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!"