, and if we meant to have a
good long day's skating we must start at once.  Such a perfect day
as it was!  I felt half inclined to beg off the first day on the
ice, and to spend my morning wandering along the rata-fringed shores
of Lake Coleridge, with its glorious enclosing of hills which might
fairly be called mountains; but I feared to seem capricious or lazy,
when really my only difficulty was in selecting a pleasure.  The sun
had climbed well over the high barriers which lay eastwards, and was
shining brightly down through the quivering blue ether overhead; the
frost sparkled on every broad flax-blade or slender tussock-spine,
as if the silver side of earth were turned outwards that winter
morning.

No sooner had we mounted (with no "swag" except our skates this
time) than Mr. C. H--- set spurs to his horse, and bounded over the
slip-rail of the paddock before Karl could get it down.  We were too
primitive for gates in those parts: they only belonged to the
civilization nearer Christchurch; and I had much ado to prevent my
pony from following his lead, especially as the other gentlemen were
only too delighted to get rid of some of their high spirits by a
jump.  However Karl got the top rail down for me, and "Mouse" hopped
over the lower one gaily, overtaking the leader of the expedition in
a very few strides.  We could not keep up our rapid pace long; for
the ground became terribly broken and cut up by swamps, quicksands,
blind creeks, and all sorts of snares and pit-falls.  Every moment
added to the desolate grandeur of the scene.  Bleak hills rose up on
either hand, with still bleaker and higher peaks appearing beyond
them again.  An awful silence, unbroken by the familiar cheerful
sound of the sheep calling to each other,--for even the hardy merino
cannot live in these ranges during the winter months,--brooded
around us, and the dark mass of a splendid "bush," extending over
many hundred acres, only added to the lonely grandeur of the scene.
We rode almost the whole time in a deep cold shade, for between us
and the warm sun-rays were such lofty mountains that it was only for
a few brief noontide moments he could peep over their steep sides.

After two hour's riding, at the best pace which we could keep up
through these terrible gorges, a sharp turn of the track brought us
full in view of our destination.  I can never forget that first
glimpse of Lake Ida.  In the cleft of a huge, gaunt, bare hill,
divided as if by a giant hand, lay a large _black_ sheet of ice.  No
ray of sunshine ever struck it from autumn until spring, and it
seemed impossible to imagine our venturing to skate merrily in such
a sombre looking spot.  But New-Zealand sheep farmers are not
sentimental I am afraid.  Beyond a rapid thought of self-
congratulation that such "cold country" was not on _their_ run, they
did not feel affected by its eternal silence and gloom.  The ice
would bear, and what more could skater's heart desire?  At the end
of the dark tarn, nearest to the track by which we had approached
it, stood a neat little hut; and judge of my amazement when, as we
rode up to it, a young gentleman, looking as if he was just going
out for a day's deer-stalking, opened the low door and came out to
greet us.  Yes, here was one of those strange anomalies peculiar to
the colonies.  A young man, fresh from his University, of refined
tastes and cultivated intellect, was leading here the life of a
boor, without companionship or appreciation of any sort.  His "mate"
seemed to be a rough West countryman, honest and well meaning
enough, but utterly unsuited to Mr. K---.  It was the old story, of
wild unpractical ideas hastily carried out.  Mr. K--- had arrived in
New Zealand a couple of years before, with all his worldly wealth,--
1,000 pounds.  Finding this would not go very far in the purchase of
a good sheep-run, and hearing some calculations about the profit to
be derived from breeding cattle, based upon somebody's lucky
speculation, he eagerly caught at one of the many offers showered
upon unfortunate "new chums," and bought the worst and bleakest bit
of one of the worst and bleakest runs in the province.  The
remainder of his money was laid out in purchasing stock; and now he
had sat down patiently to await, in his little hut, until such time
as his brilliant expectations would be realized.  I may say here
they became fainter and fainter year by year, and at last faded away
altogether; leaving him at the end of three lonely, dreadful years
with exactly half his capital, but double his experience.  However
this has nothing to do with my story, except that I can never think
of our skating expedition to that lonely lake, far back among those
terrible hills, without a thrill of compassion for the only living
human being, who dwelt among them.

It was too cold to dawdle about, however, that day.  The frost lay
white and hard upon the ground, and we felt that we were cruel in
leaving our poor horses standing to get chilled whilst we amused
ourselves.  Although my beloved Helen was not there, having been
exchanged for the day in favour of Master Mouse, a shaggy pony,
whose paces were as rough as its coat, I begged a red blanket from
Mr. K---, and covered up Helen's stable companion, whose sleek skin
spoke of a milder temperature than that on Lake Ida's "gloomy
shore."  Our simple arrangements were soon made.  Mr. K--- left
directions to his mate to prepare a repast consisting of tea, bread,
and mutton for us, and, each carrying our skates, we made the best
of our way across the frozen tussocks to the lake.  Mr. K--- proved
an admirable guide over its surface, for he was in the habit during
the winter of getting all his firewood out of the opposite "bush,"
and bringing it across the lake on sledges drawn by bullocks.  We
accused him of having cut up our ice dreadfully by these means; but
he took us to a part of the vast expanse where an unbroken field of
at least ten acres of ice stretched smoothly before us.  Here were
no boards marked "DANGEROUS," nor any intimation of the depth of
water beneath.  The most timid person could feel no apprehension on
ice which seemed more solid than the earth; so accordingly in a few
moments we had buckled and strapped on our skates, and were skimming
and gliding--and I must add, falling--in all directions.  We were
very much out of practice at first, except Mr. K---, who skated
every day, taking short cuts across the lake to track a stray heifer
or explore a blind gully.

I despair of making my readers see the scene as I saw it, or of
conveying any adequate idea of the intense, the appalling loneliness
of the spot.  It really seemed to me as if our voices and laughter,
so far from breaking the deep eternal silence, only brought it out
into stronger relief.  On either hand rose up, shear from the waters
edge, a great, barren, shingly mountain; before us loomed a dark
pine forest, whose black shadows crept up until they merged in the
deep _crevasses_ and fissures of the Snowy Range.  Behind us
stretched the winding gullies by which we had climbed to this
mountain tarn, and Mr. K---'s little hut and scrap of a garden and
paddock gave the one touch of life, or possibility of life, to this
desolate region.  In spite of all scenic wet blankets we tried hard
to be gay, and no one but myself would acknowledge that we found the
lonely grandeur of our "rink" too much for us.  We skated away
perseveringly until we were both tired and hungry, when we returned
to Mr. K---'s hut, took a hasty meal, and mounted our chilled
steeds.  Mr. C. H---  insisted on bringing poor Mr. K--- back with
us, though he was somewhat reluctant to come, alleging that a few
days spent in the society of his kind made the solitude of his
weather-board hut all the more dreary.  The next day and yet the
next we returned to our gloomy skating ground, and when I turned
round in my saddle as we rode away on Friday evening, for a last
look at Lake Ida lying behind us in her winter black numbness, her
aspect seemed more forbidding than ever, for only the bare steep
hill-sides could be seen; the pine forest and white distant
mountains were all blotted and blurred out of sight by a heavy pall
of cloud creeping slowly up.

"Let us ride fast," cried Mr. K---, "or we shall have a sou'-wester
upon us;" so we galloped home as quickly as we could, over ground
that I don't really believe I could summon courage to walk across,
ever so slowly, to-day,--but then one's nerves and courage are in
very different order out in New Zealand to the low standard which
rules for ladies in England, who "live at home in ease!"  Long
before we reached home the storm was pelting us: my little jacket
was like a white board when I took it off, for the sleet and snow
had frozen as it fell. I was wet to the skin, and so numb with cold
I could hardly stand when we reached home at last in the dark and
down-pour.  I could only get my things very imperfectly dried, and
had to manage as best I could, but yet no one even thought of making
the inquiry next morning when I came out to breakfast, "Have you
caught cold?"  It would have seemed a ridiculous question.



Chapter V: Toboggon-ing.

I cannot resist the temptation to touch upon one of the winter
amusements which came to us two years later.  Yet the word
"amusement" seems out of place, no one in the Province having much
heart to amuse themselves, for the great snow storm of August, 1867,
had just taken place, and we were in the first days of bewilderment
at the calamity which had befallen us all.  A week's incessant
snow-fall, accompanied by a fierce and freezing south-west wind, had
not only covered the whole of the mountains from base to brow with
shining white, through which not a single dark rock jutted, but had
drifted on the plains for many feet deep.  Gullies had been filled
up by the soft, driving flakes, creeks were bridged over, and for
three weeks and more all communication between the stations and the
various townships was cut off.  The full extent of our losses was
unknown to us, and dreary as were our forebodings of misfortune,
none of us guessed that snow to be the winding sheet of half a
million of sheep.  The magnificent semi-circle of the Southern Alps
stood out, for a hundred miles from north to south, in appalling
white distinctness, and no one in the whole Colony had ever seen the
splendid range thus free from fleck or flaw.  We had done all we
could within working distance, but what was, the use of digging in
drifts thirty feet deep?  Amidst, and almost above, the terrible
anxiety about our own individual safety,--for the snow was over the
roof of many of the station-houses,--came the pressing question,
"Where are the sheep?"  A profound silence unbroken by bleat of
lamb, or bark of dog, or any sound of life, had reigned for many
days, when a merciful north-westerly gale sprung, up, and releasing
the heavily-laden earth from its white bondage, freed the miserable
remnant of our flocks and herds. At least, I should say, it freed
those sheep which had travelled down to the vallies, driven before
the first pitiless gusts, but we knew that many hundreds, if not
thousands, of wethers must have been surprised and imprisoned far
back among the hills.

Such knowledge could not be acted upon, however, for no human being
could hope to plunge through the drifts around us.  Old shepherds
who had lived on the run for fifteen years, confessed that they did
not know their way fifty yards from the homestead.  The vallies were
filled up, so that one gully looked precisely like its fellow;
rocks, scrub, Ti-ti palms, all our local land-marks had disappeared;
not a fence or gate could be seen in all the country side.  Here and
there a long wave-like line in the smooth mass would lead us to
suppose that a wire fence lay buried beneath its curves, but we had
no means of knowing for certain.  Near the house every shrub and
out-building, every hay-stack or wood-heap, had all been covered up,
and no man might even guess where they lay.

This had been the terrible state of things, and although the blessed
warm wind had removed our immediate and pressing fear of starvation,
we could not hope to employ ourselves in searching for our missing
sheep for many days to come.  None of us had been able to take any
exercise for more than a fortnight, and having done all that could
possibly be done near at hand, F--- set to work to manufacture some
sledges out of old packing-cases.  Quite close to the house, a hill
sloped smoothly for about 300 yards, at an angle of 40 degrees;
along its side lay a perfectly level and deep drift, which did not
show any signs of thawing for more than a month, and we resolved to
use this as a natural _Montagne Russe_.  The construction of a
suitable sledge was the first difficulty to be surmounted, and many
were the dismal failures and break-neck catastrophes which preceded
what we considered a safe and successful vehicle.  Not only was it
immensely difficult to make, without either proper materials or
tools, a sledge which could hold two people (for F--- declared it
was no fun sleighing alone), but his "patent brakes" proved the most
broken of reeds to lean upon when the sledge was dashing down the
steep incline at the rate of a thousand miles an hour.

We nearly broke our necks more than once, and I look back now with
amazement to our fool-hardiness.  How well I remember one
expedition, when F---, who had been hammering away in a shed all the
morning, came to find me sitting in the sun in the verandah, and to
inform me that at last he had perfected a conveyance which would
combine speed with safety.  Undaunted by previous mishaps, I sallied
forth, and in company with Mr. U--- and F---, climbed painfully up
the high hill I have mentioned, by some steps which they had cut in
the frozen snow.  Without some such help we could not have kept our
footing for a moment, and as long as I live I shall never forget the
sensation of leaving my friendly Alpenstock planted in the snow, and
of seating myself on that frail sledge.  Perhaps I ought to describe
it here.  A board, about six feet long by one foot broad, with
sheet-iron nailed beneath it, and curved upwards in front; on its
upper surface a couple of battens were fixed, one quite at the
foremost end, and one half-way.  That was F---'s new patent sledge,
warranted to go faster down an incline than any other conveyance on
the surface of the earth.  I was the wretched "passenger," as he
called me, on more than one occasion, and I will briefly describe my
experiences.  "Why did you go?" is a very natural question to arise
in my reader's mind; and sitting here at my writing-table, I feel as
if I must have been a lunatic to venture.  But in those delicious
wild days, no enterprise seemed too rash or dangerous to engage in,
from mounting a horse which had never seen or felt the fluttering of
a habit, to embarking on the conveyance I have described above, and
starting down a mountain-side at the risk of a broken neck.

Well, to return to that terrible moment. I see the whole scene now.
The frail, rude sledge, with its breaks made out of a couple of
standards from a wire fence, connected by a strong iron chain; F---
seated at the back of the precious contrivance, firmly grasping a
standard in each hand; Mr. U--- clinging desperately to his
Alpen-stock with one hand, whilst with the other he helps me on to
the board; and Nettle, my dear little terrier, standing shivering on
three legs, sniffing distrustfully at the sledge.  It is extremely
difficult even to take one's place on a board a dozen inches wide.
My petticoats have to be firmly wrapped around me, and care taken
that no fold projects beyond the sledge, or I should be soon dragged
out of my frail seat.  I fix my feet firmly against the batten, and
F--- cries, "Are you ready?"  "Oh, not yet!" I gasp, clinging to Mr.
U---'s hand as if I never meant to let it go.  "Hold tight!" he
shouts.  Now what a mockery this injunction was.  I had nothing to
hold on to except my own knees, and I clasped them convulsively.
Mr. U--- says, "You're all right now," and before I can realize that
he has let go my hand, before my courage is half-way up to the
necessary height, we are off.  The breaks are slightly depressed for
the first few yards, in order to regulate our pace, and because
there is a tremendously steep pitch just at first.  Once we have
safely passed that he tilts up the standards, and our sledge shoots
like a meteor down the perfectly smooth incline.  I cannot draw my
breath, we are going at such a pace through the keen air; I give
myself up for lost.  We come to another steep pitch near the bottom
of the hill; F--- is laughing to such a degree at me that he does
not put down his breaks soon enough, and loses control of the
sledge.  We appear to leap down the dip, and then the sledge turns
first one way and then the other, its zinc prow being sometimes
up-hill and some-times down.  It seems wonderful that we keep on the
sledge, for we have no means of holding on except by pressing our
feet against the battens; yet in the grand and final upset at the
bottom of the hill, the sledge is there too, and we find we have
never parted company from it.

Will any one believe that after such a perilous journey, I could
actually be persuaded to try again?  But so it was. At first the
fright (for I was really terrified) used to make me very cross, and
I declared that I was severely hurt, if not "kilt entirely;" but
after I had shaken the snow out of my linsey skirt, and discovered
that beyond the damage to my nerves I was uninjured, F--- was quite
sure to try to persuade me to make another attempt, and I was
equally sure to yield to the temptation.  As well as my memory
serves me, we only made one really successful journey, and that was
on an occasion when we kept the breaks down the whole way.  But I
never could insure similar precautions being taken again, and we
consequently experienced every variety of mishaps possible to sledge
travellers.  I persevered however for some days until the
north-westerly wind, which was blowing softly all the time, began to
lay bare the sharpest points of the rocks, and then I gave in at
once, and would not be a "passenger" any more.  It was rather too
much to strike one's head against a jagged fragment of rock, or to
dislocate one's thumb against a concealed stump of a palm tree. Then
the sharp points of the Spaniards began to stick up through the
softening snow, and nothing would induce me to run the risk of
touching their green bayonets.  Besides which, the fast-thawing snow
made it very difficult to climb up to the top of our hill, for the
carefully-cut steps had disappeared long ago.  So I gave up sledge
journeys on my own account, and used only to look at F--- and 
Mr. U--- taking them.

These two persevered so long as an inch of snow remained on the
hill-side.  Some of their adventures were very alarming, and
certainly rather dangerous.  One afternoon I had been watching them
for more than an hour, and had seen them go through every variety of
disaster, and capsize with no further effect than increasing their
desire for "one more" trial.  On the blind-side of the hill,--that
is to say the side which gets scarcely any sun in winter,--a deep
drift of snow still lingered, filling up a furrow made in former
years by a shingle-slip.  Thither the two adventurous climbers
dragged their sledge, and down the steep incline they performed
their perilous descent many a time.  I became tired of watching the
board shoot swiftly over the white streak; and I strolled round the
shoulder of the hill, to see if there was any appearance of the
snow-fall lessening in the back country.

I must have been away about half an hour, and had made the circuit
of the little knoll which projected from the mountain side,
returning to where I expected to find sleigh and sleighers starting
perhaps on just "one more" journey.  But no one was there, and a
dozen yards or so from the usual starting-point, the snow was a good
deal ploughed up and stained in large patches by blood.  Here was an
alarming spectacle, though the only wonder was that a bad accident
had not occurred before.  I saw the sledge, deserted and broken,
near the end of the drift: of the passengers there was neither sign
nor token.  I must say I was terribly frightened, but it is useless
in New Zealand to scream or faint; the only thing to do in an
emergency is to _coo-e_; and so, although my heart was thumping
loudly in my ears, and at first I could not produce a sound, I
managed at last, after many attempts, to muster up a loud clear
_coo-e_.  There was the usual pause, whilst the last sharp note rang
back from the hill-sides, and vibrated through the clear silent air;
and then, oh, welcome sound! I heard a vigorous answer from our own
flat where the homestead stood.  I set off down-hill as fast as I
could, and had the joy, when I turned the slope which had hidden our
little house from my view, to see F--- and Mr. U--- walking about;
but even from that distance I could see that poor Mr. U---'s head
was bandaged up, and as soon as I got near enough to hear, F---
shouted "I have broken my neck!" adding, "I am very hungry: let us
go in to supper."

Under the circumstances these words were consolatory; and when I
came to hear the story, this was the way the accident happened.  As
I mentioned before, even this drift had thawed till it was soft at
the surface and worn away almost to the rocks.  During a rapid
descent the nose of the sledge dipped through the snow, and stopped
dead against a rock.  Mr. U--- was instantly buried in the snow,
falling into a young but prickly Spaniard, which assaulted him
grievously; but F--- shot over his head some ten yards, turned a
somersault, and alit on his feet.  This sounds a harmless
performance enough, but it requires practice; and F--- declared that
for weeks afterwards his neck felt twisted.  The accident must have
looked very ridiculous: the sledge one moment gliding smoothly along
at the rate of forty miles an hour,--the next a dead stop, and F---
flying through the air over his passenger's head, finishing feet
first plump down in the soft snow.

Looking back on that time, I can remember how curiously soon the
external traces of the great snow-storm disappeared.  For some weeks
after the friendly nor-wester, the air of the whole neighbourhood
was tainted by dead and decaying sheep and lambs; and the wire
fences, stock-yard rails, and every "coign of vantage," had to be
made useful but ghastly by a tapestry of sheep-skins.  The only
wonder was that a single sheep had survived a storm severe enough to
kill wild pigs.  Great boars, cased in hides an inch thick, had
perished through sheer stress of weather; while thin-skinned
animals, with only a few months growth of fine merino wool on their
backs, had endured it all.  It was well known that the actual
destruction of sheep was mainly owing to the two days of heavy rain
which succeeded the snow.  Out of a flock of 13,000 of all ages, we
lost, on the lowest calculation, 1,000 grown sheep and nearly 3,000
lambs; and yet our loss was small by comparison with that of our
neighbours, whose runs were further back among the hill, and less
sheltered than our own.

Long before midsummer our cloud-shadowed hills were green once more;
and I think I see again their beautiful outlines, their steep sides
planted with semi-tropical palms and grasses, whilst the more
distant peaks are veiled in a sultry haze.  During that peculiarly
bright and lovely summer we often ask each other, Could it have been
true that no one knew one mountain from the other, and that hills
had been apparently levelled and vallies filled up by the heaviest
snow-fall ever known.  But whilst the words were on our lips, we
could see a group of palm-trees, ten feet high, with their topmost
leaves gnawed to the stump by starving sheep, that must have been
standing on at least seven feet of snow to reach them; and there was
scarcely a creek on the run whose banks were not strewn, for many a
long day, by bare and bleaching bones.



Chapter VI: Buying a run.


Like many other people in the world, I have occasionally built
castles in the air, and equally of course they have invariably
tumbled down in due time with a crash  This particular castle
however, not only attained to a great elevation in the visionary
builder's eyes, but it covered so vast an area of land, that the
story of its rise and fall deserves to be placed on record, as a
warning to aerial architects and also as a beacon-light to young
colonists.

This was exactly the way it all happened.  The new year of 186-
found us living very quietly and happily on a small compact
sheep-farm, at the foot of the Malvern Hills, in the province of
Canterbury, New Zealand. As runs went, its dimensions were small
indeed; for we only measured it at 12,000 acres, all told.  The
great tidal wave of prosperity, which sets once in a while towards
the shores of all colonies, had that year swelled and risen to its
full force; but this we did not know.  Borne aloft upon its
unsubstantial crest we could not, from that giddy height, discern
any water-valleys of adversity or clouds of change and storm along
the shining horizon of the new world around us.  All our
calculations were based on the assumption that the existing prices
for sheep, wool, cattle, and all farm-produce, would rule for many a
long day; and the delightful part of this royal road to wealth was,
that its travellers need not exert themselves in any way: they had
only to sit still with folded hands whilst their sheep increased,
and it was well known that a flock doubled itself in three short
years.  The obvious deduction from this agreeable numerical fact
was, that in an equally short period your agent's payments to your
bank account would also be doubled.  In the meantime the drays were
busy carting the wool to the seaports as fast as they could be
loaded, whilst speculative drovers rode all about the country buying
up the fat cattle and wethers from every run.  These were wanted to
supply the West Coast Diggings which had just "broken out" (as the
curious phrase goes there), and so was every description of grain
and dairy produce.

We squatters were not the only inhabitants of this fool's paradise.
The local Government began planning extensive works: railways were
laid out in every direction, bridges planned across rivers, which
proved the despair of engineers; whilst a tunnel, the wonder of the
Southern Hemisphere, was commenced through a range of hills lying
between Port Lyttleton and Christchurch.  All this work was
undertaken on a scale of pay which made the poor immigrants who
thronged to the place by every ship, rub their eyes and believe they
must be dreaming, and that they would presently wake up and find
themselves back again in the old country, at the old starvation rate
of wages.  Small capitalists, with perhaps only one or two hundred
pounds in the world, bid against each other as purchasers of
quarter-acre sections in the fast-springing townships, or of
fifty-acre lots of arable land in the projected suburbs.
Subscriptions were raised for building a Cathedral in Christchurch;
but so dear was both labour and material, that 7,000 pounds barely
sufficed to lay its foundations.

The paramount anxiety in men's minds seemed to be to secure land.
Sheep-runs in sheltered accessible parts of the country commanded
enormous prices, and were bought in the most complicated way.  The
first comers had taken up vast tracts of land in all directions from
the Government, at an almost nominal rental.  This had happened
quite in the dark and remote ages of the history of the colony, at
least ten or twelve years before the date of which I write.  As
speculators with plenty of hard cash came down from Australia, these
original tenants sold, as it were, the good-will and stock of their
run at enormous prices; but what always seemed to me so hard was,
that after you had paid any number of thousand pounds for your run,
you might have to buy it all, or at any rate, some portion of it,
over again.  Land could only be purchased freehold from the
Government, for 2 pounds an acre; and if a "cockatoo" (i.e., a small
farmer), or a speculator in mines, fancied any part of your
property, he had only to go to the land office, and challenge your
pre-emptive rights.  The officials gave you notice of the challenge,
and six weeks' grace in which to raise the money, and buy it
freehold yourself; but few sheep-farmers could afford to pay a good
many hundred pounds unexpectedly to secure even their best "flats"
or vallies.  Hence it often happened that large runs in the most
favourable situations were cut up by small investors, "free
selectors" as they are called in Australia, and it used to be rather
absurd the way one grew to distrust any stranger who was descried
riding about the run. The poor man might be looking for a stray
horse, or have lost his way, but we always fancied he must be
"prospecting" for either gold or coals, or else be a "cockatoo"
disguised as a traveller.

Such was the state of things when my story opens.  Shearing was just
over, and we knew to a lamb how rapidly our flocks and herds were
increasing.  A succession of mild winters and early genial springs
had got the flock into capital order.  The wool had all been sent
off to Christchurch by drays, the sheep were turned out on the
beautiful green hills for ten months of perfect rest and peace;
whilst the dogs, who had barked themselves quite hoarse, were
enabled to desist from their labours in mustering and watching the
yet unshorn mobs on the vallies.  Although our run was as well
grassed and watered as any in the province, still it could not
possibly carry more than a certain number of sheep, and to that
total our returns showed that we were rapidly approaching.  The most
careful calculations warned us that by next shearing we should
hardly know what to do with our sheep.  It is always better to be
under than overstocked, for the merino gets out of condition
immediately, and even the staple of the wool deteriorates if its
wearer be at all crowded on his feeding-grounds.

"You must take up more country directly," was the invariable formula
of the advice we, comparatively "new chums," received on all sides.
This was easier to say than to do.  Turn which ever way we would,
far back beyond our own lovely vallies and green hills, back up to
the bleak region of glaciers, where miles of bush and hundreds of
acres of steep hill-side, formed the _back-est_ of "back country,"
every inch of land was taken up.  No fear had those distant
Squatters of "cockatoos," or even of miners; for no one came their
way who could possibly help it.  Still we should have been
comparatively glad to buy such a run fifty or sixty miles further
back,--at the foot, in fact of the great Southern Alps,--just as a
summer feeding-ground for the least valuable portion of our flock.
But no one was inclined to part with a single acre, and we were
forced to turn our eyes in a totally different direction.

If my readers will refer to the accompanying map of New Zealand, and
look at the Middle or South Island, they will notice a long seaboard
on the eastern side of the island, stretching SS.W. for many hundred
leagues.  It extends beyond the Province of Canterbury to that of
Otago, and embraces some of the most magnificent pastoral land in
the settlement.  Not only is the soil rich and productive, but the
climate is rather less windy than with us in the northern portion of
the island; and the capital of Otago (Dunedin) had risen into
comparative position and importance before Christchurch,--was in
short an elder sister of that pretty little town. Most of the
settlers in Otago were Scotchmen, and as there are no better
colonists anywhere, its prosperity had attained to a very
flourishing height.  Gold-digging had also broken out at the foot of
the Dunstan range, so that Otago held her head quite as high, if not
higher, than her neighbour Canterbury.  Of course all the
first-class pasture-land "down south," as it was called, had been
taken up long before; but we heard rumours of splendid sheep
country, yet unappropriated, far back towards the west coast of
Otago, just where its boundary joined Canterbury.

With our minds in this state of desire for what poor Mazzini used to
denounce as "territorial aggrandisement," we paid our usual
post-shearing visit to Christchurch.  F--- had his agent's accounts
to examine, a nice little surplus of wool-money to receive, and many
other squatting interests to attend to; whilst I had to lay in
chests of tea, barrels of sugar and rice, hundreds of yards of
candle-wick, flower-seeds, reels of cotton, and many other
miscellaneous articles.  But through all our pleasant, happy little
bustle ran the constant thought: "What shall we do for more
country?"  A day or two before the expiration of the week's leave of
absence which we always gave ourselves, F--- came into my
sitting-room at the hotel, flung down his hat on the table with an
air of triumph, and cried, "I've heard of such a splendid run!  One
hundred thousand acres of beautiful sheep-country, and going for a
mere song!"  Now I had lived long enough in the world to discover
that one sometimes danced on the wrong foot to the tune of these
"mere songs," so I cautiously inquired, "Where is it?"  F--- seemed
a little dashed that the only question which he could not answer
favourably should be the first I asked, and he replied vaguely,
"Well, it is rather a long way off, but I am sure we can manage it."
A little more sifting elicited the fact that this "desirable
investment" stretched along the shores of Lake Wanaka, famous for
its beautiful scenery, and was to be had for what. certainly seemed
a ridiculously small sum;--only a few hundred pounds. "Of course it
has no sheep on it," added F---; "but that is all the better.  I'll
burn it this year, and then turn some cattle on it, and after next
shearing we'll have a good mob of sheep to draft out and stock it."
He further added, that he had invited his man of business and the
individual who owned this magnificent property to dine with us that
evening, and that then I should hear all about it  And I may truly
say that I _did_ hear about it, for my brain reeled with figures and
calculations.  By bedtime I was wondering if we could possibly spend
the enormous fortune which would be quite certain to accrue to us in
a few years if only we could make up our minds to invest the modest
balance at our bankers in this tempting bargain.  I remember well
that I found myself wishing we were not going to be _quite_ so rich;
half our promised income would have been ample, I thought.  My
anxieties on that score turned out to have been, to say the least,
premature.

Not to make my story too long, I may briefly say that after making
due allowance for the natural exaggeration of the owner, the run on
Lake Wanaka's shores seemed certainly to offer many attractions.
Besides thousands of acres of beautiful sheltered sheep country, it
was said to possess a magnificent bush, in which sawyers were
already hard at work.  Of course all this timber would become our
own, and we were to make so much a year by selling it.  "How about
the carriage?" inquired F--- cautiously, having visions of costly
bullock-drays, and teams and drivers at fabulous wages.  "Oh, the
lake is your highway," replied the would-be seller, airily; "you
have nothing to do but lash your felled trees together, as they do
in the mahogany-growing countries, and set them afloat on the lake,
they will thus form a natural raft, and cost you little or nothing
to get down to a good market.  You know the Dunstan diggings are
just at the foot of the lake, and they haven't a stick there; timber
is very badly wanted in those parts, not only for fuel and building,
but also for slabbing the shafts which the miners sink."

By the time the coffee was served F--- had made up his mind to buy
the Lake Wanaka run; his business agent urging him strongly not to
hesitate for a moment in securing such a chance.  The negotiations
reached thus far without the least hitch, but at this point F---
said, "Well, I'll tell you what I'll do: we will start in a day or
two and go straight up to this run and look round it, and if I find
it anything like so good as you both make it out, I'll buy it on the
spot."

Never did that sociable little word "we" sound so delightful to my
ears!  "Then I am to come too," I thought to myself, but I prudently
concealed from the company that I had ever had any misgivings on
that point.  However, the company did not concern themselves with my
doubts and fears, for our two guests seemed much taken aback at this
very matter-of-fact proposal of F---'s.  "That won't do at all, my
dear fellow," said the owner of the run; "I am going to England by
the next mail steamer, which you know sails next week, and the
reason I am literally giving away my property is that I don't want
any suspense or bother.  Take it or leave it, just as you like.
There's Wilkinson and Fairwright and a lot of others all clamouring
for the refusal of it, and I've only waited to see if you really
wanted it before closing with Fairwright.  He is walking about with
a cheque all ready filled up in his pocket, and only begging and
praying me to let him have the run on my own terms.  Why you might
be weather-bound or kept there for a month, and what shall I do
then?  No, its all just as I've told you, and you can call it your
own to-morrow, but I can't possibly wait for you to go and look at
it."  No words of mine can give any idea of the tone of scorn in
which our guest pronounced these last three words; as if looking at
an intended purchase was at once the meanest and most absurd thing
in-the world.  F--- seemed half ashamed of himself for his proposal,
but still he urged that he never liked to take a leap in the dark,
backing up his opinion by several world-revered adages.  "That's all
very fine," chimed in our precious business adviser," but this
transaction can hardly be said to be in the dark; here are the plans
and the Government lease and the transfer deeds, all regular and
ready."  With this he produced the plans, and then it was all up
with us.  Who does not know the peculiar _smell_ of tracing-paper,
with its suggestions of ownership?  When these fresh and crackling
drawings were opened before us they resembled nothing so much as a
veritable paradise.  There shone the lake--a brilliant patch of
cobalt blue, bordered by outlines of vivid green pasture and belts
of timber.  Here and there, on the outskirts, we read the words,
"proposed township," "building lots," "probable gold fields," "saw
mills."  F--- laid his hand down over a large wash of light green
paint and asked," Now what sort of country is this; really and
truly, you know?"  "First class sheep country, I give you my word,"
replied the owner eagerly, "only wants to be stocked for a year or
two."

Why need I go on? It was the old, old story of misplaced confidence.
Neither F--- nor I could believe that our friends would wilfully
over-reach us, so it was settled that the first thing next morning
the money should be handed over and the Government lease transferred
to us.  We decided that as we were so far on the way to our new
property, we would go and look at it before returning to the Malvern
Hills, and the next few days were very busy ones, as we had to
arrange our small domestic affairs, send up the dray, etc., etc.  I
felt rather anxious at the postponement of our return home, for I
had left several "clutches" of eggs on the point of being hatched,
and I had grave misgivings as to the care my expected ducklings and
chickens would receive at the lands of my scatter-brained maid
servants, to say nothing of the dangers besetting them from hawks
and rats.  However, small interests must give way to great ones, and
F--- and I were already tasting the cares of proprietorship.  Our
friend, the former owner of our new property, sailed for England in
the mail steamer, in high spirits, saying cordially as he shook F---'s
hand at parting, "Well you _have_ got your fortune cut out for you,
and no mistake; I feel half sorry already to think that I've
parted with that run."  About two days after his departure, F--- who
had registered his name at the land office as the present tenant of
100,000 acres in the Lake Wanaka district, received a polite request
from official quarters to pay up the annual rent, just due,
amounting to 100 pounds or so.  We had effected our brilliant
negotiations about a week too soon it seemed, but that was our own
fault, so we had nothing to do but pay the money with as good a
grace as possible.  I am "free to confess" that this second cheque
ran our banker's account very fine indeed, but still in those palmy
days of the past this was no subject of uneasiness to a squatter.
His credit was almost unlimited, and he could always raise as much
money as he liked on an hypothecation of next year's wool.  But we
had not come to that yet.  The weather was delightful; the customary
week of heavy rain just after our midsummer Christmas, had cooled
the air and laid the dust, besides bringing out a fresh spring-like
green tint over the willows and poplars, and causing even the leaves
of the gums to lose their leather-like look for a few days.

After much consultation we decided to go by coach as far as Timaru,
and then trust to circumstances to decide our future means of
transport.  Not only were we obliged to pay a large sum for our
places but our luggage was charged for by the pound, so we found it
necessary to reduce our kit to the most modest dimensions, and only
to take what was absolutely necessary.  The journey was a long and
weary one, the only variety being caused by a strong spice of danger
at each river.  At some streams we were transferred bodily to a
large raft-like ferry boat, and so taken across.  At others the
passengers and luggage only were put into the boat, the lumbering
coach with its leathern springs left behind, whilst the horses swam
in our wake across the wide and rushing river, to be re-harnessed to
another coach on the opposite shore.  The Rakaia, Ashburton, and
Rangitata had been crossed in this way, and we had reached the
Otaio, a smaller river, when we found a new mode of transport
awaiting us.  A large dray with a couple of powerful horses was in
readiness, and into this springless vehicle we were unceremoniously
bundled.  The empty coach and horses was driven over at another part
of the stream.  I shall never forget the jolting: the river must
have been at least a quarter of a mile wide at that reach, and over
its bed of boulders and rocks we bumped  In the middle stretched a
long strip of shingle, which seemed as smooth as turf by contrast
with the first half of the river-bed.  When we charged into the
water again our driver removed his pipe from his mouth, looked over
his shoulder and remarked, "River's come down since mornin'; best
tuck up your feet, marms all."  I can answer for this "marm" tucking
up her feet with great agility, and not a moment too soon either,
for as a light wind was blowing, a playful wave came rippling over
and through the planked floor of the dray, floating all the smaller
parcels about.  But no one could speak, we were so jolted: it
literally seemed as if our spines _must_ come through the crown of
our heads, and I expected all my teeth to tumble out.

In the midst of my fright and suffering, a laugh was jolted out of
me by the absurd behaviour of one of our fellow-passengers. He was
what is called a bush carpenter: i.e., a wandering carpenter, who
travels from station to station, doing any little odd rough jobs
wanted.  This man had been working for us some time before, and had
often amused me with his quaint ways.  On this occasion he was on
his oppressively good behaviour, and sat quite silent and solemn on
the opposite ledge of the dray.  But when for the second time the
water came swirling through our rude conveyance with a force which
threatened to upset it altogether, Dale fumbled in his pocket, as if
he were seeking for a life-belt, produced an enormous pair of green
goggle spectacles, which might have made part of Moses Primrose's
purchases at the fair, and adjusting them on his nose as steadily as
he could, said gravely, "This must be looked to!"  He continued to
stare at the wash of water during the remainder of our perilous and
rough transit without vouchsafing any explanation of his meaning,
but after we had safely landed he replaced his spectacles, first in
their huge shagreen case, and next in his pocket, with an air which
seemed to say, "The danger is now over: thanks to my precautions."

Timaru was reached very late, and the best accommodation at the inn
placed at our disposal.  Still, in those distant days there was no
such thing as a private sitting room, and we had all to eat our
supper in the same rough-boarded little apartment.  But in all my
varied wanderings in different parts of the world, when the
accidents of travel have thrown me for a time among the class whom
we foolishly speak of as the lower orders, I have never yet had to
complain of the slightest inconvenience or disagreeableness from my
fellow-travellers.  On the contrary, I have always received the most
chivalrous politeness at their hands, and have noticed how ready
they were to forego their usual tastes and habits lest they should
cause me any annoyance.  I wonder whether fine gentlemen in their
splendid clubs would be quite so willing to spoil the pleasure of
their evening if any accident were to throw an unwelcome lady
amongst them?  At all events, they could not be _more_
self-sacrificing than my friends in fustian jackets have always
proved themselves, and on this particular evening the landlord of
the inn was so amazed at the orders for tea and coffee instead of
the usual "nips" of spirits, that he was constrained to inquire the
reason.  A stalwart drover who was sitting opposite to me at the
rude table, murmured from the depths of his great beard, in an
oracular whisper, "The smell of speerits might'nt be agreeble like
to the lady."  In vain I protested that I did not mind it in the
least; tea and coffee was the order of the evening, and solemn
silence and good behaviour.  No smoking, no songs, no conviviality
of any sort.  I would fain have shown my appreciation of their
courtesy by talking to them; but alas, I was one vast ache all over!
Although the road had been a dead level, sixteen hours of jolting
and bumping had reduced me to a limp, black-and-blue creature, with
out a word or a smile.  Of course I retired to what was literally a
pallet, and a very hard pallet too, as early as possible, but even
after I had vanished behind the thin wooden partition which formed
my bedroom, the greatest silence and decorum continued to reign
among my fellow-travellers.



Chapter VII: "Buying a run."--continued.


Early the next morning we all breakfasted together, and then
separated with most polite adieux.  We sallied forth to look for a
couple of riding horses.  There were none to be hired, so we had to
buy two good-looking nags for 45 pounds a-piece.  Now-a-days the
same horses would not fetch more than 10 pounds and I have been told
that in Australia you can buy a horse for a shilling, but ours in
New Zealand have never sunk lower than a couple of pounds, if they
had any legs at all.  It seemed to the horse-dealer quite a
superfluous question when I timidly inquired if my horse had ever
carried a lady.  "No: I can't just say as he has, mum, as you see
there aint no ladies in these parts for him to carry.  But," he
added magnanimously, "I'll try him with a blanket fust, if you're at
all oneasy about him."  We did not start until the next day, as we
had to hunt up side-saddles, and I had to sew a few yards of grey
linsey into a riding-skirt; but by the following day we were all
ready, and our "swags" packed and strapped to the saddles by nine
o'clock.  F---'s horse looked a very nice one in every respect; mine
was evidently uneasy in his mind at the strange shape of his saddle,
and I was recommended to mount outside the little enclosure, on a
patch of open ground, where my steed would not be able to brush me
off.  The moment I mounted, the "Hermit" as he was called, made for
a dry ditch and tried to lie down, but a sharp cut from a stock-whip
brought him out of it, and then he laid his ears well back and
started for a good gallop, to endeavour to get rid of his strange
rider.  However, his head was turned in the right direction; there
were no obstacles in the way, and before he got tired of his pace we
had left Timaru a good many miles behind us.  F--- looked
complacently at the "Hermit," and observed, "He'll carry you very
nicely, I think."  I could only breathe a sincere hope that he
might.

It was a beautiful day, warm but not oppressive, and delightfully
calm.  Our road lay at first along the sea-shore.  Ever since we had
left Christchurch the ground had been almost level, and the road
consisted merely of a track cleared from tussocks. On our left
extended the vast strip known as the Ninety-miles Beach, whilst far
on our right, between us and the west coast, the Southern Alps, rose
in all their might and beauty, sometimes lightly veiled by a summer
haze, at others cutting our Italian-blue sky sharp and clear with
their grand outlines. Our horses were a trifle too fat for good
condition, and we feared to hurry them the first day, so we made an
early halt at Mahiki, only a twenty miles stage; but the next day
they took us on to Waitaki Ferry, past a splendid bush, and so into
the heart of the hill country.

Between the ranges, beautiful fertile valleys extended; when I say
fertile, I mean that the soil was excellent, and the land
well-grassed.  But there was no cultivation. Not a sod had ever been
turned there since the creation of the world, and the whole country
wore the peculiar yellow tinge caught from the tall waving tussocks,
which is the prevailing feature of New Zealand scenery _au naturel_.
Every acre had been "taken up," but as yet the runs were rather
understocked.  Our fourth day's ride was the longest,--fifty-five
miles in all, though we halted for a couple of hours at a miserable
accommodation house.  Our bivouac that night was close to Lake
Wanaka, at the Molyneux Ferry-house, and there I was kept awake all
night by the attentions of a cat.  I never saw such a ridiculous
animal.  Prince, for that was his name, took the greatest fancy to
me, or rather to my woollen skirt I suppose, and found a linsey lap
much more comfortable than the corduroy knees on which he took his
usual evening nap.  At all events he followed me into my room, which
only boasted of a mattress, stuffed with tussock-grass by the way,
on the floor.  Here I should have slept very well after my long
journey, if Prince would have permitted it.  In vain I put him out
of the window, not always very gently; he returned in five minutes,
bringing a palpitating, just-caught bird or mouse, which he softly
dropped on my face, and purred loudly with delight at his own
gallantry.  Twenty times did I strike a match that night and try to
restore the victims to life; only one recovered sufficiently to be
released, and Prince brought it in again, quite dead, five minutes
later.  I shut the little casement window, but the room became so
hot and stuffy, and suspicious fumes of stale beer and tobacco began
to assert their presence, so that I found myself obliged to open it
again.  Sometimes the victim's bones were crunched close to my ear,
and I found more than one feather in my hair in the morning.  Never
was any one so persecuted by a cat as I was by Prince that weary
night.

The next day we got to a station known as "Johnson's."  It was just
at the head of the lake, and as we arrived tolerably early in the
forenoon we embarked, after the usual station dinner of mutton, tea,
and damper, on Lake Wanaka.  Alas for those treacherous blue waters!
We had only a little pair-oared boat, in which I took my place as
coxwain, and after pulling for a mile or two under a blazing sun,
over short chopping waves, with a head-wind, we all became so deadly
sea-sick that we had to turn back!  As soon as we had rested and
recovered, a council of war was held as to our movements, and we
decided, in spite of our recent experiences, to turn our horses, who
had done quite enough for the present, out on the run, and so make
our way down the lake by boat.  Already F--- was beginning to look
anxious, for he perceived that, even after the head of the lake had
been reached, the wool would cost an enormous sum to cart down to
either Oamaru or Timaru, from whence alone it could be shipped.

The mile or two of the run which lay along the shore of the lake
showed us frightfully rough country.  A dense jungle of tussocks and
thorny bushes choked up the feed, and made it impossible to drive
any animals through it, even supposing that good pasturage lay
beyond.  Still we hoped that we might be looking at the worst
portion of our purchase, and deter mined to persevere in the attempt
to penetrate to the furthest end of our new property.  Accordingly
we hired a safe old tub of a boat which, though too heavy to pull,
was warranted to sail steadily, and with a couple of men, some cold
mutton, bread, tea, and sugar, started valiantly on our cruise.  But
the "blue, unclouded weather," in which we had hitherto basked, was
at an end for the present.  We had already enjoyed a longer
succession of calm days than usually falls to the lot of the
travellers in that windy middle island, and it was now quite time
for the imprisoned "nor'-wester" to have his turn over the surface
of the domain.

Accordingly the first day's sail was against a light, ominously warm
head-wind, and we only made any way at all by keeping up a
complicated system of tacking.  The start had not been an early one,
so darkness found us but little advanced on our voyage, and we
passed the night in a rough shanty, on beds of fern-leaves, wrapped
in our red blankets.  Tired as we were, none of us could sleep much.
The air was dry and parched; every now and then a sough of the
rising. hot gale swept through our crazy shelter without cooling us,
and warned us to prepare for what was coming.  Our only chance of
getting on was to make an early start, for fortunately a true
"nor'-wester" is somewhat of a sluggard.  The skies wore their
peculiar chrysoprase green tint, except towards the weather quarter,
where heavy banks of lurid cloud showed that the enemy was
collecting in force.  Even the hour of dawn, usually so crisp and
cool, brought no sense of refreshment to our languid limbs, and we
embarked with the direst forebodings.  A few miles further up the
lake we reached an out-station hut, built by our host Mr. Johnson
when he first "took up" his country and intended to push his
boundary as far as this.  He soon drew in his lines however on
account of the rough nature of the ground.  The hut was in a most
picturesque spot, and although deserted, remained still in good
repair.  The little scrap of garden ground was a tangle of
gooseberry and currant bushes among which potatoes flourished at
their own sweet will.

We had only time to beach the boat, that is to say F--- and the two
men did so, whilst I ran backwards and forwards with the blankets
and provisions, before the hurricane was upon us.  Henceforth there
was no stirring out of doors until the gale had blown itself out. We
dragged in some driftwood, barricaded the door, and prepared to pass
the time as well as we could.  Oh, the fleas in the hut!  The ground
was literally alive with them, and their audacity and appetite was
unparalleled.  Our boatmen sat tranquilly by the tiny window and
played cribbage incessantly with very dirty cards and a board made
out of a small bar of soap.  As for me, I turned an empty box up on
its end, so as to get out of the way of the fleas, and perched
myself on it, finding ample occupation in defending my position from
the attacks of the active little wretches.  Sometimes I felt as if I
must rush out into the lake and drown myself and my tormentors
together.  It was very bad for everybody.  The poor boatmen
doubtless wished to smoke, but were too polite to do anything of the
sort.  F--- had nothing whatever to read, except a torn piece of an
old _Times_, at least two years old, which we had brought to wrap up
some of our provisions; whilst I was still more idle and wretched.
Two weary interminable days dragged, or perhaps I should say, blew,
themselves along in this miserable fashion, but at sundown on the
evening of the third day the wind dropped suddenly, and we did not
lose a moment in darting out of our prison and embarking once more.
For the first time since we started we could perceive the grandeur
of the surrounding country; but grand scenery is not necessary nor
indeed desirable in a sheep run.  Splendid mountains ran down in
steep spurs to the very shore of the enormous lake.  Behind them,
piled in snowy steeps, rose the distant Alps of the Antipodes; great
masses of native bush made dark purple shadows among the clefts of
the hills, whilst the lake rippled in and out of many a graceful bay
and quiet harbour.  Not a fleck or film of cloud floated between us
and the serene and darkening sky; a profound, delightful calm
brooded over land and water.  Although there was no moon, the stars
served us as lights and compass until two o'clock in the morning, by
which time we had reached the head of the lake (which is thirty-five
miles in length), where we landed, extemporized a tent out of the
boat sail, and turned in for a refreshing flea-less sleep.

The next day was beautifully still, with a light air from the
opposite point, just sufficient to cool the parched atmosphere; and
we made our way along the head of the lake to a place were a couple
of sawyers were at work.  One of them had brought his wife with him,
and her welcome to me was the most touching thing in the world.  She
took me entirely under her care, and would hardly let me out of her
sight.  I must say it was very nice to be waited on so faithfully,
and I gave myself up to the unaccustomed luxury.  All she required
of me in exchange for her incessant toil on my behalf was "news." It
did not matter of what kind, every scrap of intelligence was welcome
to her, and she refused to tell me to what date her "latest advices"
extended. During the three days of our stay in that clearing among
the great pines of the Wanaka Bush, I gave my hostess a complete
abridgment of the history of England--political, social, and moral,
beginning from my earliest recollections.  Then we ran over
contemporary foreign affairs, dwelt minutely on every scrap of
colonial news, and finally wound up with a full, true, and
particular account of myself and all my relations and friends.  When
I paused for breath she would cease her washing and cooking on my
behalf, and say entreatingly, "Go on now, do!" until I felt quite
desperate.

All this time whilst I was being "interviewed" nearly to death, F---
employed himself in making excursions to different parts of the run.
One of the sawyers lent him a miserable half-starved little pony;
and he penetrated to another sawyer's hut, seven miles distant up
the Matukituki river.  But no matter whether he turned his steps to
north or south, east or west, he met with the same disheartening
report.  There was the ground indeed, but it was perfectly useless.
Not only was there was _no_ pasturage, but if there had been, the
nature of the country would have rendered it valueless, on account
of the way it was overgrown.  It would be tedious to explain more
minutely why this was the case.  Sufficient must it be to say that
whilst F--- was only too anxious to keep his eyes shut as to the
ground he had alighted on after his leap in the dark, and the
sawyers were equally anxious to induce settlers to come there, and
so bring a market for their labour close to their hand nothing could
make our purchase appear anything except a dead loss.  As for the
plans, they were purely imaginary.  The blue lake was about the only
part true to nature; and even that should have had a foot-note to
state that it was generally lashed into high, unnavigable waves, by
a chronic nor'-wester.

No: there was nothing for it but to go home again to the little run
which had seemed such a mere paddock in our eyes, whilst we indulged
in castle-building over 100,000 acres of country.  It was of no use
lingering amid such disappointment and discomfort; besides which my
listener, the sawyer's wife, had turned her husband and herself out
of their hut, and were sleeping under a red blanket tent.  Poor
woman, she was most anxious to get away; and the lovely sylvan
scene, with the tall trees standing like sentinels over their
prostrate brethren, the wealth of beauteous greenery, springing
through fronds of fern and ground creepers, the bright-winged flight
of paroquets and other bush birds, even the vast expanse of the lake
which stretched almost from their threshold for so many miles, all
would have been gladly exchanged for a dusty high street in any
country town-ship.  Her last words were, "Can't you send me a paper
or hany thing printed, mam?"  I faithfully promised to do my best,
and carried out my share of the bargain by despatching to her a
large packet of miscellaneous periodicals and newspapers; but
whether she ever received them is more than I can say.

We were afraid of lingering too long, lest another nor'-wester
should become due; and we therefore started as soon as F--- had
decided that it was of no use exploring our wretched purchase any
further.  We had a stiff breeze from the north-west all the way down
the lake; but as it was right a-stern it helped us along to such
good purpose, that one day's sailing before it brought us back to
Mr. Johnson's homestead and comparative civilization.  The little
parlour and the tiny bed-room beyond, into which I could only get
access by climbing through a window (for the architect had forgotten
to put a door), appeared like apartments in a spacious palace, so
great was the contrast between their snug comfort and the desolate
misery of our hut life.  Of course nothing else was talked of except
our disappointment at our new run; and although Mr. Johnson had
indulged in forebodings, which were only too literally fulfilled, he
had the good taste never to remind us of his prophecies.
          "Of all the forms of human woe,
          Defend me from that dread, 'I told you so.'"

After a day's halt and rest we mounted our much refreshed horses,
and set our faces straight across country for Dunedin.  This is very
easy to write, but it was not quite so easy to do.  We could only
ride for the first fifty-two miles, which we accomplished in two
days.  These stages brought us to the foot of the Dunstan Range, and
near the gold-diggings of that name.  I would fain have turned aside
to see them, but we had not time.  However, we felt the auriferous
influence of the locality; for a perfect stranger came up to us,
whilst we were baiting at another place, called the Kaiwarara
diggings, and offered to buy our horses from us for 30 pounds each,
and also to purchase our saddles and bridles at a fair price.  This
was exactly what we wanted, as we had intended to sell them at
Dunedin; and I was no ways disinclined to part with the Hermit; who
retained the sulky, misanthropical temper which had earned him his
name.  He was now pronounced "fit to carry a lady," and purchased to
be sold again at the diggings.  Whether there were any ladies there
or not I cannot tell.  Of course, before parting with our nags we
ascertained that the ubiquitous "Cobb's coach" started from our
resting place for Dunedin next day, and we made the rest of our
journey in one of that well-known line.  Its leathern springs,
whilst not so liable to break by sudden jolts, impart a swinging
rocking motion to the body of the vehicle, which is most
disagreeable; but rough and rude as they are, they deserve to be
looked upon with respect as the pioneers of civilization.  All over
America, Australia, and now New Zealand, the moment half-a-dozen
passengers are forthcoming, that moment the enterprising firm starts
a coach, and the vehicle runs until it is ousted by a railway.  All
previous tracks which I had journeyed over seemed smooth turnpike
roads, compared to that terrible tussocky track which led to
Dunedin.

But that bright little town was reached at last, the hotel welcomed
us, tired and bruised travellers that we were, and next evening we
started in the _Geelong_ for Port Lyttleton.  This little coasting
steamer seemed to touch at every hamlet along the coast, and after
each pause I had to begin afresh my agonies of sea-sickness.  There
was no such thing as getting one's sea-legs; for we were seldom more
than a few hours outside, and had no chance of getting used to the
horrible motion.  Timaru was reached next day, but we had suffered
so frightfully during the night from a chopping sea and an open.
roadstead, that we went on shore, and entrusted ourselves once more
to the old coach.  It seemed better to endure the miseries we knew
of, than to make experiments in wretchedness.  So we went through
the old jolting and jumbling until we were dropped at an
accommodation house, fifteen miles from Christchurch, where we slept
that night, and at daylight despatched a messenger to the next
station for our own horses.  He had only thirty-five miles to ride,
and about mid-day we started to meet him on hired horses, which we
were very glad to exchange for better nags a stage further on.

And so we rode quietly home in the gloaming, winding up the lovely,
tranquil valley, at whose head stood our own snug little homestead.
At first we were so glad to be safely at hone again that we scarcely
gave a thought to our fruitless enterprise; but as our bruised
bodies became rested and restored, our hearts began to ache when we
thought of the money we had so rashly flung away in BUYING A RUN.



Chapter VIII: Looking for a congregation.


It is to be hoped and expected that such a good understanding has
been established between my readers and myself by this time, that
they will not find the general title of these papers unsuitable to
the heading of this particular chapter.  Indeed, I may truly say,
that, looking back upon the many happy memories of my three years
life in that lovely and beloved Middle Island, no pleasures stand
out more vividly than my evening rides up winding gullies or across
low hill-ranges in search of a shepherd's hut, or a _cockatoo's_
nest.  A peculiar brightness seems to rest on those sun-lit peaks of
memory's landscape; and it is but fitting that it should be so, for
other excursions or expeditions used to be undertaken merely for
business or pleasure, but these delicious wanderings were in search
of scattered dwellings whose lonely inhabitants--far removed from
Church privileges for many a long year past--might be bidden, nay,
entreated, to come to us on Sunday afternoons, and attend the
Service we held at home weekly.

And here I feel constrained to say a word to those whose eyes may
haply rest on my pages, and who may find themselves in the coming
years in perhaps the same position as I did a short time ago.  A new
comer to a new country is sure to be discouraged if he or she
(particularly _she_, I fancy) should attempt to revive or introduce
any custom which has been neglected or overlooked. This is
especially the case with religious observances. At every turn one is
met by disheartening warnings.  "Oh, the people here are very
different to those in the old country; they would look upon it as
impertinence if you suggested they should come to church."  "You
will find a few may come just at first, and then when the novelty
wears off and they have seen all the pretty things in your drawing
room, not a soul will ever come near the place."

"If even the men don't say something very free and easy to you when
you invite them to your house on Sunday afternoons, you may depend
upon it that after two or three weeks you will not know how to keep
them in order."

Such, and many more, were the discouraging remarks made when I
consulted my neighbours about my plan for collecting the shepherds
from the surrounding runs, and holding a Church of England Service
every Sunday afternoon at our own little homestead.  To my mind, the
distances seemed the greatest obstacle, as many of the men I wanted
to reach lived twenty-five or even thirty miles away, with very
rough country between.  I had no fear of impertinence, for it is
unknown to me, and seldom comes, I fancy, unprovoked; whilst with
regard to the novelty wearing off and the men ceasing to attend,
that must be left in God's hands.  We could only endeavour to plant
the good seed, and trust to Him to give the increase.  It was a
great comfort to me in those early days that F---, who had been many
years in the colony, never joined in the disheartening prophecies I
have alluded to.  Although as naturally averse to reading aloud
before strangers as a man who had lived a solitary life would be
sure to be, he promised at once, with a good grace, to read the
Evening Service and a sermon afterwards, and thus smoothed one
difficulty over directly.  His advice to me was precisely what I
would fain repeat: "Try, by all means: if you fail you will at least
feel you have made the attempt."  May all who try succeed, as we
did!  I believe firmly they will, for it is an undertaking on which
God's blessing is sure to rest, and there are no such fertilizing
dews as those which fall from heaven.  The mists arising from earth
are only miasmic vapours after all!

But I fear to linger too long on the end, instead of telling you
about the means.

It was May when we were fairly settled in our new home at the head
of a hill-encircled valley.  With us that month answers to your
November, but fogs are unknown in that breezy Middle Island, and my
first winter in Canterbury was a beautiful season, heralded in by an
exquisite autumn.  How crisp the mornings and evenings were, with
ever so light a film of hoar frost, making a splendid sparkle on
every blade of waving tussock-grass!  Then in the middle of the day
the delicious warmth of the sun tempted one to linger all day in the
open air, and I never wearied of gazing at the strange purple
shadows cast by a passing cloud; or up, beyond the floating
vapourous wreath, to the heaven of brilliant blue which smiled upon
us.  And yet, when I come to think of it, I don't know that I had
much time to spare for glancing at either hills or skies, for we
were just settling ourselves in a new place, and no one knows what
_that_ means unless they have tried it, fifty miles away from the
nearest shop.  The yeast alone was a perpetual anxiety to me,--it
would not keep beyond a certain time, and had a tendency to explode
its confining bottles in the middle of the night, so it became
necessary to make it in smaller quantities every ten days or so.  If
by any chance I forgot to remind my scatter-brained damsels to
replenish the yeast bottles, they used up the last drop, and then
would come smilingly to me with the remark, "There aint not a drop
o' yeast, about, anywhere, mum."  This entailed flap-jacks, or
scones, or soda bread, or some indigestible compound for at least
three days, as it was of no use attempting to make proper bread
until the yeast had worked.  Then the well needed to be deepened, a
kitchen garden had to be made, shelter to be provided for the fowls
and pigs; a shed to be put up for coals; a thousand things which
entailed thought and trouble, had to be done.

It is true these rough jobs were not exactly in my line, but indoors
I was just as busy trying to make big things fit into little spaces
and _vice versa_.  We could not afford to take things coolly and do
a little every day, for at that time of year an hour's change in the
wind might have brought a heavy fall of snow, or a sharp frost, or
a; deluge of rain down upon the uncovered and defenceless heads of
our live stock.  The poor dear sheep, the source of our income, were
after all the least well-cared for creatures on the Station.  A well
grassed and watered run, with sunny vallies for winter feeding, and
green hills for summer pasturage, had been provided by antipodean
Nature for them, and to these advantages we only added some twenty
or twenty-five miles of wire fencing, and then they were left to
themselves, with a couple of shepherds to look after fifteen
thousand sheep all the year round.

But yet, busy as we were, we found time to look up a congregation.
The very first Sunday afternoon, whilst we were still in the midst
of a chaos of chips and big boxes and straw and empty china-barrels,
our own shepherds came over, by invitation, and the only very near
neighbours we had--a Scotch head-shepherd and his charming young
wife,--and we held a Service in the half-furnished drawing room.
After it was ended we had a long talk with the men, and they
confessed that they had enjoyed it very much, and would like to come
regularly.  When questioned as to the feasibility of inducing others
to join, they said that it might be suggested to more than one
distant, lonely hill-shepherd, but his uncontrollable shyness would
probably prevent his attendance.

"Jim Salter, and Joe Bennett, and a lot more on 'em, would be glad
enow to come, if so be they could feel as how they was truly
wellcombe," said our shepherd, Pepper, who prided himself on the
elegance and correctness of his phraseology.  He added, after a
reflective pause, turning bashfully away, "If so be as the lady
would just look round and give 'em a call, they'd be to be persuaded
belike."

So the scheme was Pepper's after all, you see.  But this "looking
round," to which he alluded so airily, meant scrambling rides,
varying from ten to twenty-eight miles in length, over break-neck
country, and this on the slender chance of finding the men in-doors.
Now a New Zealand shepherd almost lives out on the hills, so the
prospect of finding any of our congregation at home was slight
indeed.  However, as I said before, F--- stood by me, and although
we neither of us could well spare the time, we agreed to devote two
afternoons every week, so long as the fine open autumn weather,
lasted, to making excursions in search of back-country huts.  There
are no roads or finger posts or guides of any sort in those distant
places.  When we inquired what was the name of "Mills" shepherd (the
masters are always plain Smith or Jones, and the shepherds Mr.---,
in the colonies) the answer was generally very vague.  "Wiry Bill,
we mostly calls 'im; but I think I've heerd say his rightful name
was Mr. Pellet, mum.  He's a little chap, as strong as the 'ouse,"
explained Pepper, who was an incorrigible cockney, "and he lives
over there," pointing with his thumb to a mountain range behind us.
"He's in one of them blind gullies.  You go along the gorge of the
river till you come to a saddle all over fern, and you drop down
that, and follow the best o' three or four tracts till you come to a
swamp."

Here Pepper paused, in consideration of my face of horror; for if
there was one thing I dreaded more than another in those early days,
it was a swamp.  Steep hill sides, wide creeks, honey-combed flats,
all came in, the day's ride,--but a swamp!  Ugh! the horrible
treacherous thing, so green and innocent looking, with here and
there a quicksand or a peaty morass, in which, without a moment's
warning, your horse sank up to his withers!  It was dreadful, and
when we came to such a place Helen used to stop dead short, prick
her pretty ears well forward, and, trembling with fear and
excitement, put her nose close to the ground, smelling every inch,
before she would place her fore foot down on it, jumping off it like
a goat if it proved insecure.  Generally she crossed a swamp, by a
series of bounds in and out of flax bushes; and hopeless indeed
would a morass be without those green cities of refuge!

Horrible as a large swamp is however to a timid horsewoman, it is
dear to the heart of a cockatoo.  He gladly buys a freehold of fifty
acres in the midst of one, burns it, makes a sod fence, sown with
gorse seed a-top, all round his section, drains it in a rough and
ready fashion, and then the splendid fertile soil which has been
waiting for so many thousand years, "brings forth fruit abundantly."
Such enormous fields of wheat and oats and barley as you come upon
sometimes,--with, alas, never a market near enough to enable the
plenteous crop to return sevenfold into its master's bosom!

I shall not inflict upon you a description of all our rides in
search of members for our congregation.  Two, in widely differing
directions, will serve as specimens of such excursions.  In
consideration of my new-chumishness, F--- selected a comparatively
easy track for our first ride.  And yet, "bad was the best," might
surely be said of that breakneck path.  What would an English horse,
or an English lady say, to riding for miles over a slippery winding
ledge on a rocky hill side, where a wall of solid mountain rose up
perpendicularly on the right hand, and on the left a very
respectable sized river hurried over its boulders far beneath the
aerial path; yet this was comparatively a safe track, and presented
but one serious obstacle, over which I was ruthlessly taken.  It is
perhaps needless to say we were riding in single file, and equally
unnecessary to state that I was the last; for certainly we should
never have made much progress otherwise.  Helen, my bay mare, would
follow her stable companion, on which F--- was mounted, so that was
the way we got on at all.

A sudden sharp turn showed me what appeared to be a low stone wall
running own the spur of the mountain, right across our track, and I
had already begun to disquiet myself about the possibility of
turning back on such a narrow ledge, when I saw F---'s powerful
black horse, with his ears well forward, and his reins, lying loose
on his neck, make a sort of rush at the obstacle, climb up it as a
cat would, stand for an instant, exactly like a performing goat,
with all four legs drawn closely together under him, and then with a
spring disappear on the other side.  "This wall", I thought, "must
be but loosely built, for _Leo_ has displaced some of the stones
from its coping."  Helen, pretty dear, hurried after her friend and
leader; and before I had time to realize what she was going to do,
she was balancing herself on the crumbling summit of this stone wall
(which was only the freak of a landslip), and as it proved
impossible to remain there, perched like a bird on a very insecure
branch, nothing remained except to gather herself well together and
jump off.  But what a jump! the ground fell sheer away at the foot
of the wall, and left a chasm many feet wide, which the horse could
not see until it had climbed to the top of the wall, and as turning
back was out of the question, the only alternative was to give a
vigorous bound on to the narrow ledge beyond.  Terrified as I felt,
I luckily refrained from jerking Helen's head, or attempting to
guide her in any way. The only chance of safety over New Zealand
tracks, or New Zealand creeks, is to leave your horse _entirely_ to
itself.  I have seen men who were reckoned good riders in England,
get the most ignominious tumbles from a disregard of this advice.
An up-country horse knows perfectly well the only sound spots in a
swamp; or the only sound part of a creek's banks.  If his rider
persists in taking him over the latter, where he himself thinks it
narrowest and safest, he is pretty sure to find the earth rotten and
crumbling, and to pay for his obstinacy by a wetting; whilst in the
case of a swamp the consequences are even more serious, and the
horse often gets badly strained in floundering out of a quagmire.

But it was not all danger and difficulty, and the many varieties of
scene in the course of a long ride constituted some of its chief
charms.  At first, perhaps, after we had left our own fair valley
behind, the track would wind through the gorge of a river, with
lofty mountains rising sheer up from the water side.  All here was
sad and grey, and very solemn in its eternal silence, only made more
intense by the ceaseless monotonous roar of the ever-rushing water.
Then we would emerge on acres and acres of softly rolling downs,
higher than the hillocks we call by that name at home, but still
marvellously beautiful in their swelling curves all folding so
softly into each other, and dotted with mobs of sheep, making
pastoral music to a flock-owner's ear.  Over this sort of ground we
could canter gaily along, with "Hector," F---'s pet colley, keeping
close to the heels of his master's horse,--for it is the worst of
bad manners in a colley to look at a neighbour's sheep.  The
etiquette in passing through a strange run is for the dog to go on
the off side of his master's horse, so that the sheep shall not even
see him; and this piece of courtly politeness Hector always
practised of his own accord.

A wire fence always proved a very tiresome obstacle, for horses have
a great dread of them, and will not be induced to jump them on any
account.  If we could find out where the gate was, well and good;
but as it might be half a dozen miles off, on one side or the other,
we seldom lost time or patience in seeking it.  When there was no
help for it, and such a fence had to be crossed, the proceedings
were, always the same.  F---dismounted, and unfastened one of his
stirrup leathers; with this he strapped the wires as firmly as
possible together, but if the fence had been lately fresh-strained,
it was sometimes a difficult task.  Still he generally made one spot
lower than the rest, and over this he proceeded to adjust his coat
very carefully; he then vaulted lightly over himself, and calling
upon me to aid by sundry flicks on Leo's flank, the horse would be
induced to jump over it.  This was always a work of time and
trouble, for Leo hated doing it, and would rather have leaped the
widest winter creek, than jumped the lowest coat-covered wire fence.
Helen had to jump with me on her back, and without any friendly whip
to urge her, but except once, when she caught her hind leg in the
sleeve of the coat which was hanging over the fence, and tore it
completely out, she got over very well.  Upon that occasion F--- had
to carry his sleeve in his pocket until we reached the neat little
out-station hut, where Jim Salter lived, and where we were pretty
sure to find a housewife, for shepherds are as handy as sailors with
a needle and thread.

I shall always believe that some bird of the air had "carried the
matter" to Salter, because not only was he at home, and in his
Sunday clothes, but he had made a cake the evening before, and that
was a very suspicious circumstance.  However we pretended not to
imagine that we were expected, and Jim pretended with equal success
to be much surprised at our visit, so both sides were satisfied.
Nothing could be neater than the inside of the little hut; its cob
walls papered with, old Illustrated London News,--not only pictures
but letter-press,--its tiny window as clean as possible, a new
sheep-skin rug laid down before the open fireplace, where a bright
wood fire was sputtering and cracking cheerily, and the inevitable
kettle suspended from a hook half-way up the low chimney.  Outside,
the dog-kennels had been newly thatched with tohi grass, the garden
weeded and freshly dug, the chopping-block and camp-oven as clean as
scrubbing could make them.  It was too late in the year for fruit,
but Salter's currant, raspberry, and gooseberry bushes gave us a
good idea of how well he must have fared in the summer.  The fowls
were just devouring the last of the green-pea shoots, and the
potatoes had been blackened by our first frosts.

It was all very nice and trim and comfortable, except the
loneliness; that must have been simply awful.  It is difficult to
realise how completely cut off from the society of his kind a New
Zealand up-country shepherd is, especially at an out-station like
this.  Once in every three months he goes down to the homestead,
borrows the pack horse, and leads it up to his hut, with a quarter's
rations of flour, tea, sugar and salt; of course he provides himself
with mutton and firewood, and his simple wants are thus supplied.
After shearing, about January, his wages are paid, varying from 75
pounds to 100 pounds a year, according to the locality, and then he
gets a week's leave to go down to the nearest town.  If he be a
prudent steady man, as our friend Salter was, he puts his money in
the bank, or lends it out on a freehold mortgage at ten per cent.,
only deducting a few pounds from his capital for a suit of clothes,
a couple of pair of Cookham boots for hill walking, and above all,
some new books.

Without any exception, the shepherds I came across in New Zealand
were all passionately fond of reading; and they were also
well-informed men, who often expressed themselves in excellent,
through superfine, language.  Their libraries chiefly consisted of
yellow-covered novels, and out of my visits in search of a
congregation grew a scheme for a book-club to supply something
better in the way of literature, which was afterwards most
successfully carried out.  But of this I need not speak here, for we
are still seated inside Salter's hut,--so small in its dimensions
that it could hardly have held another guest.  Womanlike, my eyes
were everywhere, and I presently spied out an empty bottle, labelled
"Worcestershire Sauce."

"Dear me, Salter," I cried, "I had no idea you were so grand as to
have sauces up here: why we hardly ever use them."  "Well, mum,"
replied Salter, bashfully, and stroking his long black beard to gain
time to select the grandest words he could think of, "it is hardly
to be regarded in the light of happetite, that there bottle, it is
more in the nature of remedies."  Then, seeing that I still looked
mystified, he added, "You see, mum, although we gets our 'elth
uncommon well in these salubrious mountings, still a drop of physic
is often handy-like, and in a general way I always purchase myself a
box of Holloway's Pills (of which you do get such a lot for your
money), and also a bottle of pain-killer; but last shearing they was
out o' pain-killer, they said, so they put me up a bottle o' Cain
pepper, and likewise that 'ere condiment, which was werry
efficacious, 'specially towards the end o' the bottle!"  "And do you
really mean to say you drank it, Salter?" I inquired with horror.

"Certainly I do, mum, whenever I felt out o' sorts.  It always took
my mind off the loneliness, and cheered me up wonderful, especial if
I hadded a little red pepper to it," said Salter, getting up from
his log of wood and making me a low bow.  All this time F--- and I
were seated amicably side by side on poor Salter's red
blanket-covered "bunk," or wooden bedstead, made of empty
flour-sacks nailed between rough poles, and other sacks filled with
tussock grass for a mattress and pillow.

The word loneliness gave me a good opening to broach the subject of
our Sunday gatherings, and my suspicions of Jim's having been told
of our visit were confirmed by the alacrity with which he said, "I
have much pleasure in accepting your kind invitation, mum, if so be
as I am not intruding."

"No, indeed Salter," F--- said; "you'd be very welcome, and you
could always turn Judy into the paddock whilst we were having
service."

Now if there was one thing dearer to Salter's heart than another, it
was his little roan mare Judy: her excellent condition, and jaunty
little hog-mane and tail, testified to her master's loving care.  So
it was all happily settled, and after paying a most unfashionably
long visit to the lonely man, we rode away with many a farewell nod
and smile.  I may say here that Salter was one of the most regular
of our congregation for more than two years, besides being a member
of the book club.  In time, its more sensible volumes utterly
displaced the yellow paper rubbish in his but library, and I never
can forget the poor man's emotion when he came to bid me good-bye.

At my request he made the rough little pen and ink sketches which
are here given, and as he held my offered hand (not knowing quite
what else to do with it) when I took leave of him after our last
home-service, when my face was set towards England, he could not say
a word.  The great burly creature's heart must have been nearly as
big as his body, and he seemed hardly to know that large tears were
rolling down his sunburnt face and losing themselves in his bushy
beard.  I tried to be cheerful myself, but he kept repeating, "It is
only natural you should be glad to go, yet it is very rough upon
us."  In vain I assured him I was not at all glad to go,--very, very
sorry, in fact: all he would say was, "To England, home and beauty,
in course any one would be pleased to return."  I can't tell you
what he meant, and he had no voice to waste on explanations; I only
give poor dear Jim's valedictory sentences as they fell from his
white and trembling lips.

Very different was Ned Palmer, the most diminutive and wiry of hill
shepherds, with a tongue which seemed never tired, and a good
humoured smile for every one.  Ned used to try my gravity sorely by
stepping up to me half a dozen times during the service, to find his
place for him in his Prayer-book, and always saying aloud, "Thank
you kindly, m'm."



Chapter IX: Another shepherd's hut.


To get to Ned's hut--which was not nearly so trim or comfortable as
Salter's, and stood out in the midst of a vast plain covered with
waving yellow tussocks,--we had to cross a low range of hills, and
pick our way through nearly a mile of swampy ground on the other
side.  The sure-footed horses zig-zagged their way up the steep
hill-side with astonishing ease, availing themselves here and there
of a sheep track, for sheep are the best engineers in the world, and
always hit off the safest and easiest line of country.  I did not
feel nervous going _up_ the hill, although we must have appeared,
had there been any one to look at us, more like flies on a wall than
a couple of people on horse back, but when we came to the ridge and
looked down on the descent beneath us, my heart fairly gave way.

Not a blade of grass, or a leaf of a shrub, was to be seen on all
the steep slope, or rather precipice, for there was very little
slope about it; nothing but grey loose shingle, which the first
hoof-fall of the leading horse invariably sent slipping and sliding,
in a perfect avalanche of rubble, down into the soft bright green
morass beneath.  Of all the bad "tracks" I encountered in my
primitive rides, I really believe I suffered more real terror and
anguish on that particular hill-side than on any other.  My
companion's conduct too, used to be heartless in the extreme.  He
let the reins fall loosely on his horse's neck, merely holding their
extreme ends, settled himself comfortably in his saddle, leaning
well back, and turning round laughingly to me, observed, "Aren't you
coming?"  "Oh, not there," I cried in true melo-dramatic tones of
horror; but it was all in vain, F--- merely remarked "You have
nothing to do but fancy you are sitting in an arm-chair at home, you
are quite as safe."  "What nonsense," I gasped.  "I only wish I
_was_ at home: never, never will I come out riding again."  All this
time the leading horse was slowly and carefully edging himself down
hill a few steps to the right, then a few to the left, just as he
thought best, displacing tons of loose stone and even small rocks at
every movement.  Helen, nothing daunted, was eager to follow, and
although she quivered with excitement at the noise, echoed back from
the opposite hills, lost no time in preparing to descend.  Her first
movement sent such showers of rubble down upon F--- and his horse,
that I really thought the latter would have been knocked off his
legs.  "If you _could_ keep a little more to the right, so as to
send the stones clear of me, I should be very grateful," shouted
F---, who was actually near the bottom of the hill already, so sharp
had been the angles of his horse's descent.  I felt afraid of
attempting to guide Helen, lest the least check should send us both
head over heels into the quagmire below, and yet it seemed dreadful
to cause the death of one's husband by rolling down cart loads of
stones upon him.  It could not have been more than five minutes
before Helen and I stood side by side with Leo, on the only bit of
firm ground at the edge of the morass.  I believe I was as white as
my pocket handkerchief; and if fright could turn a person's hair
grey, I had been sufficiently alarmed to make myself eligible for
any quantity of walnut pomade.

Fortunately the summer had proved rather a dry one, and the swamp
was not so wet as it would have been after a heavy rain-fall.  The
horses stepped carefully from flax bushes to "nigger heads" (as the
very old blackened grass stumps are called), resting hardly a moment
anywhere, and avoiding all the most seductive looking spots.  I
thought my companion must have gone suddenly mad, when, a hawk
rising up almost from beneath our horses' feet, he flung himself off
his saddle and cried out, "A late hawk's nest, I declare!"  And so
it proved, for a little searching in a sheltered and tolerably dry
spot revealed a couple of eggs, precisely like hens' eggs, until
broken, when their delicate pale green inner membrane betrayed their
dangerous origin.  It is chiefly owing to this practice of laying in
swamps that the various kinds of hawk increase and thrive as they
do, for if it were possible to get at them, the shepherds would soon
exterminate the sworn foe of their chickens and pigeons.  They are
also the great drawback to the introduction of pheasants and
partridges, for the young birds have not a chance in the open
against even a sparrow-hawk.

Although it is a digression, I must tell you here how, one beautiful
early winter's day, I was standing in the verandah at my own home,
when one of our pigeons, chased by a hawk, flew right into my face
and its pursuer was so close and so heated by the chase, that it
flung itself also with great violence against my head, with a scream
of rage and triumph, hurting me a good deal as it dug its cruel,
armed heel into my cheek.  The pigeon had fluttered, stunned and
exhausted to the ground, and, quick as lightning I stooped to pick
it up; so great had been the impetus of the hawk's final charge that
he had never perceived his victim had escaped him.  The cunning of
these birds must be seen to be believed.  I have often watched a
wary old hawk perched most impudently on the stock-yard rails,
waiting until a rash chicken or duckling should, in spite of its
mother's warning clucks of terror, insist on coming out from under
her sheltering wings.  If I took an umbrella, or a croquet mallet,
or a walking stick, and went out, the bird would remain quite
unmoved, even if I held my weapon pointed gun-wise towards him.  But
let anyone take a real gun and hold it ever so well hidden behind
their back, and emerge ever so cautiously from the shelter of the
shrubs, my fine gentleman was off directly, mounting out of sight
with a few strokes of his powerful wings, and uttering a shriek of
derision as he departed.  Nothing is so rare as a successful shot at
a hawk.

We consoled ourselves however on this occasion, by reflecting. that
we had annihilated two young hawks before they had commenced their
lives of rapine and robbery, and rode on our way rejoicing, to find
Ned Palmer sitting outside his but door on a log of drift wood,
making, candles.  In the more primitive days of the settlement, the
early settlers must have been as badly off for light, during the
long dark winter evenings, as are even now the poorer inhabitants of
Greenland or of Iceland, for their sole substitute for candles
consisted of a pannikin half filled with melted tallow, in which a
piece of cork and an apology for a wick floated.  But by my time all
this had long been past and over, and even a back-country shepherd
had a nice tin mould in which he could make a dozen candles of the
purest tallow at a time.

Ned was just running a slender piece of wood through the loops of
his twisted cotton wicks, so as to keep them above the rim of the
mould, and the strong odour of melted mutton fat was tainting the
lovely fresh air.  But New Zealand run-holders have often to put up
with queer smells as well as sights and sounds, therefore we only
complimented Ned on being provident enough to make a good stock of
candles before-hand, for home consumption, during the coming dark
days.  After we had dismounted and hobbled our horses with the
stirrup leathers, so that they could move about and nibble the sweet
blue grass growing under each sheltering tussock, I sat down on a
large stone near, and began to tell Ned how often I had watched the
negroes in Jamaica making candles after a similar fashion, only they
use the wax from the wild bee nests instead of tallow, which was a
rare and scarce thing in that part of the world.  I described to him
the thick orange-coloured wax candles which used to be the delight
of my childhood, giving out a peculiar perfuming odour after they
had been burning for an hour or two,--an odour made up of honey and
the scent of heavy tropic flowers.

Ned listened to my little story with much politeness, and then,
feeling it incumbent on him to contribute to the conversation,
remarked, "I never makes candles ma'am without I thinks of
frost-bites."

"How is that, Palmer?" I asked, laughingly.  "What in the world have
they to do with each other?"

"Well, ma'am, you see it was just in this way.  It was afore I come
here, which is quite a lively, sociable place compared to Dodson's
back country out-station, at the foot o' those there ranges beyond.
I give you my word, ma'am, it used always to make me feel as if I
was dead, and living in a lonely eternity.  Them clear, bright-blue
_glassers_ (glaciers, he meant, I presume) was awful lonesome, and
as for a human being they never come a-nigh the place.  Well as I
was saying, ma'am, one day I finds I had run out o' candles, and as
the long dark evenings (for it was the height o' winter) was bad
enough, even with a dip burning, to show me old Spot's face for
company, I set to work, hot haste, to make some more.  It was
bitter, biting cold, you bet, ma'am; and I was hard at work--just
after I had had my bit o' breakfast, before I went out for to look
round my boundary--melting and making my dips, so that they might be
fine and hard for night.  I ought praps to mention that Spot used to
get so close to the fire-place, that as often as not, I dropped a
mossel of the hot grease on the dog; and if it touched a thin place
in his coat, he would jump up howling.  Well, ma'am, I was pouring a
pannikin full o' biling tallow into the mould, when poor old Spot he
gives a sudden howl and yell, and runs to the door.  I paid no
attention to him at the time, for I was so busy; but he went on
leaping up and howling as if he had gone mad.  As soon as I could
put down the pannikin out o' my hand, I went to the door meaning to
open it and,--sorry am I to say it,--kick the poor beast out for
making such a row about a drop o' hot grease.  But the dog turned
his face round on me, and gave me a look as much as to say, "Make
haste, do; there's a good chap: I ought to be outside there."  And
what with the sense shinin' in his eyes, and a curious kind o' sound
outside, I takes down the bar (for the door wouldn't stay shut
otherwise), and looks out.  Never until my dyin' day, and not even
then, I expect, shall I forget what the dog and I saw lying on the
ground, which was all white and hard with frost, the sun not having
got over the East range yet.  The dog he had more sense and a deal
more pluck than I had, for he knows there aint a moment to be lost;
and he runs up to the flat, tumbled-down heap o' clothes, gets on
its back (for no face could I see), so as to be doing something, and
not losing time, and begins licking.  Not very far off there was a
lean horse standing, but he didn't seem to like to come through the
slip-rail o' the paddock fence.

"In coorse I couldn't stand gaping there all day, so I went and
stooped down to the man, who was lying flat on his face, with his
arms straight out.  He wasn't sensibleless (Palmer's favourite word
for senseless), for he opened his eyes, and said, "For God's sake,
mate, take me in."  "So I will, mate," I makes reply "and welcome
you are. Can you get on your legs, think you?"  With that he groans
awful, and says, "My legs is friz."  Well, I looks at his legs, and
sees he was dressed in what had been good moleskins, and high jack
riding-boots, coming up to his knees; but sure enough they was as
hard as a board, and actially, if you'll believe me, ma'am, there
was a rim o' solid hice round the tops of his boots.  As for
standing, he couldn't do it: his legs was no more use to him than
they was to me, and he was a tall, high fellow besides.  Cold as it
was, I felt hot enough by the time I had lugged that poor man inside
my place, and got him up on my bunk.  He could speak, though his
voice was weak as weak could be, and he helped me as well as he
could by catching hold with his arms, but his legs was stone dead.
I had to get the tommy (_anglice_-tomahawk), and _chop_ his boots
off, and that's the gospel truth, ma'am.  I broke my knife, first
try, and the axe was too big.  He told me, poor fellow, that two
days before, as he was returning from prospecting up towards the
back ranges, his horse got away, and he _couldn't_ catch him.  No:
he tried with all his might and main, for in his swag, which was
strapped to the D's of his saddle, was not only his blanket, but his
baccy, and tea, and damper, and a glass o' grog.  The curious thing,
too, was that the horse didn't bolt right away, as they generally
do: he jest walked a-head, knowing his master was bound to follow
wherever he led, for in coorse he had hopes to catch him every
moment.  That ere brute, he never laid down nor rested,--jest kep
slowly moving on, as if he was a Lunnon street-boy, with a bobby at
his heels.  Through creeks and rivers and swamps he led that poor
fellow.  His boots got chuck full o' cold water, and when the sun
went down it friz into solid hice; and that misfortnit man he felt
his legs--which was his life, you see, ma'am--gradially dyin' under
him.  Yet he was a well-plucked one, if ever there was such a party
on this airth.  He told me he had took _five_ mortial hours to come
the last mile, the horse walkin' slowly afore him, and guiding him
like.  And how do you think he did it, with two pillars of hice for
legs?  Why he lifted up just one leg and then the other with both
his hands, and put them afore him, and took his steps that way."

Here honest Ned, his eyes glistening, and his ugly little face
glowing with emotion through its coating of sunburn, paused, as if
he did not like to go on.

I was more touched and interested than I could avoid. showing, and
cried, "Oh, _do_ tell me, Palmer, what became of the poor fellow!
Did he die?"

Ned cleared his throat, and moved so as to get between me and the
light from the door, as he said huskily, "He came very nigh to it,
ma'am.  I never did set eyes on such a decent patient chap as that
man was.  I did the very wust thing I could a' done, the town
doctors told me, for I brought him into the hut, instead o' keeping
him outdoors and rubbing his poor black legs with snow.  'Stead o'
that, I wrapped him up warm in my own blankets, after I had chipped
his boots and the hice off of 'em, and I made up a roarin' fire.
Good Lord, how the poor fellow groaned when he begun to get warm! I
gave him a pannikin full o' hot tea, with a drop o' grog in it, and
that seemed to make him awful bad.  At last he said, with the sweat
from sheer agony pouring down his face, "Look here, matey: couldn't
you hump me out in the snow again? for it aint nigh so bad to bear
it cold as it is to bear it hot."  Not a bad word did he say, ma'am,
and he tried not to give in more nor he could help; but he was clean
druv wild with the hanguish in his legs.

"Presently I remembers, quite sudden like, that a bush doctor, name
of Tomkins, was likely to be round by Simmons, cos' o' his missus.
So I got on my 'oss in a minnit, and I rides off and fetches him,
for sure enough he was there; and though Simmons' missis wasn't to
say over her troubles, she spoke up from behind the curtain of red
blanket she had put up in her tidy little hut, and bade old Tomkins
go with me.  May God bless her and hers for that same, say I!  Well,
ma'am, when Tomkins come back with me and saw the poor fellow (he
was fair shoutin' with the pain in his legs by then), he said
nothin' could be done.  "They'll mortify by morrow mornin'," says
he, "and then he'll die easy."  So with that he goes back with the
first light next day, to Simmons.  Sure enough, the poor fellow did
get a bit easier next day, and I felt clear mad to think he was
goin' to die before my very eyes.  "Not if I can help it!" I cries,
quite savage like.  But he only smiled a patient smile, and said,
"God's will be done, mate.  He knows best, and I aint in any pain to
speak of, now."

"By and bye I hears a rumbling and a creaking, and cracking of
whips; and when I looks out, what do I see but the bullock-dray from
Simmons' coming up the flat.  It was the only thing on wheels within
forty mile, and Simmons had brought it his own self to see if we
couldn't manage to get the poor fellow down to the nighest town.  I
won't make my yarn no longer than I can help, ma'am, so I'll only
mention that we made a lot o' the strongest mutton broth you ever
tasted; we slung a hammock of red blankets in the dray, and we got
the poor fellow down by evening to a gentleman's station.  There
they made us kindly welcome, did all they could for him, and
transhipped the hammock into a pair-horse dray, which went quicker
and was easier.  We got on as fast as we could every step of the
way, and by midnight that poor fellow was tucked into a clean bed in
the hospital at Christchurch, with both his legs neatly cut off just
above the knee, for there wasn't a minute to lose."

I was almost afraid to inquire how the sufferer fared, for Ned's
eyes were fairly swimming with unshed tears; but he smiled brightly,
and said, "The ladies and gentlemen in the town, they set up a
_subscribetion_, and bought the poor chap a first-rate pair o'
wooden legs, and he could even manage to ride about after a bit; and
instead o' wandering about looking for country, or gold, or what
not, he settled down as a carrier, and throve and did well.  And I
was thinking, ma'am, as how I'd like to return thanks for that poor
fellow's wonderful recovery, for I've never had a chance of going to
Church since, and its nigh upon two years ago that it happened."

"So you shall, Ned: so you shall!" we said with one voice.  And so
at our first Church gathering at our dear little antipodean home, 
F---, who acted as our minister, paused in the beautiful Thanksgiving
Service, after he had read solemnly and slowly the simple words,
"Especially for Thy late mercies vouchsafed to --- ," and Ned Palmer
chimed in with an "Amen,"--misplaced, indeed, but none the less
hearty, and delightful to hear.



Chapter X: Swaggers.


Dr. Johnson did not know the somewhat vulgar word which heads this
paper. At least he did not know it as a noun, but gives "swagger:
v.n., to bluster, bully, brag;" but the Slang Dictionary admits it
as a word, springing indeed from the thieves' vocabulary: "one who
carries a swag."  Neither of these books however give the least idea
of the true meaning of the expression, which is as fully recognised
as an honest word in both Australia and New Zealand as any other
combination of letters in the English language.  A swagger is the
very antithesis then of a swaggerer, for, whereas, the one is full
of pretension and abounds in unjust claims on our notice, the
swagger is humility and civility itself.  He knows, poor weary
tramp, that on the favourable impression he makes upon the "boss,"
depends his night's lodging and food, as well as a job of work in
the future.  We will leave then the ideal swaggerer to some other
biographer who may draw glowing word-pictures of him in all his
jay's splendour, and we will confine ourselves to describing the
real swagger, clad in flannel shirt, moleskin trowsers, and what
were once thick boots, but might now be used as sieves.

Nothing astonished me so much in my New Zealand Station Life as
these visitors.  Even Sir Roger de Coverley himself would have
looked with distrust upon most of our swagger-guests, and yet I
never heard of an instance in our part of the country where the
unhesitating, ungrudging hospitality extended by the rich squatters
to their poorer compatriots was ever abused.  I say "in our part,"
because unfortunately, wherever gold is discovered, either in quartz
or riverbed, the good old primitive customs and ways die out of
themselves in a few weeks, and each mammon-seeker looks with
distrust on a stranger.  Only fifty or sixty miles from us, as the
crow might fly across the snowy range, where an immense Bush clothes
the banks of the Hokitika river right down to its sand-filled mouth
on the West Coast, the great gold diggings broke out seven or eight
years ago, and changed the face of society in that district in a few
days.  _There_ a swagger meant a man who might rob or murder you in
your sleep after you had fed and lodged him; or--under the most
favourable circumstances supposing him to be a "milder mannered
man,"--a "fossicker," who would not hesitate to "jump your claim,"
or hang about when you are prospecting, to watch how much of the
colour you found, and then go off stealthily to return next day at
the head of a "rush" of a thousand diggers.

Even before the famous Maungatapu murders in 1866, swaggers were
looked upon with distrust on the West Coast, and after that date
hardly any one travelled in those parts without carrying a small
revolver in his breast-pocket.  Nothing is more tantalising than an
allusion to a circumstance which is not well-known; and as I feel
certain that very few of my readers have ever heard of what may be
called the first great crime committed in the Middle Island, a brief
account of that terrible tragedy may not be out of place.  Gold of
course was at the bottom of it, but the canvas-bags full of the
glittering flakes were red with blood by the time they reached the
bank at Nelson.  The diggings on the West Coast were only two years
old at that date, and although it was not uncommon for prospecting
parties cutting their way, axe in hand, through the thick bush, to
come upon skeletons of men in lonely places, still it might be taken
for granted that these were the remains of early explorers or
travellers who had got lost and starved to death within the green
tangled walls of this impenetrable forest.  The scenery of that part
of the Middle Island is far more beautiful than in the agricultural
or pastoral districts.  Giant Alps clothed half up their steep sides
with evergreen pines,--whose dark forms end abruptly where snow and
ice begin,--stand out against a pure sky of more than Italian blue,
and only when a cleared saddle is reached can the traveller look
down over the wooded hills and vallies rolling away inland before
him, or turn his eyes sea-ward to the bold coast with its many
rivers, whose wide mouths foam right out to where the great Pacific
waves are heaving under the bright winter sun.

Such, and yet still more fair must have been the prospect on which
Burgess, Kelly, Levy, and Sullivan's eyes rested one June morning in
the mid-winter of 1866.  They were, one and all, originally London
thieves, and had been transported years before to the early penal
settlements of Australia.  From thence they had managed, by fair
means and foul, to work their way to other places, and had latterly
been living in the Middle Island, earning what they could by
horse-breaking and divers odd jobs.  But your true convict hates
work with a curiously deadly hatred, and these four men agreed to go
and look round them at the new West Coast diggings.  They found,
however, that there, as elsewhere, it would be necessary to work
hard, so in disgust at seeing the nuggets and dust which rewarded
the toil of more industrious men, they left Hokitika and reached
Nelson on their way to Picton, the chief town of the adjoining
province of Marlborough.  Most of the gold found its way under a
strongly armed escort to the banks in both these towns, but it was
well-known that fortunate diggers occasionally travelled together,
unarmed, and laden with "dust."  So safe had been the roads
hitherto, that the commonest precautions were not taken, nor the
least secrecy observed about travellers' movements.

It was therefore no mystery that four unarmed diggers, carrying a
considerable number of ounces of gold-dust with them, were going to
start from the Canvas-town diggings for Nelson on a certain day, and
the men I have mentioned set out to meet them.  One part of their
long journey led them over the Maungatapu range by a saddle, which
in its lowest part is 2,700 feet above the sea-level.  The night
before the murder, the victims and their assassins camped out with
only ten miles between them.  So lonely and deserted was the rough
mountain track, that the appearance of a poor old man named Battle
alarmed Burgess and his gang dreadfully, and they immediately
murdered him, in order that he should not report having passed them
on the road.  Between the commission of this act of precaution and
the arrival of the little band of travellers, no one else was seen.
Burgess appears to have shown some of the qualities of a good
general; for he selected a spot where the only path wound along a
steep side-cutting, less than six feet wide, with an unbroken forest
on the upper, and a mass of tangled bush on the lower side.  As the
doomed men approached the murderers sprang out, and each thrusting a
revolver close to their faces, called on them "to hold up their
hands."  This is an old bushranger challenge, and is meant to ensure
perfect quiescence on the part of the victim.  The travellers
mechanically complied, and in this way were instantly separated, led
to different spots, and ruthlessly shot dead.

It was all over in a moment: Burgess and his men flung the bodies
down among the tangled bush, and returned to Nelson rejoicing
exceedingly over the simple and easy means by which they had
possessed themselves of several hundred pounds.  Of course they
calculated on the usual supine indifference to other people's
affairs, which prevails in busy gold-seeking communities; but in
this instance the public seemed to be suddenly seized by a violent
and inconvenient curiosity to find out what had become of the four
men who were known to have started from Canvas-town two or three
days before.  No one ever dreamed of a murder having been committed,
not even when another "swagger" reached Nelson and stated that he
had followed the diggers on the road, only a mile or so behind, had
suddenly lost sight of them at the spot I have mentioned, and had
never been able to overtake them.  Instead of leaving the now
excited little town, or keeping quiet, Burgess, Kelly, Levy, and
Sullivan, may truly be said to have become "swaggerers;" for they
loitered about the place, ostentatiously displaying their bags of
gold dust.  Unsuspicious as the Nelson people were, they acted upon
a sort of instinct,--that instinct within us which answers so
mysteriously to the cry of blood from the earth,--and arrested these
four men.  Still, the matter might have ended there for lack of a
clue, if one of the party, Sullivan, had not suddenly turned
informer, and led the horrified town's-people to the jungle which
concealed the bodies.  Here my dreadful story may end; for we need
not follow the course of the trial, which resulted in the complete
conviction of the three other men.  I have only dwelt on so horrible
a theme in order to make my readers understand how natural it was
that I should feel nervous, when it became apparent to my
understanding that the custom of the country demanded that you
should ask no questions, but simply tell any travellers who claimed
your hospitality where they were to sleep, and send them in large
supplies of mutton, flour, and tea.

On one occasion it chanced that F---, our stalwart cadet Mr. A---,
and the man who did odd jobs about the place, were all on the point
of setting out upon some expedition, when a party of four swaggers
made their appearance just at sundown.  No true swagger ever appears
earlier, lest he might be politely requested to "move on" to the
next station; whereas if he times his arrival exactly when "the
shades of night are falling fast," no boss could be hard-hearted
enough to point to mist-covered hills and valleys, which are a
net-work of deep creeks and swamps, and desire the wayfarer to go on
further. Once, and only once, did I know of such a thing being done;
but I will not say more about that unfortunate at this moment, for I
want to claim the pity of all my lady readers for the very
unprotected position I am trying to depict.  F--- could not
understand my nervousness, and did not reassure me by saying, as he
mounted his horse, "I've told them to sleep in the stable. I am
pretty sure they are run-away sailors, they seem so footsore.
Good-bye! don't expect me until you see me!"

Now I was a very new chum in those days, and had just heard of the
Maungatapu murders.  These guests of mine looked most disreputable,
and were all powerful young men.  I do not believe there was a
single lock or bolt or bar on any door in the whole of the little
wooden house: the large plate-chest stood outside in the verandah,
and my dressing-case could have been carried off through the
ever-open bedroom window by an enterprising thief of ten years old.
As for my two maids,--the only human beings within reach,--they were
as perfectly useless on any emergency as if they had been wax dolls.
One of them had the habit of fainting if anything happened, and the
other used to tend her until she revived, when they both sat still
and shrieked.  Their nerves had once been tested by a carpenter, who
was employed about the house, and cut his hand badly; on another
occasion by the kitchen chimney which took fire; and that was the
way they behaved each time.  So it was useless to look upon their
presence as any safeguard; indeed one of them speedily detected a
fancied likeness to Burgess in one of the poor swaggers, and
shrieked every time she saw him.

We were indeed three "lone, 'lorn women," all through that weary
night. I could not close my eyes; but laid awake listening to the
weka's shrill call, or the melancholy cry of the bitterns down in
the swamp. With the morning light came hope and courage; and I must
say I felt ashamed of my suspicions when my cook came to announce
that the "swaggers was just agoin' off, and wishful to say good-bye.
They've been and washed up the tin plates and pannikins and spoons
as clean as clean can be; and the one I thought favoured Burgess so
much, mum, he's been and draw'd water from the well, all that we
shall want to-day; and they're very civil, well-spoken chaps, if you
please, mum!"  F--- was right in his surmise, I fancy; for there
were plenty of tattooed pictures of anchors and ships on the brawny
bare arms of my departing guests.  They seemed much disappointed to
find there was no work to be had on our station; but departed, with
many thanks and blessings, "over the hills and far away."

Latterly, with increasing civilization and corresponding social
economy, there have been many attempts made by new-fangled managers
of runs, more than by the run-holders themselves, to induce these
swaggers to work for their tucker,--to use pure colonial
phraseology.  Several devices have been tried, such as taking away
their swags (_i.e._, their red blankets rolled tightly into a sort
of pack, which they carry on their backs, and derive their name
from), and locking them up until they had chopped a small quantity
of wood, or performed some other trifling domestic duty.  But the
swagger will be led, though not driven, and what he often did of his
own accord for the sake of a nod or a smile of thanks from my pretty
maid-servants, he would not do for the hardest words which ever came
out of a boss's mouth.  There are also strict rules of honesty
observed among these men, and if one swagger were to purloin the
smallest article from a station which had fed and sheltered him,
every other swagger in all the country side would immediately become
an amateur detective to make the thief give up his spoil.  A pair of
old boots was once missing from a neighbouring station, and
suspicion fell upon a swagger.  Justice was perhaps somewhat tardy
in this instance, as it rested entirely in the hands of every tramp
who passed that way; but at the end of some months the boots were
found at home, and the innocence of the swaggers, individually and
collectively, triumphantly established.

The only instance of harshness to a swagger which came under my
notice during three years residence in New Zealand, is the one I
have alluded to above, and contains so much dramatic interest in its
details, that it may not be out of place here.

Although I have naturally dwelt in these papers more upon our bright
sunny weather, our clear, bracing winter days, and our balmy spring
and autumn evenings, let no intending traveller think that he will
not meet with bad weather at the Antipodes!  I can only repeat what
I have said with pen and voice a hundred times before.  New Zealand
possesses a very capricious and disagreeable climate: disagreeable
from its constant high winds: but it is perhaps the most singularly
and remarkably healthy place in the world.  This must surely arise
from the very gales which I found so trying to my temper, for damp
is a word without meaning; as for mildew or miasma, the generation
who are growing up there will not know the meaning of the words; and
in spite of a warm, bright day often turning at five minutes warning
into a snowy or wet afternoon, colds and coughs are almost unknown.
People who go out there with delicate lungs recover in the most
surprising manner; surprising, because one expects the sudden
changes of temperature, the unavoidable exposure to rain and even
snow, to kill instead of curing invalids.  But the practice is very
unlike the theory in this case, and people thrive where they ought
to die.

During my first winter in Canterbury we had only one week of
_really_ bad weather, but I felt at that time as if I had never
realized before what bad weather meant.  A true "sou'-wester" was
blowing from the first to the second Monday in that July, without
one moment's lull.  The bitter, furious blast swept down the
mountain gorges, driving sheets of blinding rain in a dense wall
before it.  Now and then the rain turned into large snow-flakes, or
the wind rose into such a hurricane that the falling water appeared
to be flashing over the drenched earth without actually touching it.
Indoors we could hardly hear ourselves speak for the noise of the
wind and rain against the shingle roof.  It became a service of
danger, almost resembling a forlorn hope, to go out and drag in logs
of wet wood, or draw water from the well,--for, alas, there were no
convenient taps or snug coal-holes in our newly-erected little
wooden house.  We husbanded every scrap of mutton, in very different
fashion to our usual reckless consumption, the consumption of a
household which has no butcher's bill to pay; for we knew not when
the shepherd might be able to fight his way through the storm, with
half a sheep packed before him, on sturdy little "Judy's" back.  The
creeks rose and poured over their banks in angry yellow floods.
Every morning casualties in the poultry yard had to be reported, and
that week cost me almost as many fowls and ducks as my great
christening party did.  The first thing every morning when I opened
my eyes I used to jump up and look out of the different windows with
eager curiosity, to see if there were any signs of a break in the
weather, for I was quite unaccustomed to be pent up like a besieged
prisoner for so many succeeding days.  We did not boast of shutters
in those regions, and even blinds were a luxury which were not
wasted in the little hall.  Consequently, when my unsatisfactory
wanderings about the silent house--for no one else was up--led me
that dreadful stormy morning into the narrow passage called the
back-hall, I easily saw through its glass-door what seemed to me one
of the most pathetic sights my eyes had ever rested upon.

Just outside the verandah, which is the invariable addition to New
Zealand houses, stood, bareheaded, a tall, gaunt figure, whose
rain-sodden garments clung closely to its tottering limbs.  A more
dismal morning could not well be imagined: the early dawn struggling
to make itself apparent through a downpour of sleet and rain, the
howling wind (which one could almost see as it drove the vapour wall
before it), and the profound solitude and silence of all except the
raging storm.

At first I thought I must be dreaming, so silent and hopeless stood
that weird figure.  My next impulse, without staying to consider my
dishevelled hair and loose wrapper, was to open the door and beckon
the poor man within the shelter of the verandah.  When once I had
got him there I did not exactly know what to do with my guest, for
neither fire nor food could be procured quite so early.  He crouched
like a stray dog down on the dripping mat outside the door, and
murmured some unintelligible words.  In this dilemma I hastened to
wake up poor F---, who found it difficult to understand why I wanted
him to get up at daylight during a "sou'-wester."  But I entreated
him to go to the hall door, whilst I flew off to get my lazy maids
out of their warm beds.  With all their faults, they did not need
much rousing on that occasion.  I suppose I used very forcible words
to convey the misery of the object standing outside, for I know that
Mary was in floods of tears, and had fastened her gown on over her
night-gear, whilst I was still speaking; and the cook had tumbled
out of bed, and was kneeling before the kitchen fire with her eyes
shut, kindling a blaze, apparently, in her sleep.

As soon as things were in this forward state, I returned to the
verandah, and found our swagger guest drawing a very long breath
after a good nip of pure whisky which F--- had promptly administered
to him.  "I'm fair clemmed wi' cold and wet," the swagger said,
still bundled up in his comparatively sheltered corner.  "I've been
out on the hills the whole night, and I am deadbeat.  Might I stop
here for a bit?"  He asked this very doubtfully, for it is quite
against swagger etiquette to demand shelter in the morning.  For all
answer he was taken by the shoulder, and helped up.  I never shall
forget the poor tramp's deprecating face, as he looked back at me,
whilst he was being led through the pretty little dining-room, with
its bright carpet, on which his clay-clogged boots and dripping
garments left a muddy, as well as a watery track.  "All right," I
said, with colonial brevity; and so we escorted our strange guest
through the house into the kitchen, where the ever-ready kettle and
gridiron were busy preparing tea and chops over a blazing fire.  Of
course the maids screamed when they saw us, and I do not wonder at
their doing so, for neither F--- nor I looked very respectable, with
huddled on dressing-gowns and towzled hair; whilst our foot-sore,
drenched guest subsided into a chair by the door, covered his
wretched pinched face with two bony hands, and burst into tears.  I
certainly never expected to see a swagger cry, and F--- declared the
sight was quite as new to him as to me.  However, the poor man's
tears and helplessness gave fresh energy to my maids' treacherous
nerves, and they even suggested dry clothes.  Our good-natured
cadet, who at this moment appeared on the scene, was only too happy
to find some outlet for _his_ superfluous benevolence, and hastened
off, to return in a moment or two with an old flannel shirt, dry and
whole, in spite of its faded stripes, a pair of moleskin trousers,
and a huge pair of canvas cricketing shoes.  It was no time for
ceremony, so we women retreated for a few minutes into the
store-room, whilst F--- and Mr. A--- made the swagger's toilette,
getting so interested in their task as even to part his dripping
hair out of his eyes.  He had no swag, poor fellow, having lost his
roll of red blankets in one of the treacherous bog-holes across the
range.

That man was exactly like a lost, starving dog.  He ate an enormous
breakfast, curled himself upon some empty flour-sacks in a dry
corner of the kitchen, and slept till dinner time; then another
sleep until the supper hour, and so on, the round of he clock.  All
this time he never spoke, though we were dying to hear how he had
come into such a plight.  The "sou'-wester" still raged furiously
out of doors without a moment's cessation, and we were obliged to
have recourse to the tins of meat kept in the store-room for such an
emergency.  The shepherd told us afterwards he had ventured out to
look for some wethers, his own supply being exhausted, but the whole
mob had hidden themselves so cleverly that neither man nor dog could
discover their place of shelter.  On the Monday night, exactly a
week after the outbreak of bad weather; the skies showed signs of
having exhausted themselves, and nature began to wear a sulky air,
as if her temper were but slowly recovering herself.  The learned in
such matters, however, took a cheerful view of affairs, and declared
the worst to be over,--"for this bout,"--as they cautiously added.

Whether it was the three days of rest, warmth, and good food which
unlocked the swagger's heart, or not, I do not pretend to decide;
but that evening, over a pipe in the kitchen, he confided to Mr. A---
that he had been working his way down to the sea-coast from a
station where he had been employed, very far back in the hill
ranges.  The "sou'-wester" had overtaken him about twenty miles from
us, but only five from another station, where he had applied towards
the evening for shelter, being even then drenched with rain, and
worn out by struggling through such a tremendous storm.  There, for
some reason which I confess did not seem very clear, he had been
refused the unvarying hospitality extended in New Zealand to all
travellers, rich or poor, squatter or swagger, and had been directed
to take a short cut across the hills to our station, which he was
assured could easily be reached in an hour or two more.  The track,
a difficult one enough to strike in summer weather, became, indeed,
impossible to discover amid rushing torrents and driving wind and
rain; besides which, as the poor fellow repeated more than once
during his story, "I was fair done up when I set out, for I'd been
travelling all day."  Mr. A--- told us what the man had been saying,
before we all went to bed, adding, "He seems an odd, surly kind of
creature, for although he declares he is going away the first thing
to-morrow, if the rain be over, I noticed he never said a word
approaching to thanks."

The rain was indeed over next morning, and a flood of brilliant
sunshine awoke me "bright and early," as the country people say.  It
seemed impossible to stop in bed, so I jumped up, thrust my feet
into slippers, and my arms into a warm dressing-gown, and sallied
forth, opening window after window, so as to let the sunshine into
rooms which not even a week's steady down-pour could render damp.
What a morning it was, and for mid-winter too!  No haze, or fog, or
vapour on all the green hills, whose well-washed sides were
glistening in a bright glow of sunlight.  For the first time, too,
since the bad weather had set in, was to be heard the incessant
bleat which is music to the ears of a New Zealand sheep-farmer.
White, moving, calling patches on the hillsides told that the sheep
were returning to their favourite pastures, and a mob of horses
could be descried quietly feeding on the sunny flat.

But I had no eyes for beauties of mountain or sky. I could do
nothing but gaze on the strange figure of the silent swagger, who
knelt yes, positively knelt, on the still wet and shining shingle
which formed an apology for a gravel path up to the back-door of the
little wooden homestead.  His appearance was very different to what
it had been three days before.   Now his clothes were dry and clean
and mended,--my Irish maids doing; bless their warm hearts!  He had
cobbled up his boots himself, and his felt hat, which had quite
recovered from its drenching, lay at his side.  The perfect rest and
warmth and good food had filled up his hollow cheeks, but still his
countenance was a curious one; and never, until my dying day, can I
forget the rapture of entreaty on that man's upturned face.  It
brings the tears into my own eyes now to recollect its beseeching
expression.  I do not think I ever _saw_ prayer before or since.  He
did not perceive me, for I had hidden behind a sheltering curtain,
to listen to his strange, earnest petitions; so he could not know
that anybody in the house was stirring, for he knelt at the back,
and all my fussings had taken place in the front, and he could not,
therefore, have been doing anything for effect.

There, exactly where he had crouched a wretched, way-worn tramp in
pouring rain, he knelt now with the flood of sunshine streaming down
on his uplifted face, whilst he prayed for the welfare and
happiness, individually and collectively, of every living creature
within the house.  Then he stood up and lifted his hat from the
ground; but before he replaced it on his head, he turned, with a
gesture which would have made the fortune of any orator,--a gesture
of mingled love and farewell, and solemnly blessed the roof-tree
which had sheltered him in his hour of need.  I could not help being
struck by the extraordinarily good language in which he expressed
his fervent desires, and his whole bearing seemed quite different to
that of the silent, half-starved man we had kept in the kitchen
these last three days.  I watched him turn and go, noiselessly
closing the garden gate after him, and--shall I confess it?--my
heart has always felt light whenever I think of that swagger's
blessing.  When we all met at breakfast I had to take his part, and
tell of the scene I had witnessed; for everybody was inclined to
blame him for having stolen away, scarcely without saying good-bye,
or expressing a word of thanks for the kindness he had received.
But I knew better.

From the sublime to the ridiculous we all know the step is but
short, especially in the human mind; and to my tender mood succeeds
the recollection of an absurd panic we once suffered from, about
swaggers.  Exaggerated stories had reached us, brought by timid fat
men on horseback, with bulky pocket-books, who came to buy our
wethers for the Hokitika market, of "sticking up" having broken out
on the west land.  I fear my expressions are often unintelligible to
an English reader, but in this instance I will explain.  "Sticking
up" is merely a concise colonial rendering of "Your money or your
life," and was originally employed by Australian bushrangers, those
terrible freebooters whose ranks used to be always recruited from
escaped convicts.  Fortunately we had no community of that class,
only a few prisoners kept in a little ricketty wooden house in
Christchurch, from which an enterprising baby might easily have
escaped.  I dare say as we get more civilized out there, we shall
build ourselves handsome prisons and penitentiaries; but in those
early days a story was current of a certain jailor who let all his
captives out on some festal occasion, using the tremendous threat,
that whoever had not returned by eight o'clock should be "_locked
out!_"

But to return to that particular winter evening.  We had been
telling each other stories which we had heard or read of bushranging
exploits, until we were all as nervous as possible.  Ghosts, or even
burglar stories, are nothing to the horror of a true bushranger
story, and F--- had made himself particularly ghastly and
disagreeable by giving a minute account of an adventure which had
been told to him by one of the survivors.

We listened, with the wind howling outside, to F---'s horrid
second-hand story, of how one fine day up country, eight or ten
men,--station hands,--were "stuck up" by one solitary bushranger,
armed to the teeth.  He tied them up one by one, and seated them all
on a bench in the sun, and deliberately fired at and wounded the
youngest of the party; then, seized with compunction, he unbound one
of the captives, and stood over him, revolver in hand, whilst he
saddled and mounted a horse, to go for a doctor to set the poor
boy's broken leg.  Before the messenger had gone "a league, a
league, but barely twa',"--the freebooter recollected that he might
bring somebody else back with him besides the doctor, and flinging
himself across his horse, rode after the affrighted man, and coolly
shot him dead.  I really don't know how the story ended: I believe
everybody perished; but at this juncture I declared it to be
impossible to sit up any longer to listen to such tragedies, and
went to bed.

Exactly at midnight,--the proper hour for ghosts; burglars, and
bushrangers, and such "small deer" to be about, everybody was
awakened simultaneously by a loud irregular knocking, which sounded
with hollow reverberations all through the wooden house.
"Bushrangers!" we all thought, every one of us; for although
burglars may not usually knock at hall-doors in England, it is by no
means uncommon for their bolder brethren to do so at the other end
of the world.  It is such a comfort to me now, looking back on that
scene to remember that our stalwart cadet was as frightened as
anybody.  _He_ stood six feet one in his stockings, and was a match
for any two in the country side, and yet, I am happy to think, he
was as bad as any one.  As for me, to say that my heart became like
water and my knees like soft wax, is to express in mild words my
state of abject terror.  There was no need to inquire what the maids
thought, for smothered shrieks, louder and louder as each peal of
knocks vibrated through the little house, proclaimed sufficiently
their sentiments on the subject.

Dear me, how ridiculous it all must have been!  In one corner of the
ceiling of our bedroom was a little trap-door which opened into an
attic adjoining that where the big cadet slept.  Now whilst F--- was
hurriedly taking down his double-barrelled gun from its bracket just
below this aperture, and I held the candlestick with so shaky a hand
that the extinguisher clattered like a castanet, this door was
slowly lifted up, and a large white face, with dishevelled stubbly
hair and wide-open blue eyes, looked down through the cobwebs,
saying in a husky whisper, "Could you let me have a rifle, or any
thing?"  This was our gallant cadet, who had no idea of presenting
himself at a disadvantage before the foe.  I had desperately seized
a revolver, but F--- declared that if I persisted in carrying it I
certainly should go first, as he did not wish to be shot in the
back.

We held a hurried council of war,--Mr. A--- assisting through the
trap door, and the maids breathing suggestions through the
partition-planks,--but the difficulty consisted in determining at
which door the knocking was going on.  Some said one, and some
another (for there were many modes of egress from the tiny
dwelling); but at last F--- cried decidedly, "We must try them all
in succession," and shouldering his gun, with the revolver sticking
in the girdle of his dressing-gown, sallied valiantly forth.  I
don't know what became of Mr. A---: I believe he took up a position
with the rifle pointing downwards; the maids retreated beneath their
blankets, and I (too frightened to stay behind) followed closely,
armed with an Indian boar-spear.  F--- flung the hall door wide
open, and called out, "Who's there?" but no one answered.  The
silence was intense, and so was the cold; therefore we returned
speedily indoors to consult.  "It must be at the back door," I
urged; adding, "that is the short cut down the valley, where
bushrangers would be most likely to come."  "Bushrangers, you silly
child!" laughed F---.  "It's most likely a belated swagger, or else
somebody who is playing us a trick."  However as he spoke a
succession of fierce and loud knocks resounded through the whole
house.  "It must be at the kitchen door," F--- said.  "Come along,
and stand well behind me when I open the door."

But we never opened the door; for on our way through the kitchen,
with its high-pitched and unceiled roof,--a very cavern for echoes,--
we discovered the source of the noise, and of our fright.  Within a
large wooden packing-case lay a poor little lamb, and its dying
throes had wakened us all up, as it kicked expiring kicks violently
against the side of the box.  It was my doing bringing it indoors,
for I never _could_ find it in my heart to leave a lamb out on the
hills if we came across a dead ewe with her baby bleating desolately
and running round her body.  F--- always said, "You cannot rear a
merino lamb indoors; the poor little thing will only die all the
same in a day or two;" and then I am sorry to say he added in an
unfeeling manner, "They are not worth much now," as if that could
make any difference!  I had brought this, as I had brought scores of
others, home in my arms from a long distance off; fed it out of a
baby's bottle, rubbed it dry, and put it to sleep in a warm bed of
hay at the bottom of this very box.  They had all died quietly,
after a day or two, in spite of my devotion and nursing, but this
little foundling kicked herself out of the world with as much noise
as would have sufficed to summon a garrison to surrender.  It is all
very well to laugh at it now, but we were, five valiant souls in
all, as thoroughly frightened at the time as we could well be.

The only real harm a swagger did me was to carry off one of my best
maidservants as his wife, but as he had 300 pounds in the bank at
Christchurch, and was only travelling about looking for work, and
they have lived in great peace and prosperity ever since, I suppose
I ought not to complain.  This swagger was employed in deepening our
well, and Mary was always going to see how he was getting on, so he
used to make love to her, looking up from the bottom of a deep
shaft, and shouting compliments to her from a depth of sixty feet.
What really won her Irish heart, though, was his calmly putting a
rival, a shepherd, into a water-butt.  She could not resist that, so
they were married, and are doing well.

Let no one despise swaggers.  They are merely travelling workmen,
and would pay for their lodging if it was the custom to do so.  I am
told that even now they are fast becoming things of the past; for
one could not "swagger" by railroad, and most of our beautiful happy
vallies will soon have a line of rails laid down throughout its
green and peaceful length.



Chapter X: Changing servants.


To the eyes of an English housewife the title of this chapter must
appear a very bad joke indeed, and the amusement what the immortal
Mrs. Poyser would call "a poor tale."  Far be it from me to make
light of the misery of a tolerably good servant coming to you after
three months' service, just as you were beginning to feel settled
and comfortable, and announcing with a smile that she was going to
be married; or, with a flood of tears, that she found it "lonesome."
Either of these two contingencies was pretty sure to arise at least
four times a year on a station.

At first I determined to do all I could to make their new home so
attractive to my two handmaidens that they would not wish to leave
it directly.  In one of Wilkie Collins' books an upholsterer is
represented as saying that if you want to domesticate a woman, you
should surround her with bird's-eye maple and chintz.  That must
have been exactly my idea, for the two rooms which I prepared for my
maidservants were small, indeed, yet exquisitely pretty.  Of course
I should not have been so foolish as to buy any of the unnecessary
and dainty fittings with which they were decorated, but as all the
furniture and belongings of an English house, a good deal larger
than our station home, had been taken out to it, there were sundry
toilet tables, etc., whose destination would have been a loft over
the stable, if I had not used them for my maids.


I had seen and chosen two very respectable young women in
Christchurch, one as a cook, and the other as a housemaid.  The
cook, Euphemia by name, was a tall, fat, flabby woman, with a pasty
complexion, but a nice expression of face, and better manners than
usual.  She turned out to be very good natured, perfectly ignorant
though willing to learn, and was much admired by the neighbouring
_cockatoos_, or small farmers.  Lois the housemaid, was the smallest
and skimpiest and most angular girl I ever beheld.  At first I
regarded her with deep compassion, imagining that she was about
fifteen years of age, and had been cruelly ill-treated and starved.
How she divined what was passing in my mind I cannot tell, but
during our first interview she suddenly fired up, and informed me
that she was twenty-two years old, that she was the seventh child of
a seventh child, and therefore absolutely certain to achieve some
wonderful piece of good luck; and furthermore, that she had been
much admired in her own part of the country, and was universally
allowed to be "the flower of the province."  This statement,
delivered with great volubility and defiant jerkiness of manner,
rather took my breath away; but it was a case of "Hobson's choice"
just then about servants, and as I was assured she was a respectable
girl, I closed with her terms (25 pounds a year and all found) on
the spot.  The fat pale cook was to get 35 pounds.  Now-a-days I
hear that wages are somewhat lower, but the sums I have named were
the average figures of six or seven years ago, especially
"up-country."

Here I feel impelled to repeat the substance of what I have stated
elsewhere,--that these rough, queer servants were, as a general
rule, perfectly honest, and of irreproachable morals, besides
working, in their own curious fashion, desperately hard.  Our family
was an exceptionally small one, and the "place" was considered
"light, you bet," but even then it seemed to me as if both my
domestics worked very hard.  In the first place there was the
washing; two days severe work, under difficulties which they thought
nothing of.  All the clothes had to be taken to a boiler fixed in
the side of a hill, for the convenience of the creek, and washed and
rinsed under a blazing sun (for of course it never was attempted on
a wet day) and amid clouds of sand-flies.  Not until evening was
this really hard day's work over, and the various garments
fluttering in the breeze up a valley behind the house.  The chances
were strongly in favour of a tremendous nor'-wester coming down this
said valley during the night, and in that case there would not be a
sign next morning of any of the clothes.  Heavy things, such as
sheets or table cloths, might be safely looked for under lee of the
nearest gorse hedge, but it would be impossible even to guess where
the lighter and more diaphanous articles had been whisked to.  A
week afterwards the shepherds used to bring in stray cuffs and
collars, and upon one occasion "Judy," the calf, was discovered in a
paddock hard by, breakfasting off my best pocket handkerchiefs with
an excellent appetite.  Of course everything was dirty, and needed
to be washed over again.  We had a mangle, which greatly simplified
matters on the second day, but it used not to be uncommon on
back-country stations to get up the fine things with a flat stone,
heated in the wood ashes, for an iron.  After the washing operations
had been brought to a more or less successful ending, there came the
yeast making and the baking, followed by the brewing of sugar beer,
preserves had to be made, bacon cured, all sorts of things to be
done, besides the daily duties of scrubbing and cleaning, and
cooking at all hours for stray visitors or "swaggers."

But I am overcome with contrition at perceiving into what a
digression I have wandered; having strayed from my maids' rooms to
their duties.  They arrived as usual on a dray late in the evening,
tired and wearied enough, poor souls.  In those early days I had not
yet plucked up courage to try my hand in the kitchen, and our meals
had been left to the charge of F---, who, whatever he may be in
other relations of life, is a vile cook; and our good-natured cadet
Mr. U---, who was exceedingly willing, but profoundly ignorant of
the elements of cookery.  For fear of being tempted into another
digression, I will briefly state that during that week I lived in a
chronic state of hunger and heartburn, and sought forgetfulness from
repeated attacks of indigestion, by decorating my servants' rooms.
They opened into each other, and it would have been hard to find two
prettier little nests.  Each had its shining brass bedstead with
chintz hangings, its muslin-draped toilette table, and its daintily
curtained window, besides a pretty carpet.  I can remember now the
sort of dazed look with which Euphemia regarded a room such as she
had never seen; whilst Lois considered it to be an instalment of her
good luck, and proceeded to contemplate her sharp and elfish
countenance in her looking-glass, pronouncing it as her opinion that
she wanted more colour.  That she certainly did, and she might have
added, more flesh and youthfulness, while she was about it.
However, they were greatly delighted, and Euphemia who was of a
grateful and affectionate disposition, actually thanked me, for
having with my own hands arranged such pretty rooms for them.

This was a very good beginning.  They were both hard-working, civil
girls, and got on very well together, leaving me plenty of leisure
to attend to the quantities of necessary arrangements which have to
be made when you are settling yourself for good, fifty miles from a
shop, and on a spot where no other human being has ever lived
before.  F--- congratulated myself in private on my exceptional good
luck, and attributed it partly to my having followed the
Upholsterer's advice in that book of Mr. Wilkie Collins.  But as it
turned out, F--- was dwelling in a fool's paradise.  In vain had it
been pointed out to me that a certain stalwart north countryman,
whose shyness could only be equalled by his appetite, had been a
most regular attendant for some weeks past at our Sunday evening
services, accepting the offer of tea in the kitchen, afterwards,
with great alacrity.  I scouted these insinuations, appealing to the
general sense of the public as to whether Moffatt had _ever_ been
known to refuse a meal anywhere, or under any circumstances, and
declaring that, if he was "courting," it was being done in solemn
silence, for never a sound filtered through the thin wooden planks
between the kitchen and the dining room, except the clatter of a
vigorously plied knife and fork, for Moffatt's teas always included
a shoulder of mutton.

But I was wrong and others were right.  Early in October, our second
spring month, I chanced to get up betimes one delicious, calm
morning, a morning when it seemed a new and exquisite pleasure to
open each window in succession, and fill one's lungs with a deep,
deep breath of that heavenly atmosphere, at once so fresh and so
pure.

Quiet as the little homestead lay, nestled among the hills, there
were too many morning noises stirring among the animals for any one
to feel lonely or dull, I should have thought.  From a distance came
a regular, monotonous, lowing sound.  That was "Hetty," the pretty
little yellow Alderney, announcing from the swamps that she and her
two female friends were quite ready to be milked.  Their calves
answered them dutifully from the English grass paddock, and between
the two I could see Mr. U---'s tall figure stalking down the flat
with his cattle dog at his heels, and hear his merry whistle
shrilling through the silent air.  Then all the ducks and fowls
about the place were inquiring, in noisy cackle, how long it would
be before breakfast was ready, whilst "Helen's" whinneying made me
turn my head to see her, with a mob of horses at her heels, coming
over the nearest ridge on the chance of a stray carrot or two going
begging.  All the chained-up dogs were pulling at the staples of
their fastenings, and entreating by short, joyous barks, to be
allowed just one good frisk and roll in the sparkling dewy grass
around.  But even I, universal spoiler of animals that I am, was
obliged to harden my heart against their noisy appeals; for quite
close to the stable, on the nearest hill-side, an immense mob of
sheep and young lambs were feeding.  That steep incline had been
burnt six weeks before, and was now as green as the clover field at
its base, affording a delicious pasturage to these nursing mothers
and their frisky infants.  I think I see and hear it all now.  The
moving white patches on the hill-side, the incessant calling and
answering, the racing and chasing among the curly little merino
lambs, and above all the fair earth the clear vault of an almost
cloudless sky bent itself in a deep blue dome.  Just over the
eastern hills the first long lances of the sun lay in bright shafts
of silver sheen on the dew-laden tussocks, and that peculiar morning
fragrance rose up from the moist ground, which is as much the reward
of the early riser as the early worm is of the bird.

Was it a morning for low spirits or sobs and sighs?  Surely not; and
yet as I turned the handle of the kitchen door those melancholy
sounds struck my ear.  I had intended to make my entrance with a
propitiatory smile, suitable to such a glorious morning, proceed to
pay my damsels a graceful compliment on their somewhat unusual early
rising, and wind up with a request for a cup of tea.  But all these
friendly purposes went out of my head when I beheld Euphemia seated
on the rude wooden settle, with its chopped tussock mattrass, which
had been covered with a bright cotton damask, and was now called
respectfully, "the kitchen sofa."  Her arm was round Lois's waist,
and she had drawn that young lady's shock head of red curls down on
her capacious bosom.  Both were crying as if their hearts would
break, and startled as I felt to see these floods of tears, it
struck me how incongruous their attitude looked against the
background of the large window through which all nature looked so
smiling and sparkling.  The kettle was singing on the fire,
everything seemed bright and snug and comfortable indoors.  "What in
the world has happened?" I gasped, really frightened.

"Nothing, mem: its only them sheep," sobbed Euphemia, "calling like.
They always makes me cry.  Your tea 'll be ready directly, mem"
(this last with a deep sigh.)

"Is it possible you are crying about that?" I inquired.  "Yes, mem,
yes," said Euphemia, in heart-broken accents, clasping Lois, who was
positively howling, closer to her sympathetic heart.  "Its terrible
to hear 'em.  They keeps calling and answering each other, and that
makes us think of our home and friends."  Now both these women had
starved as factory "hands" all their lives, and I used to feel much
more inclined to cry when they told me, all unconscious of the
pathos, stories of their baby work and hardships.  Certainly they
had never seen a sheep until they came to New Zealand, and as they
had particularly mentioned the silence which used to reign supreme
at the manufactory during work hours, I could not trace the
connection between a dingy, smoky, factory, and a bright spring
morning in this delightful valley.  "What nonsense!" I cried, half
laughing and half angry.  "You can't be in earnest.  Why you must
both be ill: let me give you each a good dose of medicine."  I said
this encouragingly, for there was nothing in the world Euphemia
liked so much as good substantial physic, and the only thing I ever
needed to keep locked up from her was the medicine drawer.

Euphemia seemed touched and grateful, and her face brightened up
directly, but Lois looked up with her frightful little face more
ugly than usual, as she said, spitefully, "Physic won't make them
nasty sheep hold their tongues.  I'm sure _this_ isn't the place for
me to find my luck, so I'd rather go, if you please, mem.  I've
prospected-up every one o' them gullies and never seen the colour
yet, so it ain't any good my stopping."

This was quite a fresh light thrown upon the purpose of Lois's long
lonely rambles.  She used to be off and away, over the hills
whenever she had finished her daily work, and I encouraged her
rambles, thinking the fresh air and exercise must do her a world of
good.  Never had I guessed that the sordid little puss was turning
over every stone in the creek in her search for the shining flakes.

"Why did you think you should find gold here?" I asked.

"Because they do say it lies in all these mountain streams," she
answered sullenly; "and I'm always dreaming of nuggets.  Not that a
girl with my face and figure wants 'dust' to set her off, however.
But if its all the same to you, mem, I'd rather leave when Euphemia
does."

"Are _you_ going, then?" I inquired, turning reproachfully to my
pale-faced cook, who actually coloured a little as she answered,
"Well, mem, you see Moffatt says he's got his window frames in now,
and he'll glass them the very first chance, and I think it'll be
more company for me on Saddler's Flat.  So if you'll please to send
me down in the dray, I should be obliged."

Here was a pretty upset, and I went about my poultry-feeding with a
heavy heart.  How was I to get fresh servants, and above all, what
was I to do for cooking during the week they were away?  These
questions fortunately settled themselves in rather an unexpected
manner.  I heard of a very nice willing girl who was particularly
anxious to come up as housemaid, to my part of the world, on
condition that I should also engage as cook her sister, who was
leaving a place on the opposite side of a range of high hills to the
south.  I shall only briefly say that all inquiries about these
damsels proved satisfactory, and I could see Euphemia and Lois
depart, with tolerable equanimity.  The former wept, and begged for
a box of Cockles' pills; but Lois tossed her elfish head, and gave
me to understand that she had never been properly admired or
appreciated whilst in my service.



Chapter XII: Culinary troubles.


I want to lodge a formal complaint against all cookery books.  They
are not the least use in the world, until you know how to cook! and
then you can do without them.  Somebody ought to write a cookery
book which would tell an unhappy beginner whether the water in which
she proposes to put her potatoes is to be hot or cold; how long such
water is to boil; how she is to know whether the potatoes are done
enough; how to dry them after they have boiled, and similar things,
which make all the difference in the world.

To speak like Mr. Brooke for a moment. "Rice now: I have dabbled in
that a good deal myself, and found it wouldn't do at all."

Of course in time, and after many failures, I did learn to boil a
potato which would not disgrace me, and to bake bread, besides in
time attaining to puddings and cakes, of which I don't mind
confessing I was modestly proud.  It used to be a study, I am told,
to watch my face when a cake had turned out as it ought.  Gratified
vanity at the lavish encomiums bestowed on it, and horrified dismay
at the rapidity with which a good sized cake disappeared down the
throats of the company, warred together in the most artless fashion.
The reflection would arise that it was almost a pity it should be
eaten up so very fast; yet was it not a fine thing to be able to
make such a cake! and oh, would the next be equally good?

One lesson I leaned in my New Zealand kitchen,--and that was not to
be too hard on the point of breakages; for no one knows, unless from
personal experience, how true was the Irish cook's apology for
breaking a dish, when she said that it let go of her hand.  I
declare that I used, at last, to regard my plates and dishes, cups
and saucers, yea, even the pudding basons, not as so much china and
delf, but as troublesome imps, possessed with an insane desire to
dash themselves madly on the kitchen floor upon the least
provocation.  Every woman knows what a slippery thing to hold is a
baby in its tub.  I am in a position to pronounce that wet plates
and dishes are far more difficult to keep hold of.  They have a way
of leaping out of your fingers, which must be felt to be believed.
After my first week in my kitchen I used to wonder, not at the
breakages, but at anything remaining unbroken.

My maids had a very ingenious method of disposing of the fragments
of their pottery misfortunes.  At the back of the house an open
patch of ground, thickly covered with an under-growth of native
grass, and the usual large proportion of sheltering tussocks
stretched away to the foot of the nearest hill.  This was burned
every second year or so, and when the fire had passed away the sight
it revealed was certainly very curious.  Beneath each tussock had
lain concealed a small heap of broken china, which must have been
placed there in the dead of the night.  The delinquents had
evidently been at the pains to perfect their work of destruction by
reducing the china articles in question, to the smallest imaginable
fragments, for fear of a protruding corner betraying the clever
_cache_; and the contrast afforded to the blackened ground on which
they lay, by the gay patches of tiny fragments huddled together, was
droll indeed.  That was the moment for recognising the remains of a
favourite jug or plate, or even a beloved tea-cup.  There they were
all laid in neat little heaps, and the best of it was that the
existing cook always declared loudly her astonishment at the base
ingenuity of such conduct, although I could not fail to recognise
many a plate or dish which had disappeared from the land of the
living during her reign.

All housekeepers will sympathise with my feelings at seeing an
amateur scullion, who had distinguished himself greatly in the
Balaklava charge, but who appeared to have no idea that boiling
water would scald his fingers,--drop the top plate of a pile which
he had placed in a tub before him.  In spite of my entreaties to be
allowed to "wash-up" myself, he gallantly declared that he could do
it beautifully, and that the great thing was to have the water very
hot.  In pursuance of this theory he poured the contents of a kettle
of boiling water over his plates, plunged his hand in, and dropped
the top plate, with a shriek of dismay, on those beneath it.  Out of
consideration for that well-meaning emigrant's feelings, I abstain
from publishing the list of the killed and wounded, briefly stating
that he might almost as well have fired a shot among my poor plates.
A perfect fountain of water and chips and bits of china flew up into
the air, and I really believe that hardly one plate remained
uncracked.  So much for one's friends. I must candidly state that
although the servants broke a good deal, we destroyed twice as much
amongst us during the week which must needs elapse between their
departure and, the arrival of the new ones.

Shall I ever forget the guilty pallor which overspread the bronzed
and bearded countenance of one of my guests, who particularly wished
to dust the drawing-room ornaments, when on hearing a slight crash I
came into the room and found him picking up the remains of a china
shepherdess?  Considering everything, I kept my temper remarkably
well, merely observing that he had better go into the verandah and
sit down with a book and his pipe, and send Joey in to help me.
Joey was a little black monkey from Panama, who had to be provided
with broken bits of delf or china in order that he might amuse
himself by breaking them ingeniously into smaller fragments.

But the real object of this chapter was to relate some of my own
private misfortunes in the cooking line.  Once, when Alice S--- was
staying with me and we had no servants, she and I undertook to bake
a very infantine and unweaned pig.  It was all properly arranged for
us, and, making up a good fire, we proceeded to cook the little
monster.

Hours passed by; all the rest of the dinner got itself properly
cooked at the right time, but the pig presented exactly the same
appearance at dewy eve as it had done in the early morn.  We looked
rather crest-fallen at its pale condition when one o'clock struck,
but I said cheerfully, "Oh, I daresay it will be ready by supper!"
But it was not: not a bit of it.  Of course we searched in those
delusive cookery books, but they only told us what sauces to serve
with a roasted pig, or how to garnish it, entering minutely into a
disquisition upon whether a lemon or an orange had better be stuck
into its mouth.  We wanted to know how to cook it, and why it would
not get itself baked.  About an hour before supper-time I grew
desperate at the anticipation of the "chaff" Alice and I would
certainly have to undergo if this detestable animal could not be
produced in a sufficiently cooked state by evening.  We took it out
of the oven and contemplated it with silence and dismay.  Fair as
ever did that pig appear, and as if it had no present intention of
being cooked at all.  A sudden idea came into our heads at the same
moment, but it was Alice who first whispered, "Let us cut off its
head."  "Yes," I cried; "I am sure that prevents its roasting or
baking, or whatever it is."  So we got out the big carving knife and
cut off the piggy's head.  Far be it from me to offer any solution
of the theory why the head should have interfered with the baking
process, but all I know is, that, like the old woman in the nursery
song, everything began to go right, and we got our supper that
night.

Has anybody ever reflected on how difficult it must be to get a
chimney swept without ever a sweep or even a brush?  Luckily our
chimneys were short and wide, and we used a good deal of wood; so in
three years the kitchen chimney only needed to be cleansed twice.
The first time it was cleared of soot by the simple process of being
set on fire, but as a light nor'-wester was blowing, the risk to the
wooden roof became very great and could only be met by spreading wet
blankets over the shingles.  We had a very narrow escape of losing
our little wooden house, and it was fortunate it happened just at
the men's dinner hour when there was plenty of help close at hand.
However great my satisfaction at feeling that at last my chimney had
been thoroughly swept, there was evidently too much risk about the
performance to admit of its being repeated, so about a year
afterwards I asked an "old chum" what I was to do with my chimney.
"Sweep it with a furze-bush, to be sure," she replied.  I mentioned
this primitive receipt at home, and the idea was carried out a day
or two later by one man mounting on the roof of the house whilst
another remained in the kitchen; the individual on the roof threw
down a rope to the one below, who fastened a large furze-bush in the
middle, they each held an end of this rope, and so pulled it up and
down the chimney until the man below was as black as any veritable
sweep, and had to betake himself, clothes and all, to a neighbouring
creek.  As for the kitchen, its state cannot be better described
than in my Irish cook's words, who cried, "Did mortial man ever see
sich a ridiklous mess?  Arrah, why couldn't ye let it be thin?"  But
for all that she set bravely to work and got everything clean and
nice once more, merely stipulating that the next time we were going
to sweep chimney we should let her know beforehand, that she might
go somewhere "right away."

I feel, however, that in all these reminiscences I am straying
widely from the point which was before my mind when I began this
chapter, and that is the delusiveness of a cookery book.  No book
which I have ever seen tells you, for instance, how to boil rice
properly.  They all insist that the grains must be white and dry and
separate, but they omit to describe the process by which these
results can be attained.  They tell you what you are to do with your
rice after it is boiled, but not how to boil it.  The fact is, I
suppose, that the people who write such books began so early to be
cooks themselves, that they forget there ever was a time when such
simple things were unknown to them.

Even when I had, after many failures, mastered the art of boiling
rice, and. also of making an excellent curry,--for which
accomplishment I was indebted to the practical teaching of a
neighbour,--there used still to be misfortunes in store for me.  One
of these caused me such a bitter disappointment that I have never
quite forgotten it.  This was the manner of it.  We were without
servants.  My readers must not suppose that such was our chronic
condition, but when you come to change your servants three or four
times a year, and have to "do" for yourself each time during the
week which must elapse before the arrival of new ones, there is an
ample margin for every possible domestic misadventure.  If any doubt
me, let them try for themselves.

On this special occasion, which proved to be nearly the last, my
mind was easy, for the simple reason that I was now independent of
cookery books.  I had puzzled out all the elementary parts of the
science for myself, and had no misgivings on the subject of potatoes
or even peas.  So confident was I, and vain, that I volunteered to
make a curry for breakfast.  Such a savoury curry as it was, and it
turned out to be all that the heart of a hungry man could desire; so
did the rice: I really felt proud of that rice; each grain kept
itself duly apart from its fellow, and was as soft and white and
plump as possible.  Everything went well, and I had plenty of
assistants to carry in the substantial breakfast as fast as it was
ready: the coffee, toast, all the other things had gone in; even the
curry had been borne off amid many compliments, and now it only
remained for me to dish up the rice.

Imagine the scene.  The bright pretty kitchen, with its large window
through which you could see the green hills around dotted with
sheep; the creek chattering along just outside, whilst close to the
back door loitered a crowd of fowls and ducks on the chance of fate
sending them something extra to eat.  Beneath the large window, and
just in front of it, stood a large deal table, and it used to be my
custom to transfer the contents of the saucepans to the dishes at
that convenient place.  Well, I emptied the rice into its dish, and
gazed fondly at it for a moment: any cook might have been proud of
that beautiful heap of snow-white grains.  I had boiled a great
quantity, more than necessary it seemed, for although the dish was
piled up almost as high as it would hold, some rice yet remained in
the saucepan.

Oh, that I had been content to leave it there!  But no: with a
certain spasmodic frugality which has often been my bane, I shook
the saucepan vehemently, in order to dislodge some more of its
contents into my already full dish.  As I did so, my treacherous
wrist, strained by the weight of the saucepan, gave way, and with
the rapidity of a conjurer's trick I found the great black saucepan
seated,--yes, that is the only word for it,--seated in the midst of
my heap of rice, which was now covered by fine black powder from its
sooty outside.  All the rice was utterly and completely spoiled.  I
don't believe that five clean grains were left in the dish  There
was nothing for it but to leave it to get cold and then throw it all
out for the fowls, who don't mind _riz au noir_ it seems.  Although
I feel more than half ashamed to confess it, I am by no means sure I
did not retire into the store-room and shed a tear over the fate of
that rice.  Everybody else laughed, but I was dreadfully mortified
and vexed.



Chapter XIII: Amateur Servants.


I flattered myself on a certain occasion that I had made some very
artful arrangements to provide the family with something to eat
during the servants' absence.  I had been lamenting the week of
experiments in food which would be sure to ensue so soon as the dray
should leave, in the hearing of a gallant young ex-dragoon, who had
come out to New Zealand to try and see if one could gratify tastes,
requiring, say a thousand a year to provide for, on an income of 120
pounds.  He was just finding out that it was quite as difficult to
manage this in the Southern as in the Northern Hemisphere, but his
hearty cheery manner, and enormous stock of hope, kept him up for
some time.

"I'll come and cook for you," he cried.  "I can cook like a bird.
But I can't wash up.  No, no: it burns too much.  If you can get
somebody to wash up, I'll cook.  And just look here: it would be
very nice if we could have some music after dinner.  You've got a
piano, haven't you? That's right.  Well, now, don't you ask that
pretty Miss A---, who has just come out from England, to come and
stop with you, and then we could have some music?"

"Where did you learn to cook?" I inquired, suspiciously; for F---
had also assured me _he_ could cook, and this had upset my
confidence.

"On the west coast; to be sure!  Ask Vere, and Williams and Taylor,
and everybody, if they _ever_ tasted such pies as I used to make
them."  My countenance must have still looked rather doubtful,
because I well remember sundry verbal testimonials of capability
being produced; and as I was still very ignorant of the rudiments of
the science of cookery, I shrank from assuming the whole
responsibility of the family meals.  So the household was arranged
in this way:--Captain George, head cook; Mr. U---, scullery-maid;
Miss A---, housemaid; myself, lady-superintendent; Mr. Forsyth (a
young naval officer), butler.  On the principle of giving honour to
whom honour is due, this gallant lieutenant deserves special mention
for the way he cleaned glass.  He did not pay much attention to his
silver, but his glass would have passed muster at a club.  The only
drawback was the immense time he took over each glass, and the way
he followed either Miss A--- or me all about the house, holding a
tumbler in one hand, and a long, clean glass-cloth in the other,
calling upon us to admire the polish of the crystal.  To clean two
tumblers would be a good day's work for him.  From Monday to
Saturday (when the dray returned), this state of things went on.  Of
course I had taken the precaution of having a good supply of bread
made beforehand, besides cakes and biscuits, tarts and pies;
everything to save trouble.  But it was not of much use, for,
alleging that they were working so hard, the young men, F--- at
their head, though I was always telling him he was married and ought
to know better, set to work and ate up everything immediately, as
completely as if they had been locusts.  And then, they were all so
dreadfully wild and unmanageable!  Mine was by far the hardest task
of all, the keeping them in any sort of order.  For instance,
Captain George declared one day, that if there was one thing he did
better than another, it was to make jam.  Consequently a fatigue
party was ordered out to gather strawberries, and, after more than
half had been eaten on the way to the house, a stewpan was filled.
I had to do most of the skimming, as Captain George wanted to
practice a duet with Miss A---.  I may as well mention here that we
never had any opportunity of seeing how the jam kept, because the
smell pervaded the whole house to such an extent, that, declaring
they felt like schoolboys again, the gentlemen fell on my half dozen
pots of preserves in a body, carried them off, and ate them all up
then and there, announcing afterwards, there had just been a pot
a-piece.

It was really a dreadful time, although we got well cooked _plats_,
for Captain George wasted quite as much as he used.  The pigs fed
sumptuously that week on his failures, in sauces, minces; puddings,
and what not.  He had insisted on our making him a paper cap and a
linen apron, or rather a dozen linen aprons, for he was perpetually
blackening his apron and casting it aside.  Then, he used suddenly
to cease to take any interest in his occupation, and, seating
himself sideways on the kitchen dresser, begin to whistle through a
whole opera, or repeat pages of poetry.  I tried the experiment of
banishing Miss A--- from the kitchen during cooking hours, but a few
bars played on the piano were quite enough to distract my cook from
his work.  My only quiet time was the afternoon, when about four
o'clock, my amateur servants all went out for a ride, and left me in
peace for a couple of hours.  I had enough to do during that short
time to tidy up; to collect the scattered books and music, and
prepare the tea-supper, for which they came back in tearing spirits,
and frantically hungry, between seven and eight o'clock.  After this
meal had been cleared away, and Mr. U--- and I had washed up (the
others declaring they were too tired to stir), we all used to
adjourn to the verandah.  It happened to be an exceptionally _still_
week, no dry, hot nor'-westers, nor cold, wet sou'-westers, and it
was perfectly delicious to sit out in the verandah and rest, after
the labours of the day, in our cane easy-chairs.  The balmy air was
so soft and fresh, and the intense silence all around so profound.
Unfortunately there was a full moon.  I say "unfortunately," because
the flood of pale light suggested to these dreadful young men the
feasibility of having what they called a "servant's ball."  In vain
I declared that the housekeeper was never expected to dance.  "Oh,
yes! "laughed Captain George.  "I've often danced with a
housekeeper, and very jolly it was too.  Come along!  F---, _make_
her dance."  And I was forced to gallopade up and down that verandah
till I felt half dead with fatigue.  The boards had a tremendous
spring, and the verandah (built by F---, by the way), was very wide
and roomy, so it made an excellent ball-room.  As for the trifling
difficulty about music, that was supplied by Captain George and Mr.
U--- whistling in turn, time being kept by clapping the top and
bottom of my silver butter dish together, cymbal-wise.  Oh, dear!
It takes my breath away now even to think of those evenings!  I see
Alice A--- flitting about in her white dress and fern-leaf wreath,
dancing like the slender sylph she really was, but never can I
forget the odd effect of the gentlemen's feet!  No one had their
dress boots up at the station, and as Alice and I firmly declined to
dance with anybody who wore "Cookham" boots (great heavy things with
nails in the soles), they had no other course open to them except to
wear their smart slippers.  There were slippers of purple velvet,
embroidered with gold; others of blue kid, delicately traced in
crimson lines; foxes heads stared at us in startling perspective
from a scarlet ground; or black jim-crow figures disported
themselves on orange tent-stitch.  Then these slippers were all more
or less of an easy fit, and had a way of flying out on the lawn
suddenly, startling my dear dog Nettle out of his first sleep.

Ah, well! that may be an absurd bit of one's life to look back upon,
but its days were bright and innocent enough.  Health was so perfect
that the mere sensation of being alive became happiness, and all the
noise of the eager, bustling, pushing world, seemed shut away by
those steep hills which folded our quiet valley in their green arms.
People have often said to me since, "Surely you would not like to
have lived there for ever?"  Perhaps not.  I can only say that three
years of that calm, idyllic life, held no weary hour for me, and I
am quite sure that quiet time was a great blessing to me in many
ways.  First of all, in health, for a person must be in a very bad
way indeed for New Zealand air not to do them a world of good; next,
in teaching me, amid a great deal of fun and laughter, sundry useful
accomplishments, not easily learned in our luxurious civilization;
and, lastly, those few years of seclusion from the turmoil of life
brought leisure to think out one's own thoughts, and to sift them
from other peoples' ideas.  Under such circumstances, it is hard if
"the unregarded river of our life," as Matthew Arnold so finely call
it be not perceived, for one then

          "--- Becomes aware of his life's flow
          And bears its winding murmur, and be sees
          The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze;
          And there arrives a lull in the hot race,
          Wherein he doth for ever chase
          That flying and elusive shadow, rest."

One good effect of my sufferings with a house full of unruly
volunteers, was that during the brief stay (only two months), of my
next cook, I set to work assiduously to learn as many kitchen
mysteries as she could teach me, and so became independent of
Captain George or F---, or any other amateur, good, bad, or
indifferent.

Nothing could be more extraordinary than the way in which the two
affectionate sisters, mentioned [earlier] and who succeeded Euphemia
and Lois, quarrelled.  They were very unlike each other in
appearance, and one fruitful source of bickering arose from their
respective styles of beauty.  Not only did they wrangle and rave at
each other all the day long, during every moment of their spare
time, but after they had gone to bed, we could hear them quite
plainly calling out to each other from their different rooms.  If I
begged them to be quiet, there might be silence for a moment, but it
would shortly be broken by Maria, calling out, "I say, Dinah, don't
you go for to wear green, my girl.  I only tell you friendly, but
you're a deal too yellow for that.  It suits _me_, 'cause I'm so
fresh and rosy, but you never _will_ have my 'plexion, not if you
live to be eighty.  Good night.  I thought I'd just mention it while
I remembered."  This used to aggravate Dinah dreadfully, and she
would retaliate by repeating some complimentary speech of Old Ben's,
or Long Tom's, the stockman, and then there would be no peace for an
hour.

Their successors were Clarissa and Eunice.  Eunice wept sore for a
whole month, over her sweeping and cleaning.  To this day I have not
the dimmest idea _why_.  She gave me warning, amid floods of tears,
directly she arrived, though I could not make out any other tangible
complaint than that "the dray had jolted as never was;" and to
Clarissa, I gave warning the first day I came into the kitchen.

She received me seated on the kitchen table, swinging her legs,
which did not nearly touch the floor.  She had carefully arranged
her position so as to turn her back towards me, and she went on
picking her teeth with a hair-pin.  I stood aghast at this specimen
of colonial manners, which was the more astonishing as I knew the
girl had lived in the service of a gentleman's family in the North
of England for some time before she sailed.

"Dear me, Clarissa," I cried, "is that the way you behaved at
Colonel St. John's?"

Clarissa looked at me very coolly over her shoulder (I must mention
she was a very pretty girl, blue-eyed and rosy-cheeked, but with
_such_ a temper!) and, giving her plump shoulders a little shrug,
said, "No, in course not: _they_ was gentlefolks, they was."

I confess I felt rather nettled at this, and yet it was difficult to
be angry with a girl who looked like a grown up and very pretty
baby.  I restrained my feelings and said, "Well, I should like you
to behave here as you did there. Suppose you get off the table and
come and look what we can find in the store room."

"I _have_ looked round," she declared: "there 'aint much to be
seen."  My patience began to run short, and I said very firmly, "You
must get off the table directly, Clarissa, and stand and speak
properly; or I shall send you down to Christchurch again."  I
suppose that was exactly what the damsel wished, for she made no
movement; whereat I said in great wrath, "Very well, then you shall
leave at the end of a month."  And so she did, having bullied
everybody out of their lives during that time.

Whilst we are on the subject of manners, it may not be out of place
to relate a little episode of my early days "up country."  I think I
have alluded [in "Station Life in New Zealand"] to our book club;
but I don't know that it has been explained that I used to change
the books on Sunday afternoon, after our little evening service.  It
would have been impossible to induce the men to come from an immense
distance twice a week, and it was therefore necessary that they
should be able to get a fresh book after service.  Nothing could
have been better than the behaviour of my little congregation: they
made it a point of giving no trouble whatever with their horses or
dogs, and they were so afraid of being supposed to come for what
they could get, that I had some difficulty in inducing those who
travelled from a distance to have a cup of tea in the kitchen before
they mounted, to set off on their long solitary ride homewards.
They were also exceedingly quiet and well-behaved; for if even a
dozen men or more were standing outside in fine weather, or waiting
within the kitchen if it were wet or windy, not a sound could be
heard.  If they spoke to each other, it was in the lowest whisper,
and they would no more have thought of lighting their pipes anywhere
near the house than they would of flying.

This innate tact and true gentlemanly feeling which struck me so
much in the labouring man as he appears in New Zealand, made the
lapse of good manners, to which I am coming, all the more
remarkable.  Of course they never touched their hats to me: they
would make me a bow or take their hats _off_, but they never touched
them.  I have often seen a hand raised involuntarily to the soft
felt hat, which every one wears there, but the mechanical action
would be arrested by the recollection of the first article of the
old colonial creed, "Jack is as good as his master."  I never minded
this in the least, and got so completely out of the habit of
expecting any salutations, that it seemed quite odd to me to receive
them again on my return.  No, what I objected to was, that when I
used to go into my kitchen, about ten minutes or so after the
service had been concluded, with the list of club books in my hand,
not a single man rose from his seat.  They seemed to make it a point
to sit down somewhere; on a table or window seat if all the chairs
were occupied, but at all events not to be found standing.  They
would bend their heads and blush, and glance shyly at each other for
encouragement as I came in, but no one got up, or took his hat off.
This went on for a few weeks, until I felt sure that this curious
behaviour did not spring from forgetfulness, or inattention.  When I
mentioned my grievance in the drawing-room to the gentlemen, I only
got laughed at for my pains, and I was asked what else I expected?
To this question used to be added sundry anecdotes of earlier
colonial life, intended to reconcile me to the manners of these
later days.  I remember particularly a legend of a man cook, who was
said to have walked into the sitting-room of the station where the
master was practising tunes on an accordion, and exclaimed, "Now,
look here, boss, if you don't leave off that there noise, which
perwents me gettin' a wink o' sleep, I'll clear out o' this, sharp,
to-morrow mornin'.  So now yer know," and with that remark he
returned to his bunk.

At last I was goaded to declare I felt sure that the men only
behaved in that way from crass ignorance, and that if they knew how
much my feelings were hurt, they would alter their manners directly.
This opinion was received with such incredulity that I felt roused
to declare I should try the experiment next Sunday afternoon.  The
only warning which at all daunted me was the assurance that I should
affront my congregation and scare them away.  It was the dread of
this which made my heart beat so fast, and my hands turn so cold as
I opened the kitchen-door the next Sunday afternoon.  There were
exactly the same attitudes, every body perfectly civil and
respectful, but every body seated.  Luckily my courage rose at the
right moment, and I came forward as usual with a smile, and said,
"Look here, my men, there is one little thing I want to ask you.  Do
you know that it is not the custom anywhere, in any civilized
country, for gentlemen to remain seated and covered when a lady
comes into the room?  If I were to go into a room in England, where
the Prince of Wales, or any of the finest gentlemen of the land were
sitting, just as you are now, they would all get up, the Prince
first, most likely, and they would certainly take off their hats!
Now why can't you all do the same, here?"

The effect of my little speech was magical.  Pepper glanced at
McQuhair, Moffatt crimsoned and nudged McKenzie, Wiry Ben slipped
off the window-seat and shyed his hat across the kitchen, whilst
Long Tom, the bullock-driver, "thanked me kindly for mentioning of
it;" and every body got up directly and took their hats off.  I felt
immensely proud of my success, and hastened the moment of my return
to the drawing room, where I announced my triumph.  I repeated my
little speech as concisely as possible; but, alas, it was not nearly
so well received as it had been in the kitchen!  "Have you ever gone
to see a London club?" one person inquired.  "Ah: I thought not!  I
don't know about the Prince, because he always _does_ do the
prettiest things at the right moment, but I doubt very much about
all the others.  I fear you have made a very wild assertion to get
your own way."  I need hardly say I sulked at that incredulous
individual for many days but he always stuck firmly to his own
opinion.  However, my men never required another hint.  They came
just as regularly as usual to church, and we all lived happily ever
after.

I feel that my chapter should end here; but any record of my New
Zealand servants would be incomplete without mention of my "bearded
cook."  Every body thinks, when I say this, that I am going to tell
them about a man, but it is nothing of the sort.  Isabella Lyon, in
spite of her pronounced beard, was a very fine woman; exceedingly
good-humoured looking and fresh-coloured, with most amiable
prepossessing manners.  She had not long arrived, and had been at
once snapped up for an hotel, but she applied for my place, saying
she wished for quiet and a country life.  Could any thing be more
propitious?  I thought, like Lois, that my luck, so long in turning,
was improving, and that at last I was to have a cook who knew her
business.  And so she did, thoroughly and delightfully.  For one
brief fortnight we lived on dainties.  Never could I have believed
that such a variety of dishes could have been produced out of
mutton.  In fact we seemed to have everything at table except the
staple dish.  Unlike the cook who actually sent me in a roast
shoulder of mutton for breakfast one morning, Isabella prided
herself on eliminating the monotonous animal from her bills of fare.
Certainly she was rather heavy on the sauces, etc., and I was trying
to pluck up courage to remonstrate, as it would not be easy or cheap
to replace them before a certain time of year.  And then she was so
clean, so smiling, and so good-tempered.  She seemed to treat us all
as if we were a parcel of children for whom she was never weary of
preparing surprises.  As for me, I felt miserable if any shepherd or
well-to-do handsome young bachelor cockatoo came near the place,
dreading lest the wretch should have designs on my cook's heart and
hand.  I rejoiced in her beard, and would not have had her without
it for worlds, as I selfishly hoped it might stand in her
matrimonial path.

This Arcadian state of kitchen affairs went on for exactly a
fortnight.  One evening, at the end of that time, we had been out
riding, and returned as usual very hungry.  "What are we going to
have for supper?" inquired F---.  I told him what had been ordered;
but when that meal made its appearance, lo, there was not a single
dish which I had named!  The things were not exactly nasty, but they
were queer.  For instance, pears are not usually stewed in gravy;
but they were by no means bad, and we took it for granted it was
something quite new.  The housemaid, Sarah, looked very nervous and
scared, and glanced at me from time to time with a very wistful
look; but I was so delightfully tired and sleepy--one never seemed
to get beyond the pleasant stage of those sensations--that I did not
ask any questions.

Next morning, when we came out to breakfast, imagine my astonishment
at seeing a tureen of half cold soup on the table, and nothing else!
I could hardly believe my eyes, and hastened to the kitchen to
explain that this was rather too much of a novelty in the
gastronomic line.  If I live to be a hundred years old, I shall
never forget the sight--at once terrible and absurd--which met my
eyes.  Before the kitchen fire stood Isabella, having evidently
slept in her clothes all night.  She looked wretched and bloated,
and quite curiously dirty, as black as if she had been up the
chimney; and even I could see that, early as was the hour, she was
hopelessly drunk.  Between both of her nerveless, black hands, she
held a poker, with which she struck, from time to time, a feeble
blow on a piled-up heap of plates, which she persisted in
considering a lump of coal.  The fire was nearly out, but she
hastened to assure me that if she could only break this lump of coal
it would soon burn up.  Need I say that I rescued my plates at once,
and marched the bearded one off to her own apartment.

Oh, how dimmed its dainty freshness had become since even yesterday!
Sarah was summoned, and confessed that she had known last night that
"Hisabella" had gone on the "burst," having bought, for some
fabulous sum, a bottle of rum from a passing swagger.  It was all
very dreadful, and worst of all was the scene of tears and penitence
I had to endure when the rum was finished.  The dray, however,
relieved me of the incubus of her presence; and that was the only
instance of drunkenness I came across among my domestic changes and
chances.



Chapter XIV: Our pets.


One of the first things which struck me when I came to know a little
more about the feelings and ways of my neighbours in the Malvern
Hills, was the good understanding which existed between man and
beast.  I am afraid I must except the poor sheep, for I never heard
them spoken of with affection, nor do I consider that they were the
objects of any special humanity even on their owners' parts.  This
must surely arise from their enormous numbers.  "How can you be fond
of thousands of anything?" said a shepherd once to me, in answer to
some sentimental inquiry of mine respecting his feelings towards his
flock.  That is the fact.  There were too many sheep in our "happy
Arcadia" for any body to value or pet them.  On a large scale they
were looked after carefully.  Water, and sheltered feed, and
undisturbed camping grounds, all these good things were provided for
them, and in return they were expected to yield a large percentage
of lambs and a good "clip."  Even the touching patience of the poor
animals beneath the shears, or amid the dust and noise of the yards,
was generally despised as stupidity.

Far different is the feeling of the New Zealander, whether he be
squatter or cockatoo, towards his horse and his dog.  They are the
faithful friends, and often the only companions of the lonely man.
Of course there will soon be no "lonely men" anywhere, but a few
years ago there were plenty of unwilling Robinson Crusoes in the
Middle Island; and whenever I came upon one of these pastoral
hermits, I was sure to find a dog or a horse, a cat, or even a hen,
established as "mate" to some poor solitary, from whom all human
companionship was shut out by mountain, rock, or river.

"Are you not _very_ lonely here?" was often my first instinctive
question, as I have dismounted at the door of a shepherd's hut in
the back country, and listened to the eternal roar of the river
which formed his boundary, or the still more oppressive silence
which seemed to have reigned ever since the creation.

"Well, mum, it aint very lively; but I've got Topsy (producing a
black kitten from his pocket), and there's the dogs, and I shall
have some fowls next year, p'raps."

But my object in beginning this chapter was not to enter into a
disquisition on other people's pets, with which after all one can
have but a distant acquaintance, but to introduce some of my own
especial favourites to those kind and sympathetic readers who take
pleasure in hearing of my own somewhat solitary existence in that
distant land.  I am quite ready to acknowledge that I never
thoroughly comprehended the individuality of animals, even of fowls
and ducks, until I lived up at the Station.  Perhaps, like their
masters, they really get to possess more independence of character
under those free and easy skies; for where would you meet with such
a worldly and selfish cat as "Sandy," or so fastidious and
intelligent a smooth terrier as "Rose"?  Sandy was an old bachelor
of a sleek appearance, red in colour, but with a good deal of white
shirt-front and wristbands, as to the get-up of which he was most
particular.  It was easy to imagine Sandy sitting in a club window;
and I am _sure_ he had a slight tendency to gout and reading French
novels.  Sandy's selfishness was quite open and above-board.  He
liked you very much until somebody else came whom he liked better,
and then he would desert his oldest friend without hesitation.  I
don't suppose the wildest young colley-pup ever dreamed of chasing
or worrying Sandy, who would not have stirred from his warm corner
by the fire for Snarleyow himself.  Every now and then Sandy must
have felt alarmed about his health or his figure, for he ate less,
and walked gravely and sulkily up and down the verandah for hours,
but as soon as he considered himself out of danger, he relapsed into
all his self-indulgent ways.  No one ventured to offer Sandy
anything but the choicest meats, and he was wont to sit up and beg
like a dog for a savoury tit-bit.  But he would revenge himself on
you afterwards for the humiliation, you might be sure.

What always appeared to me so odd, was that in spite of his known
and unblushing selfishness, Sandy used to be a great favourite, and
we all vied with each other for the honour of his notice.  Now why
was this?  If boundless time and space were at our disposal, we
might go deeply into the question and work it out, but as the
dimensions of this volume are not elastic, the impending social
essay shall be postponed, and we will confine ourselves to a brief
description of Sandy's outer cat.  He was of a pure breed, far
removed from the long-legged, lanky race of ordinary station-cats,
who from time to time disappeared into the bush and contracted
alliances with the still more degraded specimens of their class who
had long been wild among the scrub.  No: Sandy came of "pur sang,"
and held his small square head erect, with a haughty carriage as
beseemed his ancestry.  His fur was really beautiful, a sort of
tortoiseshell red, the lighter stripes repeating exactly the
different golden tints of a fashionable chignon.  In early youth,
though it is difficult to imagine Sandy ever a playful kitten, his
tail had been curtailed to the length of three inches, and this
short, flexible stump gave an air of great decision to Sandy's
movements.  But his chief peculiarity, and I must add, attraction,
in my opinion, was the perfume of his sleek coat.  When Sandy
condescended to take his evening doze on my linsey lap, I never
smelt anything so strange and so agreeable as the odour of his fur,
specially that on the top of his head.  It was like the most
delicate musk, but without any of the sickly smell common to that
scent.  I believe Sandy knew of this personal peculiarity, and felt
proud of it.

A far more unselfish and agreeable personage was Rose, the white
terrier, whose name often finds a loving place in these pages.  She
and Sandy dwelt together in peace and amity, although the little
doggie never could have felt any affection for her selfish
companion.  Rose's nerves were of a delicate and high-strung order,
and there was nothing she hated so much as uproarious noise.  Every
now and then it chanced that during a few days of wet or windy
weather, our little house had been filled by passing guests:
gentlemen who had called in to ask for supper and a bed, intending
to go on next day.  In a country where inns or accommodation-houses
are fifty miles apart, this is a common incident, and it sometimes
happens that the resources of station hospitality are taxed to the
utmost in this way.  I have known our own little wooden box to be so
closely packed, that besides a guest on each sofa in the
drawing-room, there would be another on a sort of portable couch in
the dining-room.  This was after the spare room had been filled to
the utmost.  A delicate "new chum," who required to be pampered, had
retired to rest on the hard kitchen sofa described elsewhere; whilst
a couple of sturdy travellers were sleeping soundly in the saddle
room.  After that, there could be nothing for the last comer except
a shake-down in red blankets.

It _always_ happened I observed that everybody arrived together.
For weeks we would be alone.  I lived once for eight months without
seeing a lady; and then, some fine evening, half a dozen
acquaintances would "turn up,"--there really is no other word for
it.  Well, on these occasions, when, instead of departing next
morning, our impromptu guests have sometimes been forced to wait
until such time as the rain or the wind should cease; their pent-up
animal spirits became often too much for them, and they would feel
an irresistible impulse to get rid of some of their superfluous
health and strength by violent exercise.  I set my face at once
against "athletic sports" or "feats of strength" being performed in
my little drawing-room, although they were always very anxious to
secure me for the solitary spectator; and I forget who hit upon the
happy thought of turning the empty wool-shed into a temporary
gymnasium.  There these wild boys--for, in spite of stalwart frames
and bushy beards, the Southern Colonist's heart keeps very fresh and
young--used to adjourn, and hop and leap, wrestle and box, fence and
spar, to their active young limbs' content.  They seemed very happy,
and loud were the joyous shouts and peals of laughter over the
failures; but after seeing the performance once or twice, I
generally became tired and bored, and used to slip away to the house
and my quiet corner by the fire.  Rose considered it her duty to
remain at her master's heels as long as possible, but after a time
she too would creep back to silence and warmth, though she never
deserted her post until the noise grew altogether too much for her
nerves; and then, with a despairing whimper, sometimes swelling to a
howl, poor little Rose would tuck her tail between her legs, and
dash out, through the storm, to seek shelter and quiet with me.

Whenever Rose appeared thus suddenly in my quiet retreat, I felt
sure some greater uproar than usual was going on down at the
wool-shed, and, more than once, on inquiry, I found Rose's nerves
must have been tried to the utmost before she turned and fled.

As for the intelligence of sheep-dogs, a volume could be written on
the facts concerning them, and a still more entertaining book on the
fictions, for a New Zealand shepherd will always consider it a point
of honour to cap his neighbour's anecdote of _his_ dog's sagacity,
by a yet stronger proof of canine intelligence.  I shall only,
briefly allude to one dog, whose history will probably be placed in
the colonial archives,--a colley, who knows his master's brand; and
who will, when the sheep get boxed, that is mixed together, pick
out; with unfailing accuracy, all the bleating members of his own
flock from amid the confused, terrified mass.  As for the patience
of a good dog in crossing sheep over a river, I have witnessed that
myself, and been forced to draw conclusions very much in favour of
the dog over the human beings who were directing the operation.
Some dogs again, who are perfectly helpless with sheep, are
unrivalled with cattle, and I have stood on the edge of a swamp more
than once, and seen a dog go after a couple of milch cows, and fetch
them out of a herd of bullocks, returning for the second "milky
mother" after the first had been brought right up within reach of
the stockman's lash.

Then among my horse friends was a certain Suffolk "Punch," who had
been christened the "Artful Dodger," from his trick of
counterfeiting lameness the moment he was put in the shafts of a
dray.  That is to say if the dray was loaded; so long as it was
empty, or the load was light, the "Dodger" stepped out gaily, but if
he found the dray at all heavy, he affected to fall dead lame.  The
old strain of staunch blood was too strong in his veins to allow him
to refuse or jib, or stand still.  Oh, no!  The "Dodger" arranged a
compromise with his conscience, and though he pulled manfully, he
resorted to this lazy subterfuge.  More than once with a "new chum"
it had succeeded to perfection, and the "Dodger" found himself back
again in his stable with a rack of hay before him, whilst his
deluded owner or driver was running all over the place to find a
substitute in the shafts.  If I had not seen it myself, I could not
have believed it.  In order to induce the "Dodger" to act his part
thoroughly, a drayman was appointed whom the horse had never seen,
and therefore imagined could be easily imposed upon.  The moment the
signal was given to start, the "Dodger," after a glance round, which
plainly said, "I wonder if I may try it upon you," took a step
forward and almost fell down, so desperate was his lameness.  The
driver, who was well instructed in his part, ran round, and lifted
up one sturdy bay leg after the other, with every appearance of the
deepest concern.  This encouraged the "Dodger," who uttered a groan,
but still seemed determined to do his best, and limped and stumbled
a yard or two further on.  I confess it seemed impossible to believe
the horse to be quite sound, and if it had depended on me, the
"Dodger" would instantly have been unharnessed and put back in his
stable.  But the moment had come to unmask him.  His master stepped
forward, and pulling first one cunning ear, on the alert for every
word, and then the other; cried, "It wont do, sir! step out
directly, and don't let us have any nonsense."  The "Dodger" groaned
again, this time from his heart probably, shook himself, and,
leaning well forward in his big collar, stepped out without a
murmur.  The lameness had disappeared by magic, nor was there even
the slightest return of it until he saw a new driver, and considered
it safe to try his oft-successful "dodge" once more.

Very different was "Star," poor, wilful, beauty, whose name and fate
will long be remembered among the green hills, where her short life
was passed.  Born and bred on the station, she was the pride and joy
of her owner's heart.  Slender without being weedy, compact without
clumsiness, her small head well set on her graceful neck, and her
fine legs, with their sinews like steel, she attracted the envy of
all the neighbouring squatters.  "What will you take for that little
grey filly when she is broken?" was a constant question.  "She's not
for sale," her owner used to answer.  "I'll break her myself, and
make her as gentle as a dog, and she'll do for my wife when I get
one."  But this proved a castle in the air, so far as Star was
concerned. The wife was not so mythical.  In due time _she_ appeared
in that sheltered valley, and, standing at the head of a mound
marked by a stake whereon a star was rudely carved, heard the story
of the poor creature's fate.  From the first week of her life, Star
(so-called from a black, five-pointed mark on her forehead), showed
signs of possessing a strange wild nature.  Unlike her sire or dam,
she evidently had a violent temper,--and not to put too fine a point
on it,--was as vicious a grey mare as ever flung up her heels in a
New Zealand valley.

When her second birthday was passed, Star's education commenced.
The process called "gentling," was a complete misnomer for the
series of buck jumps, of bites and kicks, with which the young lady
received the slightest attempt to touch her.  She had a horrible
habit also of shrieking, really almost like a human being in a
frantic rage; she would rush at you with a wild scream of fury, and
after striking at you with her front hoofs, would wheel round like
lightning, and dash her hind legs in your face.  The stoutest
stockman declined to have anything whatever to do with Star; the
most experienced breaker "declined her, with thanks;" generally
adding a long bill for repairs of rack and manger, and breaking
tackle, and not unfrequently a hospital report of maimed and wounded
stablemen.  Amateur horsemen of celebrity arrived at the station to
look at the beautiful fiend, and departed, saying they would rather
not have anything to say to her.  At last, she was given over in
despair, to lead her own free life, never having endured the
indignity of bit or bridle for more than two minutes.

Months passed away, and Star and her tantrums had been nearly
forgotten, when one mild winter evening the stockman came in to
report that,--wonder of wonders,--Star was standing meekly outside,
whinnying, and as "quiet as a dog."  Her master went out to find the
man's report exact: Star walked straight up to him, and rubbed her
soft nose confidingly against his sleeve.  The mystery explained
itself at a glance: she was on the point of having her first foal,
and, with some strange and pathetic instinct, she bethought herself
of the kind hands whose caresses she had so often rejected, and came
straight to them for help and succour.  Her shy and touching
advances were warmly responded to, and in a few minutes the poor
beast was safely housed in the warm shed which then represented the
present row of neat stables long since on that very spot.  A warm
mash was eagerly swallowed, and the good-hearted stockman
volunteered to remain up until all should be happily over; but his
courage failed him at the sight of her horrible sufferings, and in
the early dawn he came to rouse up his master, and beg him to come
and see if anything more could be done.  There lay Star, all her
fierce spirit quenched, with an appealing look in her large black
eyes, which seemed positively human in their capacity for expressing
suffering.  It was many hours before a dead foal was born, and there
is no doubt that if she had been out on the bleak hills, the poor
exhausted young mother must have perished from weakness.  She
appeared to understand thoroughly the motive of all that was being
done for her, and submitted with patience to all the remedies.
Gradually, but slowly, her strength returned; and, alas, her evil
nature, tamed by anguish, returned also!  Day by day she became
shyer of even the hand which had fed and succoured her; and, as this
is a true chronicle, it must be stated that the very first use Mrs.
Star made of her convalescence was, to kick her nurse on the leg,
break her halter into fragments, and gallop off to the hills with a
loud neigh of defiance.  Whenever the topic of feminine ingratitude
came on the carpet at that station, this, which Star had done, used
always to be told as an instance in point.

Two years later, exactly the same thing happened again.  The dreaded
hour of suffering found the wayward beauty once more under the roof
which had sheltered her in her former time of trial, and once more
she rested her head in penitence and appeal against her owner's
shoulder.  Who could bear malice in the presence of such dreadful
pain?  Not Star's owner, certainly.  Besides the home resources, a
man on horseback was sent off to fetch a famous veterinary who
chanced to be staying at a neighbouring station, and they both
returned before Star's worst sufferings began.  All that skill and
experience could do was done that night; but the morning light found
the poor little grey mare dying from exhaustion, with another dead
foal lying by her side.  She only lived a few hours later, in spite
of stimulants and the utmost care, and died gently and peacefully,
with those human hands whose lightest touch she had so flouted,
ministering tenderly to her great needs.  The stockman had become so
fond of the wayward beauty, in spite of her ingratitude, that the
only solace he could find for his regret at her early death, lay in
digging a deep grave for her, and carving the emblem of her pretty
name on the rude stake which still marks the spot.

No account of station pets would be complete without a brief
allusion to my numerous and unsuccessful attempts to rear merino
lambs in the house.  It never was of any use advising me to leave
the poor little creatures out on the bleak hill-side, if, in the
course of my rambles after ferns or creepers, I came upon a dead ewe
with her half-starved baby running round and round her.  How could I
turn my back on the little orphan, who, instead of bounding off up
the steep hill, used to run confidingly up to me, and poke its black
muzzle into my hand, as if it would say, "Here is a friend at last"?
And then merino lambs are so much prettier than any I have seen in
England.  Their snow-white wool is as tightly screwed up in small
curls as any Astracan fleece, and from being of so much more active
a race, they are smaller and more compact than English lambs, and
not so awkward and leggy.  A merino lamb of a couple of hours old is
far better fitted to take care of itself up a mountain than a
civilized and helpless lamb of a month old, besides these latter
being so weak about the knees always.  I only mention this, not out
of any desire to "blow" about our sheep, but because I want to
account for my tender-heartedness on the subject of desolate
orphans.  The ewes scarcely ever died of disease, unless by a rare
chance it happened to be a very old lady whose constitution gave way
at last before a severe winter.  We oftenest found that the dead
mother was a fine fat young ewe; who had slipped up on a hill-side
and could not recover herself, but had died of exhaustion and
fatigue from her violent efforts to kick herself up again.  If we
chanced to be in time to rescue her by the simple process of setting
her on her legs again, it would be all right, but sometimes the poor
creature had been cold and stiff for hours before we found her, and
her lamb had bleated itself hoarse and hungry, and was as tame as a
pet dog.  Now _who_ could turn away from a little helpless thing
like that, who positively leaped into your arms and cuddled itself
up in delight, sucking vigorously away at your glove, or anything
handy?  Not I, for one,--though I might as well have left it alone,
so far as its ultimate fate was concerned; but I always hoped for
better luck next time, and carried it off in my arms.

The first thing to be do be on arrival at home, was to give the
starving little creature a good meal out of a tea-pot, and the next,
to put it to sleep in a box of hay in a warm corner of the kitchen.
What always seemed to me so extraordinary, was that the lambs, one
and all, preserved the most cheerful demeanour, ate and drank and
slept well,--and yet died within a month.  Some lingered until quite
four weeks had passed, others succumbed to my treatment in a week.
I varied their food, mixing oatmeal with the milk; some I fed often,
others seldom; to some I gave sugar in the milk, others had new
milk.  There was abundance of grass just outside the house for them
to eat, if they could.  Some did mumble feebly at it, I remember,
but the mortality continued uninterrupted.  It must have been very
ridiculous to a visitor, to see my dear little snowy pets going down
on their front knees before me, and wagging their long tails
furiously the moment the tea-pot was brought out.  They were far too
sensible to do this if my hands were empty.  Gentle, affectionate
little creatures, they used to be wonderfully well-behaved, though
now and then they would wander through the verandah, and so into my
bedroom, where the drapery of my dressing-table afforded them
endless amusement and occupation.  They gnawed and sucked all my
"daisy" fringe, until the first thing that had to be done when a
lamb arrived at the house, was to take off muslins and fringes from
that, the only trimmed table in the house.

Often and often, of a cold night (for we must remember that New
Zealand lambing used always to come off in winter), we would all
become suddenly aware of a strong smell of burning pervading the
whole house; which, on being traced to its source, was often found
to proceed from the rosette of wool on the forehead of a chilly
lamb.  The creature drew nearer and nearer to the genial warmth of
the kitchen fire, until at last it used to lean its brow pensively
against the red hot bars.  Hence arose the powerful odour gradually
filling the whole of the little wooden house.  Of course I used to
rush to the rescue, and draw my bewildered pet away from the fatal
warmth, but not until it had usually singed the wool off down to the
bone, and there was often a bad burn on its forehead as well.  But
still, in spite of stupidity and an insatiable appetite, I always
grieved very sincerely for each of my orphan lambs as it in turn
sank into its early grave.  I used to be well laughed at for
attaching any sentiment to an animal which had sunk so disgracefully
low in the money-market as a New Zealand lamb, but the abundant
supply of my little pets never made it easier for me to lose the
particular one which I had set my heart on rearing.  It certainly
did afford me some comfort to hear that merino lambs had always been
difficult, if not impossible to bring up, like so many "pups," by
hand; and among all the statistics I carefully collected, I could
only find one well-authenticated instance of a foundling having been
reared indoors.  My informant tried to comfort me by tales of the
tyranny that stout and tame sheep exercised over the household which
had sheltered it, but I fear that the stories of its delightful
impudence only made me more anxious to succeed in my own
baby-farming experiments among the lambs.



Chapter XV: A feathered pet.


No record of those dear, distant days would be complete without a
short memoir of "Kitty."  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
had ridden over there to visit our kind and friendly neighbours, the
C---'s; we had enjoyed a delicious cup of tea in the
passion-flower-covered verandah, which looked on the whole range,
from East to West, of the glorious Southern Alps, their shining
white summits sharply cut against our own peculiarly beautiful sky;
we had strolled round the charming, unformal garden, on either
sloping side of a wide creek, and had admired, with just a tinge of
envy, the fruits and flowers, the standard apple and rose trees, the
tangle of fern and creepers, the wealth of the old and new worlds
heaped together in floral profusion; we had done all this, I say,
and very pleasant we had found it.  Now we were trying to say
goodbye: not so easy a task, let me tell you, when there are so many
temptations to linger, and when you are greatly pressed to stay.
The last device of our hospitable hostess to keep us consisted in
offering to show me her poultry-yard.  Now I was a young beginner in
that line myself, and tormented my ducks and fowls to death by my
incessant care: at least that is the conclusion I have arrived at
since; but at that time, I considered it as necessary to look after
them as if they had been so many children.  The consequence was,--as
I pathetically complained to Mrs. C---, that my hens sat furiously
for a week, and then took to lingering outside, where perpetual
feeding was going on, until their eggs grew cold; that my ducks
neglected their offspring and allowed the rats to decimate them, and
that every variety of epidemic and misfortune assailed in turns my
unhappy poultry yard.  Kind Mrs. C--- listened as gravely as she
could, hinting _very_ gently, that perhaps I took too much trouble
about them; then, fearing least she might have wounded my feelings,
she hastened to suggest that I should try the introduction of a
different breed.

As a preliminary step to this reformation, she offered to bestow
upon me one of her best Dorking hens.  It was too tempting an offer
to be refused, and I forthwith bestowed my affections on a beautiful
grey pullet, whose dignified carriage and speckled exterior bespoke
her high lineage.  "That's Kitty," said Mrs. C---. "I am so glad you
fancy her; she is one of my nicest young hens.  We'll catch her for
you in a moment."  I must pause to mention here, that it struck me
as being very odd in New Zealand the way in which _every_ creature
has a name, excepting always the poor sheep.  If one sees a cock
strutting proudly outside a shepherd's door; you are sure to hear it
is either Nelson or Wellington; every hen has a pet name, and
answers to it; so have the ducks and geese,--at least, up-country;
of course, dogs, horses, cows and bullocks, each rejoice in the most
inflated appellations, but I don't remember ever hearing ducks and
fowls answer to their names in any other country.

But this is only by the way.  I gratefully and gladly accepted the
transfer of the fair Kitty, and only wondered how I was to convey
her to her new home, fifteen miles away.  Kitty was soon caught, and
carried off into the house to be packed up for her first ride.
Accustomed as I am to ridiculous things happening to me, still I
never felt in so absurd a position as when, having mounted "Helen,"
who seemed in a particularly playful mood after a good feed of oats,
Kitty was handed to me neatly tied up in a pillow-case with her
tufted head protruding from a hole in the seam at the side.
Although very anxious to carry her home immediately, my heart died
within me at the prospect of a long gallop on a skittish mare with a
plump Dorking hen tied up in a bag on my lap.

There was no help for it, however, and I tried to put my bravest
face on the matter.  The difficulties commenced at the very point of
departure, for it is not easy to say farewell cordially with your
hands full of reins, whip, and poultry.  But it proved comparatively
easy going whilst we only cantered over the plains.  It was not
until the first creek had been reached, that I really perceived what
lay before me.  Helen distrusted the contents of the bag, and kept
trying to look round and see what it contained; and her fears of
something uncanny might well have been confirmed when she took off
at her first flat jump.  Kitty screamed, or shrieked, or whatever
name best expresses her discordant and piercing yells.  I more than
suspect I shrieked too, partly at the difficulty of keeping both
Kitty and Helen in any sort of order, and partly at my own
insecurity.  No sooner had Helen landed on the other side, than she
fled homewards as if a tin kettle were tied to her tail.  The speed
at which we dashed through the fragrant summer air completely took
away Kitty's breath, and the poor creature appeared more dead than
alive by the time I dismounted, trembling myself in every limb for
her safety as well as my own, at the garden gate.

However, next morning brought a renewed delight in existence to both
Kitty and me, and our night's sleep had made us forget our agitation
and peril.  After breakfast I introduced her to the poultry yard,
and she adapted herself to her new home with a tact and good humour
most edifying to behold.  Months passed away.  Kitty had made
herself a nest in a place, the selection of which did equal honour
to her head and heart, and she gladdened my eyes one fine morning by
appearing with a lovely brood of chicks around her.  Who so proud as
the young mother?  She exhibited them to me, and after I had duly
admired them, used to carry them off to a nursery of her own, which
she had established among the tussocks just outside the stable door.
Mrs. C--- had impressed upon me that Kitty could be safely trusted
to manage her own affairs.  No fear of her dragging her fluffy
babies out among the wet grass too early in the morning, or losing
them among the flax bushes on the hill-side.  No: Kitty came of a
race who were model mothers, and was to be left to take care of
herself and her chickens.

About a week after Kitty had first shown me her large, small family,
a friend of ours arrived unexpectedly to stop the night.  Next
morning, when he was going away, he apologised for asking leave to
mount at the stables, saying his led horse was so vicious, and the
one he was riding so gay, that it was quite possible their legs
might find themselves within the verandah, or do some mischief to
the young shrubs which were the pride and joy of my heart.  This
gentleman rode beautifully, and I used to like to see the courage
and patience with which he always conquered the most unruly horse.

"We will come up to the stable and see you mount," I cried, seizing
my hat.  Of course every one followed my lead, and it was to the
sound of mingled jeers and compliments that poor Mr. T--- mounted
his fiery steed, and seized hold of the leading rein of his
pack-horse.  But this animal had no intention of taking his
departure with propriety or tranquillity: he pranced and shied,
flinging out his heels as he wildly danced round to every point of
the compass, in a circle.  Gradually he drew Mr. T--- and his
chestnut a dozen yards away from the stable, and it was just then
that I perceived poor Kitty sitting close under a tussock.  It
chanced to be the hour for the chickens' siesta, and they were all
folded away beneath her ample brooding wings.  Perhaps the danger
had come too near to be avoided before I perceived it, but at all
events my loud shriek of warning was too late to save the pretty
crouching head from the flourish of the pack-horse's glancing heels.
Swift indeed was the blow; for scarcely ten seconds could have
passed between my first glimpse of poor Kitty's bright black eye
looking out, with such mortal terror in its expression, from beneath
the yellow tuft of grass, and my seeing the horse's heel lay her
head right open.  The brave little mother never dreamed of saving
herself at the cost of her nestlings.  She crouched as low as
possible, and when the horse had jumped over her I flew to see if
she had escaped.  No.  There lay my pretty pet, with her wings still
outspread and her chickens unhurt.  But she seemed dead: her head
had been actually cut clean open, and I never expected that she
would have lived a moment.  Yet she did.  I took her at once to the
well hard by, and bound up her split head with my pocket
handkerchief, keeping it well wetted with cold water.  Later on I
put forth all the surgical art I possessed, and dressed the wound in
the most scientific manner, nursing poor Kitty tenderly in the
kitchen, and feeding her with my own hands every two hours.  She was
for a long time incapable of feeding herself and; even when all
danger was over, required most careful nursing.  However, the end of
the story is that, she recovered entirely her bodily health, but her
poor little brain remained clouded for ever.  She never took any
more notice of her chickens, who had to be brought up by hand, and
she never mixed again with the society of the poultry-yard.  At
night she roosted apart in the coalshed, and she never seemed to
hear my voice or distinguish me from others, though she was
perfectly tame to everybody.  Kitty's end was very tragical.  She
grew exceedingly fat, and at last, one time when we were all snowed
up and could not afford to be sentimental, my cook laid hold of poor
Kitty, who was moping in her usual corner, and converted her into a
savoury stew without telling me, until I had actually dined off her.
I was very angry; but Eliza only repeated by way of consolation,
"She had no wits, only flesh, consequently she was better in my
stew-pot nor anywhere else, mum, if you'll only look at it calm
like."  But it was very hard to be made to eat one's patient,
especially when I was so proud of the way her poor head had healed.

If anybody wanted to teaze me, they suggested that I had omitted to
replace my dear Kitty's brains before closing that cruel wound in
her skull.



Chapter XVI: Doctoring without a diploma.


So many reminiscences come crowding into my mind,--some grave and
others gay,--as I sit down to write these final chapters, that I
hardly know where to begin.

The most clamorous of the fast-thronging memories, the one which
pushes its way most vividly to the front, is of a little amateur
doctoring of mine; and as my patient luckily did not die of my
remedies, I need not fear that I shall be asked for my diploma.

Shearing was just over; over only that very evening in fact.  We had
been leading a sort of uncomfortable picnic life at the home station
for more than ten days, and had returned to our own pretty little
home up the valley, late on Saturday night, in time for the
supper-dinner I have so often described.  It was my doing, that
fortnight's picnic at the home station, and I may as well candidly
confess it was a mistake; although, made, like most mistakes in
life, with good intentions.  Our partner had gone to England, our
manager had just left us to set up sheep-farming on his own account,
and all the responsibility of shearing a good many thousand sheep
devolved on F---.  And not only the shearing; the flock had to be
carefully draughted, the ewes, wethers, and hoggets, to be branded,
ear-marked, and turned out on their several ranges; the wethers for
home consumption, which consisted of a good-sized flock of many
hundred sheep, turned into the home-paddock,--an enclosure of some
five or six hundred acres,--and various other minute details to be
seen to; the wool to be sent down to Christchurch, and the stores
brought up by the return drays.

My motives for the plan I formed for us to go over, bag and baggage,
to the home station, the evening before the shearing began, and live
there till it was over, were varied.  We will put the most unselfish
first, for the sake of appearances.  I knew it would be very hard
work for poor F--- all that time, and I thought it would add to his
fatigue if he had to go backwards and forwards to his own house
every day, getting up at five in the morning and returning late at
night, besides having no comfortable meals.  The next motive was
that I wanted very much to see the whole process of shearing, and
all the rest of it, myself; and as it turned out, though I little
dreamed of it at the time, this proved to be my only chance.  Every
body tried to dissuade me from carrying out the scheme, by urging
that I should be very uncomfortable; but I did not care in the least
for that, and insisted on being allowed at all events to see how I
liked it.

Accordingly one evening we set forth: such a ridiculous cavalcade.
I would not hear of riding, for it was only a short two miles walk;
and as we did not start until after our last meal, the sun had
dipped behind Flag-pole's tall peak, and nearly the whole of our
happy valley lay in deep, cool shadow.  Besides which, it looked
more like the real thing to walk, and that was half the battle with
me.  The "real thing" in this case, though I did not stop to explain
it to myself, must have meant emigrants, Mormons, soldiers on the
march, what you will; any thing which expresses all one's belongings
being packed into a little cart, with a huge tin bath secured on the
top of all.  Such a miscellaneous assortment of dry goods as that
cart held!  A couple of mattresses (for my courage failed me at the
idea of sleeping on chopped tussocks for a fortnight), a couple of
folding-up arm-chairs, though, as it turned out, one would have been
enough, for poor F--- never sat down from the time he got up until
he went to bed again; a large hamper of provisions, some books, our
clothes, and various little matters which were indispensable if one
had to live in an empty house for a fortnight.  I had sent my two
maids over one morning a few days before, with pails and mops and
brushes, and they had given the couple of rooms which we were to
inhabit, a thorough good cleaning and scouring, so my mind was easy
on that point.  It would not have answered, for many reasons, to
have encumbered ourselves with these damsels during our stay at the
home station.  In the first place, there was really no accommodation
for them; in the next, it would have entailed more luggage than the
little cart could hold; and, finally, we should have been obliged to
leave them behind at the last moment: for only the evening before we
started, a couple of friends arrived, in true New Zealand fashion,
from Christchurch, to pay us a month's visit.  It was too late to
alter our plans then, so we told them to, make themselves thoroughly
at home, and took our departure next day in the way I have alluded
to.

We had plenty of escort as far as the first swamp.  When that
treacherous and well-known spot had been reached, everybody suddenly
remembered that they had forgotten something or the other which
obliged them to return directly, so our farewells had to be
exchanged from the centre of a flax bush.  The cart meanwhile was
nearly out of sight, so wide a _detour_ had its driver been forced
to make in order to find a place sound enough to bear its weight.
But we caught it up again after we had happily crossed the quagmire
which used always to be my bug-bear, and in due time we made our
appearance, in the gloaming, at the tiny house belonging to the home
station.  Early as was the hour, not later than half-past eight, the
place lay silent and still under the balmy summer haze.  All the
shearers were fast asleep in the men's hut, whilst every available
nook and corner was filled with the spare hands; the musterers,
branders, yard-keepers, and many others, whose duties were
less-defined.  Far down the flat we could dimly discern a white
patch,--the fleecy outlines of the large mob destined to fill the
skillions at day-break to-morrow morning; and, although we could not
see them distinctly, close by, watchful and vigilant all through
that and many subsequent summer nights, Pepper and his two beautiful
colleys kept watch and ward over the sheep.

Writing in the heavy atmosphere of this vast London world, I look
back upon that, and such evenings as that, with a desperate craving
to breathe once more he delicious air unsoiled by human lungs, and
stirred into fresh fragrance by every summer sigh of those distant
New Zealand valleys.  No wonder people were always well in such a
pure, clear, light atmosphere.  I try to feel again in fancy the
exquisite enjoyment of merely drawing a deep breath, the thrilling
sensation of health and strength it sent tingling down to your
finger ends.  No fleck or film of vapour or miasma could be seen or
smelt, though the day had been burning hot, and, as I have said,
there were plenty of creeks and swamps hard by.  Damp is unknown in
those valleys, and we might have lingered bareheaded even after the
heavy dew began to fall, without risk of cold, or fever, or any
other ailment.  But we could not afford to linger a moment out of
doors that lovely tempting evening.  F--- and the driver of the
cart, who had some important part to take in the morrow's
proceedings (I forget exactly what), soon tossed out my little
stores, which looked very insignificant as they lay in a heap in the
verandah, and departed to see that all was in train for next day's
work.  I had no time to enjoy the evening's soft beauty: the beds
had to be made; clothes to be unpacked and hung up; stores must be
arranged on the shelves in the sitting-room,--for the house only
consisted of two small rooms in front, with a wide verandah, and a
sort of lean-to at the back, which was divided into a small kitchen
and store-room.  This last was empty.  I confess I thought rather
regretfully of my pretty, comfortable, English-looking bed-room at
the other house, with its curtains and carpet, its wardrobes and
looking-glasses, when I found myself surveying the scene of my
completed labours.  Two station _bunks_,--i.e., wooden bed-frames of
the simplest and rudest construction, with a sacking bottom,--a
couple of empty boxes, one for a dressing-table and the other for a
wash-stand, a tin basin and a bucket of water, being the
paraphernalia of the latter, whilst some nails behind the door
served to hang our clothes on, such was my station bedroom and all
my own doing too!  Certainly it looked uncomfortable enough to
satisfy any one, but I would not have complained of it for the
world, lest I might have been ordered home directly.

Hard as was my bed that night, I slept soundly, and it appeared only
five minutes before I heard a tremendous noise outside the verandah.
The bleating of hundreds of sheep announced that the mob were slowly
advancing, before a perfect army of men and dogs, up to the sheep
yards.  What a din they all made!  F--- was wide awake, and up in a
moment.  I, anxious to show _why_ I had insisted on coming over, got
up too, and made my way into the little kitchen, where I found a
charming surprise awaiting me in the shape of some faggots of
neatly-stacked wood, cut into exactly, the right lengths for the
American stove; and also a heap of dry Menuka bushes, which make the
best touchwood for lighting fires in the whole world.  The tiny
kitchen and stove were both scrupulously clean, and so were my three
saucepans and kettle.  This had been, of course, my maids' doing,
but the fuel was a delicate little attention on Pepper's part.  How
he blushed and grinned with delight when I thanked him before all
his mates!  This was indeed station-life made easy!  It did not take
two minutes to light my fire, and in five more I had a delicious cup
of tea and some bread-and-butter all ready for F---.  It was nearly
cold, however, by the time I could catch him and make him drink it.
Of course, being a man, instead of saying, "Thank you," or anything
of that sort, he merely remarked, "What nonsense!" but equally of
course, he was very glad to get it, and ate and drank it all up,
returning instantly to his shed.

After this little episode, I set to work to unpack a little, and
make the sitting-room look the least bit more home-like; then I laid
the cloth for breakfast, put out the pie and potted meat, etc. (no
words can say how heartily tired of pies we both were before the
week was over), and arranged everything for breakfast.  Then I
waylaid one of the numerous stray "hands" which hang about a station
at shearing time, and got him to fetch me a couple of buckets of
water as far as the verandah.  These I conveyed myself into the
little sleeping-room, and finished my toilette at my leisure:
tidying it all up afterwards.  I wonder if any one has any idea what
hot work it is making a bed?  So hot, in fact, that I resolved in
future to be wise enough to finish all these domestic occupations
before I had my bath.  The worst of getting up so early proved to be
that by nine o'clock I was very tired, and had nothing else to do
for the remainder of the long, noisy day.  As for the meals, they
were wretchedly unsociable; for F--- only came in to snatch a
mouthful or two, standing, and it was of little use trying to make
things comfortable for him.  I must confess here, what I would not
acknowledge at the time, that I found it a very long and dull visit.
My husband never had time to speak to me, and when he did, it was
only about sheep.  I grew weary of living on cold meat, for it was
really too hot to cook; and my servants used to send me over, every
second day, cold fowls or pies; besides, one seemed to live in a
whirl and confusion of dust, and bleating, and barking.  After the
day's work was fairly over, F--- used to rush in, seize a big
bath-towel, cry "I am off for a bathe in the creek," and only return
in time for supper and bed.  The weather was all that a sheep-farmer
could desire.  Bright, sunny, and clear, one lovely summer day
followed another; hot, almost to tropical warmth, without any risk
or fear of sun-stroke or head-ache, and a delicious lightness in the
atmosphere all the time, which merged into a cool bracing air the
moment the sun had slowly travelled behind the high hills to the
westward.

But all these details, though necessary to make you understand what
I had been doing, are not the story itself, so to that we will hurry
on.  The shearing was over; Saturday evening had come, as welcome to
poor imprisoned me as to any one, and the great work of the New
Zealand year had been most successfully accomplished.  F--- was in
such good humour that he even deigned to admit that his own comfort
had been somewhat increased by my living at the home station, so I
felt quite rewarded for my many dreary hours.  The shearers had been
paid, and were even then picking their way over the hills in little
groups of two and three; some, I grieve to say, bound for the
nearest accommodation-house or wayside inn, and others for the next
station, across the river, where the skillions were full, and
waiting for them to begin on Monday morning.  Only half-a-dozen
people, instead of thirty, were left at our place, and there would
not even have been so many if it had not been thought well to keep a
few there until the bale-loft was empty.  Generally it was arranged
for the wool-drays to follow each other every two days with a load
down to Christchurch; for the greatest risk a sheep-farmer runs is
from his shed taking fire whilst it is full of bales of wool.  This
had happened often enough in the colony, and even in our
neighbourhood, to make us more and more careful every year; and, as
I have said, amongst our precautions, was that of keeping as little
wool as possible in the shed.  Most flock-owners waited until the
shearing should be quite over before they carted the wool away; but
in that case, a spark from a pipe, a match carelessly dropped in a
tussock outside, when a nor'-wester was blowing,--and the slight
wooden building would be blazing like a torch, and your year's
income vanishing in the smoke!

Even at the last moment, when the cart had already started
homewards, with the tin bath balanced once more on the top of the
mattresses and boxes; when the house was empty, and I was waiting,
my hat and jacket on, and flax-stick in hand, eager to set out, a
doubt arose about the expediency of our return home.  Some
accidental delay had prevented the dray from arriving in time to
start for Christchurch with the last load, and between two and three
hundred pounds worth of wool still remained in the shed,--packed and
labelled indeed, but neither insured nor protected from the risk of
fire in any way.  F--- was very loath to leave them there; but,
yielding to my entreaties, he called Pepper, the head shepherd, and
solemnly gave the wool-shed and its contents over into his charge,
with many and many a caution about fire.  Pepper was as trustworthy
and steady a shepherd as any in the colony, and promised to "keep
his weather-eye open," as he phrased it, in nautical slang picked up
from some run-away sailor.

All the way home F--- said from time to time, anxiously, "I wish the
shed was empty;" but I cheered him up, and told him he was
over-tired and unreasonably nervous, and so forth, but with a great
longing myself for Monday morning to come, and for the dray to take
its load and start.  I need not dwell on how delicious it was to
return home, where everything seemed so comfortable and nice, and
the bed felt especially soft and welcome to tired limbs.  Early were
our hours, you may be sure, and we slept the sleep of the
hard-worked until between two and three o'clock the next morning.
Then we were roused up by some one knocking loudly against our wide-
open latticed window.

I was the first to hear the noise, and cried, "Who's there? what is
it?" all in a breath.

"The wool-shed on fire," murmured F---, in a tone of agonized
conviction.

"It's you that's wanted, please mum, this moment, over at the home
station!" I heard Pepper say, in impatient tones.

"It's the wool-shed," repeated F---, more than half asleep, and with
only room for that one idea in his dreamy mind.

"Nonsense!" I cried, jumping out of bed.  "I should not be wanted if
the wool-shed were on fire.  Don't you hear Pepper say he wants me?"

"All right, then," said F---, actually turning over and proposing to
go to sleep again.  But there was no more sleep for either of us
that night.  Whilst I hastily put on my riding-habit, Pepper told
me, through the window; an incoherent tale of some one being at the
point of death, and wanting me to cure him, and the master to bring
over pen and ink, to make a will, and dying speeches and cold
shivers, all mixed up together in a tangle of words.  F--- took some
minutes to understand that it was Fenwick, a gigantic Yorkshireman,
who had been seized with what Pepper would call the "choleraics,"
and who, in spite of having swallowed all the mustard and rum and
"pain-killer" left on the premises, grew worse and worse every
moment. "He's dying, safe enough," concluded Pepper, "but he's main
anxious to see you, mum, and the master; and he wants a Bible
brought to swear him, and he's powerful uneasy to make his will."  I
knew quite as little of medicine as my husband did of law, but of
course we decided instantly that we ought both to go and see what
could be done in any way to relieve either the body or mind of the
sufferer.

We said to each other while we were hastily dressing, "How shall we
ever catch the horses? They have all been turned out, of course, as
no one thought they would be wanted until Monday; and who knows
where they have gone to?--miles away, perhaps; and it's pitch dark."
Judge, then, of our delighted surprise, when, on going out into the
verandah, preparatory to starting off to look for our steeds, we
found them standing at the gate, ready saddled and bridled.  It
seemed like magic, but the good fairies in this case had been the
two guests to whom I have alluded as having arrived just as we were
starting for our picnic life.  They were both "old chums," and
understood the situation instantly.  Whilst we were questioning
Pepper (you can hear every word all over a New Zealand house), they
had jumped up, huddled on their clothes, and gone over the brow of
the hill to look for the horses.  By great good fortune the whole
mob was found quietly camping in the sheltered valley full of sweet
grass, on its further side.  To walk up to my pretty bay mare Helen,
and lay hold of her mane, and then, vaulting on her back, ride the
rest of the mob back into the stockyard, was, even in the deep
darkness of a midsummer night, no difficult task for eyes so
practised to catching horses under all circumstances.  So here was
one obstacle suddenly smoothed, and as I hastily collected my few
simple remedies, consisting chiefly of flannel, chlorodyne, and
brandy, I could only trust and pray that poor Fenwick's case might
not be so desperate as Pepper represented it.

To our impatience, the difficult track, with its swamps and holes,
its creeks to be jumped, and morasses to be avoided, seemed long
indeed; but to judge from the continued profound darkness,--that
inky blackness of the sky which is the immediate forerunner of
daylight,--the dawn could not be far off.  How well I remember the
whole scene!  F--- tied his white handkerchief on his arm, that
Helen and I might have a faint speck of light by which to guide
ourselves.  Pepper rode close to me, pouring into my ears dismal
predictions of Fenwick's end; whilst I, amid all my anxiety, could
only think of the dangers of the track, and whether, in the pitchy
darkness, we should ever get to the home station.  The dew fell so
heavily that more than once I thought it must be raining, but those
were only wind-clouds brooding in the great dark vault above us.
More welcome than ever sounded the bark of the dogs, which told us
we had reached the end of our stumbling ride; and the moment their
tongues woke up the silence, a lantern showed a ray of light to
guide us to the hut door.

I jumped off my horse instantly, and went in.  At first I thought my
patient was dead, for he lay, rigid and grey, in his bunk.  At a
glance I perceived that nothing could really be done to help him
whilst he was lying on a high shelf, almost out of my reach, in a
small hut filled with bewildered men, who kept offering him from
time to time a "pull" at a particularly good pipe, having previously
poured all the grog they could muster down his throat, or rather
over his pillow (his saddle performed that duty by night), for he
had been unable to swallow for some hours.  I remembered that there
were the bedsteads we had used at the house, and also some firewood
still left in the kitchen.  Explaining to Pepper how he was to wrap
poor Fenwick in every available blanket in the place, and carry him
across the open space into the parlour, I hastily ran on before, got
some one to help me to drag one of the light frames into the
sitting-room, laced it before the fireplace, and then made up a good
blazing fire on the open hearth.  By the time the dry wood was
crackling and sparkling out its cheery welcome, my patient arrived,
and was laid down, blankets and all, on the rude little bedstead,
before the blaze.  By its fitful and uncertain light I proceeded to
examine the enormous frame stretched so helplessly before me,
feeling half afraid to touch him at all.  F--- was very trying as an
assistant, for he looked on without making any suggestions, and only
said from time to time, "Take care: the man is dead."  To my
inexperienced eyes he indeed seemed past all human help.  His skin
was icy cold, and as wet as if he had been lying out in the dew.  No
flutter of pulse, nor sign of breath, could my trembling efforts
discover; but I fancied there was the least little sign of pulsation
about his heart.  Of course I had not the vaguest notion of what was
the matter with the man, for all Pepper could tell me was that
"Fenwick's been powerful bad, you bet."  This does not sound a
minute diagnosis to go on, and the only remedies which presented
themselves to my mind were those I had studied as being useful for
the recovery of drowned persons.  So to work I set, as if the poor
fellow had just been fished out of the creek; and whenever any one
wanted to teaze me afterwards they would declare I had insisted on
Fenwick's being held up by his heels.  But of course that was all
nonsense.  What I did really do was this, and a doctor in
Christchurch, whom I afterwards consulted as to my treatment,
assured me, laughingly, that it was "capital."

I made Pepper and another man both rub the cold clammy body, as hard
as they could with mustard and hot flannel.  I got some bottles
filled with hot water (for it did not take five minutes to boil the
kettle) and placed to his icy-cold feet and under his arms, then I
mixed a little very strong and hot brandy and water, to which I
added a few drops of chlorodyne, and gave him a teaspoonful every
five minutes.  For the first half-hour there was no sign of life to
be detected, and the same horrible bluish pallor made poor Fenwick's
really handsome face look ghastly in the flickering light.  My two
assistants were getting exhausted, and Pepper had more than once
murmured, with the recollection of the past fortnight's work strong
upon him, "Spell, oh!" or else "Shears!" [Note: the shearer's demand
for a few minutes rest] whilst his companion inquired pathetically,
"What was the use of flaying a dead man?"  To these hints I paid no
attention, though my damp riding habit was steaming from the heat of
the fire and I felt dreadfully tired; for certainly there seemed to
my eyes a healthier tinge stealing over the rigid features, and it
could not be my fancy which detected a stronger effort to swallow
the last spoonful of brandy.

I need not go into the details of my jumbled-up remedies; probably I
should bring upon myself serious remonstrances from the Royal Humane
Society, if my treatment of that unhappy man were made public.  It
is enough to say that I "exhibited" mustard by the pound and brandy
by the quart, that I roasted him first on one side and then on the
other, that his true skin was rubbed off, that I chlorodyned him
until he slept for nearly a week, and that when he finally recovered
he declared he felt "as if he'd been dead:"  "And no wonder," as
Pepper always remarked.  The only clue I could get to the cause of
his illness was a shy confession, about a week afterwards, that he
had eaten a few mushrooms.  Fenwick's idea of a few of anything was
generally a liberal notion.  I questioned him narrowly as to what he
had had for supper the night he was taken ill, and this was his bill
of fare:--

"Well, you see, mum, I wasn't rightly hungry: it must have been them
gripses coming on. So I only had a shoulder (of mutton, _bien
entendu_; when Fenwick had really a good appetite he regarded
anything less than a whole leg of a sheep as an insult) that night,
half-a-dozen slap jacks, and a trifle of mushrooms."  "How big were
the mushrooms?" I asked.  "Oh, they was rather fine ones, mum, I
won't deny: they might have been the bigness of a plate."  Now even
supposing them to have been perfectly wholesome, a few dozen
mushrooms of that size, eaten half raw with a whole shoulder of
mutton, are quite enough to my ignorant mind to account for so
severe a fit of the "choleraics."



Chapter XVII: Odds and ends.


My nerves had hardly recovered the shock of having the care of such
a huge patient thrust on me; for, seriously speaking, Fenwick took a
good deal of nursing and attention before he got well again, when we
had another night alarm.  Our beautiful summer weather was breaking
up; high nor'-westers had blown down the gorges for days, and now a
cold wet gale was coming up in heavy banks of fleecy clouds from the
sou'-west.  Everything looked cold and wretched out of doors, but
the sheep-farmers were thankful and pleased.  Their "mobs" could
find excellent shelter for themselves, for it takes _very_ bad
weather to hurt a Merino sheep, and the creeks had been running
rather low.  "We shall have a splendid autumn after this is over,"
said all the squatters gleefully, "with lots of feed: there's
Tyler's creek coming down beautifully."

So I was fain to be content, though my fowls looked draggled and
wretched, and my pet patch of mignonette became a miniature desert,
its fragrance being all blown and rain-beaten away.  Good fires of
lignite and wood made the house cheery, and we went to bed, hoping
for fine weather next day.  In the middle of the night everyone was
awakened by a tremendous, echoing noise outside, whilst the frail
wooden house vibrated perceptibly.  It could not be caused by the
wind: for, although the rain kept pouring steadily down, the furious
sou'-west gusts had long ago been beaten into a sullen silence by
the descending torrents.  For a moment, and half-awake, an old
tropical reminiscence floated through my sleepy, startled mind: "Can
it be an earthquake?" I dreamily wondered.  But, no earthquake of my
acquaintance was ever yet so resounding and noisy, for all its
crumbling horror: yet, the house was certainly shaking.  "What is
it?  What are you doing?" rang in shouts through the little
dwelling, as its dwellers came thronging, one after another, to our
door.  Frightened as I was, I can perfectly remember how indignant I
felt, when it became clear to my mind that they all thought _we_
were making such an uproar.  How could we do it, if even we had
wished to get out of our warm beds, and create a disturbance on such
a wild night.


"Good gracious! the house is coming down," I cried, as a fresh
shudder ran through the slight framework of, our little wooden home.
"Pray go out, and see what is the matter."  Thus urged, F--- opened
a casement on the sheltered side,--if any side could be said to be
sheltered in such weather,--and cautiously put his head out.  I
peered over his shoulder, and never can I forget the ridiculous
sight which met our eyes.  There, dripping and forlorn, huddled
together under the wide roof of our summer parlour, as the verandah
used to be often called, the whole mob of horses had gathered
themselves.  The garden gate chanced to have been left open, and,
evidently under old Jack's' guidance, they had all walked into the
verandah, wandered disconsolately up and down its boarded floor, and
after partaking of a slight refreshment in the shape of my best
creepers, had proceeded to make themselves at home by rubbing their
wet sides against the pillars and the wooden sides of the house
itself.

No wonder the noise had aroused us all.  Ironshod hoofs clattering
up and down a boarded verandah is riot a silent performance; and
Jack was so cool and impudent about it, positively refusing to stir
from the sheltered corner by the silver-pheasants' aviary, which he
had chosen for himself.  The other horses evidently felt they were
intruders, and were glad enough, on the flapping of a handkerchief,
to hurry out of their impromptu stables, making the best of their
way through the narrow garden gate, and so out upon the bleak hills
again.  But Jack's conduct was very trying; he found himself
perfectly comfortable, and evidently intended to remain so; neither
for wishing nor coaxing, for fair words nor foul, would he stir.  It
seemed so horrid to have to dress and go out in such a downpour of
rain, that we weakly deliberated on the expediency of letting the
cunning old stock-horse remain; but fortunately, at that moment he
began to scratch his ear with his hind foot, waking up a thousand
echoes against the side of the house as he did so, and making the
pictures dance again on the canvas and paper walls.  "This will
never do," cried we all, desperately: "he sure must be taken to the
stable or he'll come back again."  That was exactly what Jack meant
and wanted: so to the stable he went, under poor shivering Mr. U---'s
guidance, and the old rogue spent a dry, warm night under its roof.

It was the more absurd Jack pretending to be afraid of a wet night,
when he had walked many and many a weary mile over the rough
mountain passes towards the West-Coast, with a heavy pack on his
back and in all sorts of weather.  A tradition existed in our
neighbourhood that Jack had once been met crossing the Amuri Downs
with a small barrel-organ, an American cooking stove, and a sow with
a litter of young ones, all packed on his back, "and stepping out
bravely under them all," as my informant added.  But I cannot vouch
for the truth of the items of this load.  Jack's fame as a
stock-horse, as well as a pack-horse, stood high in the Malvern
Hills, but his conduct in the shafts was eccentric, to say the least
of it.  He could not bear to be guided by his driver, and was always
squinting over his blinkers in the most ridiculous manner.  If he
perceived a mob of cattle or horses on a distant flat, he would set
off to have a look at them and determine whether they were strangers
or friends, dragging the gig after him "over bank, bush, and scaur."

Once when we were in great despair for a cart-horse, Jack was
elected to the post, but long before we had come to the journey's
end we regretted our choice.  It was during the first summer of my
life in the Malvern Hills, and whilst the nor'-westers were still
steadily setting their breezy faces against such a new fangled idea
as a lawn.  I had wearied of sowing grass seed at, a guinea a bag,
long before those extremely rude zephyrs got tired of blowing it all
out of the ground.  There was my beautiful set of croquet, fresh
from Jacques, lying idle in its box in the verandah, and there was
my charming friend, Alice S---, longing for a game of croquet.  When
pretty young ladies wish for anything very much, and the house is
full of gentlemen, it goes hard, but that they get the desire of
their innocent hearts.  So it was in this case.  One fine afternoon
Alice wandered into the verandah and peeped for the hundredth time
into the box.  "What beautiful things," she sighed, "and how hard it
is we can't have a game."  "I know a patch of self-sown grass," sang
one of the party, "whereon we might play a game."  "Where: oh,
where?" we asked, in eager chorus.  "About two miles from this, near
a deserted shepherd's hut; it is as thick and soft as green velvet,
and the sheep keep it quite short."  "Is the ground level?" we
inquired.  "As flat as this table," was the satisfactory answer.

Of course we wanted to start immediately, but how were we to get the
croquet things there, to say nothing of the delightful excuse for
tea out of doors which immediately presented itself to my
ever-thirsty mind.  A dray was suggested (carriages we had none;
there being no roads for them if we had possessed such vehicles);
but alas, and alas! the proper dray and driver and horse were all
away, on an expedition up a distant gulley getting out some
brush-wood for fires.  "There's Jack," some one said, doubtfully.
He had never even drawn a dray in his life, so far as we knew, but
at the same time we felt sure that when once Jack understood what
was required of him, he would do his best to help us to get to our
croquet ground.  So we flew off to our different duties.  Alice to
see that the balls, hoops, and mallets were all right in numbers and
colours, &c.; I to pack a large open basket with the materials for
my favourite form of dissipation--an out-door tea; and the gentlemen
to catch Jack and harness him into the cart.

Peals of laughter announced the setting forth of the expedition; and
no wonder!  Inside the dray, which was a very light and crazy old
affair, was seated Alice on an empty flour-sack; by her side I
crouched on an old sugar bag, one of my arms keeping tight hold of
my beloved tea-basket with its jingling contents, whilst the other
was desperately clutching at the side of the dray.  On a board
across the front three gentlemen were perched, each wanting to
drive, exactly like so many small children in a goat carriage, and
like them, one holding the reins, the other the whip, and the third
giving good advice.  In the shafts stood poor shaggy old Jack,
looking over his blinkers as much as to say, "What do you want me to
do now?"  Our good humoured and stalwart cadet Mr. U---, walked
backwards, holding out a carrot and calling Jack to come and eat it.

In this extraordinary fashion we proceeded down the flat for two or
three hundred yards, one carrot succeeding the other in Jack's jaws
rapidly.  Mr. U--- was just beginning to say "Look here: don't you
think we ought to take turns at this?" when Jack caught sight of a
creek right before him.  He only knew of one way of crossing such
obstacles, and that was to jump them.  No one calculated on the
sudden rush and high bound into the air with which he triumphantly
cleared the water; knocking Mr. U--- over, and scattering his three
drivers like summer leaves on the track.  As for Alice and me, the
inside passengers, we found the sensation of jumping a creek in a
dray most unpleasant.  All the croquet balls leapt wildly up into
the air to fall like a wooden hailstorm around us.  The mallets and
hoops bruised us from our head to our feet; and the contents of my
basket were utterly ruined.  Not only had my tea-cups and saucers
come together in one grand smash, but the kettle broke the bottle of
cream, which in its turn absorbed all the sugar.  Jack looked coolly
round at us with an air of mild satisfaction, as if he thought he
had done something very clever, whilst our shrieks were rending the
air.

What a merry, light-hearted time of one's life was that!  We all had
to work hard, and our amusements were so simple and Arcadian that I
often wonder if they really did amuse us so much as we thought they
did at the moment.  Let all New Zealanders who doubt this, look into
those perhaps closed chapters of their lives, and as memory turns
over the leaves one by one, and pictures like the sketches I try to
reproduce in pen and ink, grow into distinctness out of the dim
past, it will indeed "surprise me very much," if they do not say, as
I do,--my pleasant task ended,--"Ah, those were happy days indeed!"










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