Every town has its Landdrost, and every town has its Landdrost's
clerk. Usually the clerk does all the work, and the Landdrost, in his
capacity of chief magistrate, passes all the sentences and issues all
the instructions. But, then, Landdrosts, as a rule, are very agreeable
people, possibly because they are educated and intelligent men, and
have nothing in common with the Boer.
I have one particular Landdrost in my mind as I write. He was a dear
old man, but he was dead against Kaffirs and natives generally. His
father had been killed by Kaffirs, and this fact probably rankled in
his bosom and ruled his judgments to a great extent. When he wanted to
show a little bit of leniency, as, for instance, after an
extraordinarily good breakfast, he would bind the culprit over to
serve in his own kitchen for a period of one year without
remuneration. But he never did get a native to serve the full time,
because the native preferred to break the law once more and go to
'tronk' instead. Hard work was not in his line.
He is dead now, poor man! but he was a regular type of a Landdrost. He
lived a very quiet life, and the brunt of the work fell to the lot of
the ever-willing and conscientious clerk, which arrangement allowed
the Landdrost sufficient leisure to attend to a somewhat large garden.
There were fruit trees in that garden which in the fruit season
incited every boy in town to deeds of valour, the said deeds
consisting in being able to carry away as much fruit as possible
without being caught in the act. For the Landdrost exercised a
watchful eye over that fruit. It was currently reported, however, that
his was the first garden to be literally left desolate before the
season had far advanced, and it was usually his misfortune to be
deprived of his fruit just after he had retired for the night, after
having prowled about with an empty gun in his hand from sunset till
late in the evening. It was even reported that one evening, after the
old man had retired as usual, a certain person who had a strong
predilection for other people's fruit approached the Landdrost's
garden with a handcart and a lantern, and assisted himself freely
before taking his departure.
In conclusion, and as an illustration of the moral tendencies of young
Boers generally, I shall now quote a little scene which was written
some time ago for another purpose.
In a mealie-field close to a certain farm, which shall be nameless, a
curious scene was being witnessed by a very stout Dutch lady. She was
standing at the edge of the field. Above her head myriads of locusts
floated in a darkening mass. The mealie stalks were only a foot or so
high, but the locusts knew that they were green, and therefore good to
eat, so they hovered around. The mealies were in rows, and between
these rows galloped half-a-dozen horses carrying half-a-dozen very raw
natives. The latter were making such a hideous noise, that it seemed
to point to remarkable staying powers on the part of the locusts,
inasmuch as they still persisted in trying to gain a footing. But the
Kaffirs cantered their steeds faster, and the noise waxed more
hideous, and the fat vrouw continued to urge them to renewed and
increased effort. Round the edges of the patch four or five Kaffir
women walked, each at a different point, and each in possession of a
five-gallon empty paraffin tin and a stick, with which to strengthen
and augment the noisy defence. The locusts were reinforced every
minute, and they made repeated and determined efforts to sample the
young mealies, but the horsemen and the paraffin tins were too much
for them.
A small white boy was standing near the fat lady, watching the
proceedings with a critical eye. His dress was very primitive, and his
home-made veldschoens were very large, but he was a healthy-looking
boy.
'Ma,' he said at length, looking up into the fat lady's face, 'I see
something.'
This was rather a peculiar remark to make, because undoubtedly he must
see something, not being blind.
'Yes,' returned his 'ma,' without taking her eyes off the mealie
patch, 'what do you see, son?'
'I won't tell you, ma.'
'Ma' paid no particular attention to this decision on the part of her
small son, but he continued to look into his 'ma's' face as if
uncertain about something.
'Ma, I won't tell you what I see,' he continued, coming up closer to
the stout lady and catching hold of her hand.
'Why won't you tell me, son?' asked 'ma,' looking down affectionately
upon the white head of her boy.
'Not until you promise me something, ma.'
'Well, what must I promise you?'
The boy hesitated for a minute before replying. He had apparently
grave doubts as to whether 'ma' would concede even if he did ask her.
'Ma, I want to shoot Witbooi with my gun.'
Witbooi was a Kaffir umfaan, who had no particular liking for his
young Baas.
'I can't promise you that until your pa comes home, Gert,' said his
'ma,' patting him lovingly on the head, and at the same time lending
her critical eye to the mealie business.
The boy left his mother's side and walked away a few yards, evidently
disgusted with unsympathetic 'mas.' Then, apparently changing his
mind, he ran towards her again, and clung to her dress, meantime
looking up in her face.
'I'll tell you, ma--I'll tell you,' he said laughingly.
'That's a good boy,' said 'ma,' again patting him on the head.
'I see waggons coming; that's it!' exclaimed the boy, running away
playfully, and observing with evident satisfaction the look of
surprise on his mother's face, as if it atoned somewhat for the
disappointment regarding the fate of Witbooi.
Billing and Sons, Printers, Guildford