CLIMATE OF THE KARROO.
Cape Colony much abused--Healthy climate--Wonderful cures of
consumption--Karroo a good place for sanatorium--Rarity of illness and
accidents--The young colonist--An independent infant--Long
droughts--Hot winds--Dust storms--Dams--Advantage of possessing good
wells--Partiality of thunderstorms--Delights of a brack roof--Washed
out of bed--After the rain--Our horses--Effects of rain
indoors--_Opslaag_--The Cape winter--What to wear on Karroo farms.
OF all portions of the globe, surely none has ever been so much
grumbled at, abused, and despised, both justly and unjustly, as the
poor Cape Colony. Hardly any one who has lived under its cloudless
skies has a kind word to say for it; indeed, it is quite the usual
thing to speak of one's residence in it as of an enforced and miserable
exile--a kind of penal servitude--though, strangely enough, most of
those who go so rejoicingly home to England, like boys released from
school, manage sooner or later to find their way out again; as though
impelled by a touch of some such magic as that which is supposed to
draw back to the Eternal City those who have once drunk at the Trevi
fountain.
One of the legion of grumblers tells you the Cape Colony is the
worst-governed country in the world, which indeed--with the exception,
perhaps, of Turkey and Morocco--it undoubtedly is; the grievance of
another is that the country in general, and ostrich-farming in
particular, is played out, that no more fortunes are to be made, and
that life on the farms offers nothing to compensate sufficiently for
the numerous discomforts and privations which have to be endured; the
heavy import duties and consequent ruinous prices of all the
necessaries of life, with the exception of meat, depriving the colonist
of even that small consolation of knowing that, though uncomfortable,
he is at least economizing. Sybarites accustomed to home comforts make
constant comparisons between English and colonial houses, greatly to
the disparagement of the latter; epicures complain bitterly of the
wearying sameness of the food, resenting most deeply the perpetual
recurrence on the table, morning, noon, and night, of the ubiquitous
though delicious Angora goat; while ladies are eloquent on the
never-ending topics of the bad servants--certainly the worst that can
be found anywhere--the difficulties of housekeeping, the rough roads,
the inconvenient distance from everywhere, the trouble and delay of
getting provisions, etc., sent up to the farms, and, saddest of all,
the want of society and the intolerable dulness. In fact, the general
opinion seems to be that of Mrs. Jellyby's daughter, that "Africa is a
Beast!" You hear so much grumbling, see such bored, dissatisfied faces,
and are treated to so many gloomy and desponding views of colonial
life, that it is quite a refreshing contrast when you chance to meet an
American who is contemptuously jocular on the subject of the ugly
scenery, eccentric plants, queer beasts, and general all-pervading look
of incompleteness, and who guesses "South Africa was finished off in a
hurry late on Saturday night, with a few diamonds thrown in to
compensate."
Even the climate comes in for its share of abuse: its long droughts,
its hot winds, its incessant sunshine--as if you _could_ have too much
of that!--and its general dissimilarity to the climate of England--for
which surely it ought to be commended,--all are added to the long list
of complaints against a land which seems, like the much-abused donkey,
to have no friends. And yet that climate, with all its drawbacks and
discomforts, is the healthiest in the world; and most especially is the
Karroo district the place of all others for invalids suffering from
chest complaints. No one need die of consumption, however advanced a
stage his disease may have attained, if he can but reach the Cape
Colony and _proceed at once inland_. He must not stay near the coast;
it would be as well--indeed better--for him to have remained in England
to die among friends; for in the moist neighbourhood of the sea the
disease cannot be cured, its progress is simply retarded for a while.
But a railway journey of only a few hours lands the patient in the very
heart of the Karroo; and once in its dry atmosphere, he may hope--nay
expect--not a mere prolongation for a few months of such a life as one
too often sees sadly ebbing away in Mediterranean winter resorts, but a
return to health and strength. Among our Cape acquaintances are some
whom T---- knew when, years ago, they landed in the Colony--given up by
their doctors at home, and so near the last stage of consumption that
on arriving they could not walk on shore, but had to be carried from
the vessel--and who are now as strong and well as any of their
neighbours. Indeed, on my introduction to more than one of these stout
and hearty colonists, I have found it quite impossible to realize that
_they_, at any time, could have been consumptive invalids!
Unfortunately, too many presume on the completeness of their cure; and,
instead of resigning themselves to settling and finding permanent
occupation in the colony, as all whose lungs have once been seriously
affected ought to do, return to England; and, having grown reckless
with long residence in a land where "nothing gives you cold," soon fall
victims to their treacherous native climate; the first exposure to its
damp chilliness generally bringing back in full force the foe from
whose attacks they would always have been safe, had they not left the
dry Karroo's protection.
It is a pity European doctors do not know more about this wonderful
climate for consumptive patients; and also that so few inducements are
held out for the latter to settle in the country. What a splendid plan
it would be, and how many valuable lives might be saved, if some clever
medical man--himself perhaps just enough of an invalid to prefer living
out of England--were to take a large farm in the Karroo, and "run" it
as a sanatorium. This could be done without the expenditure of any very
large amount of capital, as land can be rented from Government at the
rate of a very moderate sum per annum. It would be necessary to choose
a farm possessing a good fountain; thus a constant supply of vegetables
could be kept up, and herds of cattle, flocks of sheep and Angoras, and
plenty of fowls, turkeys, etc., be maintained to provide the
establishment with meat, milk, butter, and eggs--rendering it to a
great extent self-supporting. The young men could occupy themselves in
superintending the farming operations, and thus would not only have
plenty to do, but would at the same time be gaining health. A good
troop of horses would of course be kept, so that patients might have as
much riding and driving as they wished; there would be some shooting,
as there are partridges, several birds of the bustard tribe, and a few
antelopes; and with a house whose interior presented the comforts of a
refined home, with prettily-furnished rooms, and with a good supply of
books, papers, and magazines, life in that bright, sunny land might be
made pleasant enough. The healthiness of the country is greatly owing,
not only to its dryness, but also to the fact of its being a
table-land, one thousand feet above the sea; thus the nights are always
cool, and one is generally glad of two blankets, even in summer.
Nor is consumption the only enemy who has to retreat powerless before
the Karroo's health-giving atmosphere; many other illnesses seem
equally unable to obtain a footing in that perfect climate. T----, for
instance, who from childhood had been subject to severe attacks of
asthma, was completely cured by his residence on the ostrich farms; and
a troublesome remittent fever, caught in the West Indies, from which I
had suffered, off and on, during seven years, left me entirely from the
time we went to live at Swaylands. There seems, indeed, to be much of
truth in the boastful assertion one so often hears, "No one is ever ill
here!" and the wonder is, not that doctors are so sparsely distributed
throughout the Karroo, but that they ever think it worth while to
settle there at all. People live quite contentedly two or more days'
drive from the nearest doctor--medical help from Port Elizabeth being
equally, if not more, inaccessible, owing to the fact that the train
does not run every day--and from year's end to year's end they not only
are never ill, but seem also quite exempt from the usual accidents
which in other parts of the world are apt to befall humanity. They go
out shooting, and their horses buck them off--a trifling, everyday
event which is taken as a matter of course; they gallop recklessly
across the _veldt_, over ground so full of treacherous holes that a
horse is liable at any moment to get a sudden and ugly fall--indeed, he
often does, but the colonist always rises unhurt; they drive home late
at night along the roughest of roads, at a furious pace--often after
imbibing far more than is usually conducive to safety--and their Cape
carts or American spiders very naturally tumble into sluits, run into
wire fences, perform somersaults down steep banks, and go through other
startling acrobatic feats, all with perfect impunity to the occupants.
No legs, arms, or ribs, to say nothing of necks, are ever broken.
And when the young colonist makes his first appearance on this world's
stage, his advent is not made the occasion for any undue display of
fuss or anxiety. It is not thought worth while to summon the doctor
from his distant abode; some old Dutch or Hottentot woman, who has been
a grandmother so often that her experience is large, is called in, and
all goes well. The young colonist himself is invariably a flourishing
specimen of humanity; the childish ailments to which so many of his
less robust European contemporaries succumb, cause him no trouble, and,
if indeed they attack him at all, he weathers them triumphantly. He
thrives in the pure fresh air, revels in the healthy out-door life,
eats, of course, to an enormous and alarming extent, and grows up a
young giant. He enjoys the same immunity from accident as his elders,
passing safely through even more "hair-breadth 'scapes" than they; his
sturdy, independent spirit makes him equal to any emergency, and
enables him, in whatever circumstances of difficulty or danger he may
be placed, to take very good care of himself.
On the farm next to ours a tiny boy of three, while playing with the
windlass of a deep well, and hanging on to the rope, suddenly let
himself down with a run into the water. He was not much disconcerted,
however; but, with wonderful presence of mind for such a baby, managed
to get his feet firmly on the bucket, and finding the length of the
rope just, though only just, allowed his mouth to come above the
surface, remained immovable, roaring steadily and lustily till
assistance came.
The long droughts are certainly very trying; indeed they could not
possibly be endured by any country less wonderfully fertile than South
Africa, where it is calculated that three good days' rain in the year,
could we but have this regularly, would be sufficient to meet all the
needs of the land. But often, for more than a year, there will be no
rain worth mentioning; the dams, or large artificial reservoirs, of
which each farm usually possesses several, gradually become dry; and
the _veldt_ daily loses more of its verdure, till at last all is one
dull, ugly brown, and the whole plain lies parched and burnt up under a
sky from which every atom of moisture seems to have departed--a hard,
grey, metallic sky, as different as possible from the rich, deep-blue
canopy which, far away to the north, spreads over lovely Algeria. The
stock, with the pathetic tameness of thirst, come from all parts of the
farm to congregate close round the house; the inquiring ostriches
tapping with their bills on the windows as they look in at you, and the
cattle lowing in piteous appeal for water; and you realize very vividly
the force of such Scriptural expressions as, "the heaven was shut up,"
or, "a dry and thirsty land where no water is."
Then the hot winds sweep across the country, making everybody tired,
languid, head-achy and cross. Indeed, excessive irritability seems to
be the general result of hot winds in all parts of the world; in Egypt,
for instance, there is never so much crime among the natives as while
the _khamseen_ is blowing; every outbreak of the Arabs in Algiers
invariably occurs during an extra bad sirocco; and in a Spanish family
I knew in Havana there obtained a very sensible rule, unanimously
adopted to avoid collisions of temper, _i.e._, on the days of an
especially venomous hot wind peculiar to Cuba an unbroken silence was
maintained; no member of the family, on any pretence whatever, speaking
to another. Even our pets were sulky on a hot wind day; and as for the
ostriches, they were deplorable objects indeed as they stood gasping
for breath, with pendent wings, open bills, and inflated throats, the
pictures of imbecile dejection. In fact, everything human, four-footed,
and feathered, in the whole Karroo, was as thoroughly unhappy as it
could well be; with the sole exception of myself. My spirits, instead
of falling below zero, would always rise in proportion as the
surrounding air became more like the breath of a furnace; this was not
owing, as may perhaps be supposed, to the possession of so rare a
sweetness of temper as to render me happy under even the most adverse
circumstances, but simply to a real and intense enjoyment of that
weather which everyone else hated. While T----, closing every door and
window as tightly as possible (which, however, is not saying much),
would retire to his bath, there to spend a couple of hours in company
with books, papers, and numberless lemon-squashes, if lemons happened
to be attainable; I would carry my chair outside, and, as I darned
socks or repaired the latest trap-doors torn in our garments by the
thorns, would revel in _my_ bath of hot, dry air.
[Illustration: OSTRICHES IN A HOT WIND.]
The dust which the hot wind brings with it is, however, a nuisance.
There is more than enough dust at the best of times; and the
difficulties--already considerable--of keeping a Karroo house neat and
clean, are not lessened by the fact that, ten minutes after a careful
progress round the room with that most perfect of dusters, a bunch of
ostrich-feathers, you can distinctly sign your name with your finger on
the little black writing-table, or make a drawing on the piano. But in
a good hot wind you have far more than this average, everyday amount of
"matter in the wrong place," and you eat and breathe dust.
Sometimes the wind carries the dust high up into the air, in straight,
solid-looking columns rising from the ground just as a water-spout
rises from the sea. An artist wishing to depict the pillar of the cloud
going before the Israelites might well take the form of one of them as
a model. Occasionally you see two or three of these columns wandering
about the _veldt_ in different directions; and woe betide the
imperfectly-built house, or tall wind-mill pump, which has the ill-luck
to stand in the path of one of these erratic visitants! We, alas! can
speak from experience, our own "Stover" mill having been chosen as a
victim and whirled aloft to its destruction! T----, while at Kimberley,
in the early days of the diamond-fields, has often seen these dusty
whirlwinds going about the camp, passing between the long rows of tents
as if hesitating for a time which to attack; then suddenly "going for"
one of them, causing instantaneous collapse and confusion.
Every Karroo house has a dam near it, and on a large farm there are
generally three or four more of these reservoirs in different parts of
the land. The selection of a suitable site for a dam requires some
experience. An embankment is thrown up across a valley, where from the
rising ground on either side the water is collected. The ground must be
"brack," a peculiar kind of soil which, though loose and friable, is
not porous. This brack is often used to cover the flat roofs of the
houses; but unless it is well sifted and laid on thickly, dependence
cannot always be placed on it, as we have several times found to our
cost. Rows of willows or mimosas are generally planted along the banks
of the dams; and though the moisture which is sucked up by their
thirsty roots can ill be afforded, yet, in that most treeless of lands,
their bright, fresh green is of immense value; and the poor ugly
houses, standing so forlornly on the bare _veldt_, with but the
narrowest and scantiest of gardens--if any--between them and the
surrounding desert, seem redeemed from utter dreariness and desolation,
and some slight look of home and of refinement is imparted by the dam's
semicircle of trees. A good-sized dam is sometimes half a mile broad,
and, when just filled after a good thunder-shower, is quite an imposing
sheet of water. Occasionally, in very heavy thunder-storms, the
glorious supplies pour in too lavishly; the embankment, unable to
resist the pressure, gives way; and the disappointed farmer, who has
ridden up in the hope of feasting his eyes on watery wealth, beholds
his treasure flowing uselessly and aimlessly away across the _veldt_.
Then, too, even the noblest of dams _must_ dry up in a long drought;
and that landowner is wise who does not depend solely on this form of
water-supply, but who takes the precaution of sinking one or more good
wells. This is expensive work--especially when, as in our case, the
hard rock has to be blown away by dynamite; a party of navvies,
encamped on the farm for weeks, progressing but slowly and laboriously
at the rate of about one foot per day, for which the payment is £5 a
foot; but the advantage is seen during the protracted droughts. Then,
on farms which only possess dams, the ostriches and other stock are
seen lying dead in all directions, a most melancholy sight. Where there
is a well, however, the animals can always be kept alive. The water may
go down rather low, and the supply doled out to the thirsty creatures
may not be very plentiful; but with careful management no stock need be
lost during the longest of droughts. But, even with our good well, we
found it necessary to be very economical; and the few small eucalypti
and other trees which, with great difficulty, we kept alive near the
house, have often for weeks together been obliged to content themselves
with the soapy water from the baths; while our poor little patch of
kitchen-garden has more than once had to be sacrificed and allowed to
dry up--the water necessary for its irrigation being more than we could
venture to spare.
In some parts of the country the inhabitants are occasionally in
terrible straits for want of water; and during one severe drought some
passing strangers, who rested a few hours at our house, told us a
horrid story of how, at one of the "cantines" (combinations of inn and
general store) along their road, they had asked for water to wash their
hands, and a scanty supply was brought, with the request that no soap
might be used, that same water being ultimately destined to make the
tea! It sounds incredible, but I fear it is more likely to be truth
than fiction, for the Dutch at the Cape are dirty enough for anything.
The partiality of the thunder-storms is surprising; sometimes one farm
will have all its dams filled, while another near it does not get a
drop of rain. Often, during a whole season, the thunder-clouds will
follow the same course; one unlucky place being repeatedly left out.
Swaylands was once for months passed over in this manner; our
neighbours on both sides having an abundance of water, while we, like
the unhappy little pig of nursery fame, "had none," and found it
difficult to restrain envy, hatred, and malice.
Then, too, the clouds have such a deceitful and tantalizing way of
collecting in magnificent masses, and coming rolling grandly up as if
they really meant business at last--only to disperse quietly in a few
hours, disappointing all the hopes they have raised. Again and again
you are deluded into believing the long, weary drought is indeed
nearing its end; you feel so sure there is a tremendous rain just at
hand, that you prepare for action, and, doubting the trustworthiness of
those portions of the roof covered with brack, are careful to remove
from beneath them everything liable to be spoilt by wet, then, having
set your house in order, you wait eagerly to hear the first pattering
of the longed-for drops. They do not come, however; it all ends in
nothing, and soon every cloud is gone, and the sun blazes out once more
in pitiless splendour.
Then at last, after "Wolf!" has been cried so often that you are off
your guard, and--obstinately refusing to be taken in by the promising
bank of clouds you noticed in the evening--have gone off to bed,
expecting your waking eyes to rest only on the usual hard, hot,
grey-blue sky--suddenly, in the middle of the night, you are aroused by
a deafening noise, and your first confused, half-dreaming thought is
that somehow or other you have got underneath the Falls of
Niagara--house and all. Then a blue flash wakes you quite up, a
terrific roar of thunder shakes the house, and you realize that what
for months you have been so longing for has come at last! But there are
penalties to be paid for it; and an ominous sound of trickling strikes
your ear. Your bedroom unfortunately has a brack roof; and through the
defective places in the latter, which every moment become larger and
more numerous, streams of water are pouring in, till at last the room
seems to be one large shower-bath. You think with horror of the books,
writing-case, photographs, lace-trimmed hat, work-basket, boots, etc.,
all left in various exposed positions about the room, and--most
frightful thought of all--of the coats and dresses hanging on the row
of pegs in that corner where, to judge by the sound, the most
substantial of all the cataracts seems to be descending; and you feel
that you _must_ learn at once the extent of your misfortune, and rescue
what you can. You try to light a candle; but a well-directed jet of
water has been steadily playing straight down into the candlestick, and
a vicious sputter is the only response to your efforts. You are still
struggling with the candle; trying to wipe it dry, using persuasive
language to it, and as far from getting a light as ever; when your
breath is suddenly taken away by a stream of ice-cold water pouring
over your back, and you find that you have shipped as fine a "sea" as
ever dashed through an incautiously-opened port. The flat roof, which
has been collecting water till it has become like a tank, has given way
under the pressure, and a wide crack has opened just above your head.
Of course you are wet through, so is the bed on which you are sitting;
and you make a prompt descent from the latter, only to find the floor
one vast, shallow bath, in which your slippers are floating.
And now, as you grope about, hurriedly collecting the more perishable
articles, and flinging them into the safety of the next room--which has
a corrugated iron roof--you hear a dull roar; far off at first, but
advancing nearer and nearer; till at last a grand volume of sound
thunders past, and a broad, tossing river, impetuous as any mountain
torrent, is suddenly at your very gates. It is the _sluit_ coming down;
filling, and perhaps widely overflowing, its deep channel, which,
straight and steep as a railway cutting, has stood dry so long. In all
directions these _sluits_ are now careering over the country; and
though occasionally their wild rush does some mischief, such as washing
away ostriches' nests, drowning stock, or carrying into a dam such an
accumulation of soil as to fill it up and render it useless--still, on
the whole, the _sluit_ is a most beneficent friend to the farmer. And
now, at the first welcome sound of that friend's approach, you hear
overhead the loud congratulations of the gentlemen, who, attired in
ulsters, are hard at work on the roof, whither they have hastily
scrambled to lessen as far as possible the deluge within. "This is
worth £200 to us!" you hear in triumphant tones. "We're all right now
for six months!" Then--less joyfully--comes a query as to how the great
dam in the upper camp, which on a former sad occasion has "gone," will
stand this time; but the general opinion is that, with the considerable
strengthening it has since received, it will weather the storm; and in
the meanwhile souls must be possessed in patience till the morning. And
still the rain keeps on, steadily and noisily; and with all the
discomfort, and with all the mischief it has wrought indoors, how
thankful one is for it! And how one's heart is gladdened by that "sound
of abundance of rain," and "voice of many waters!" It means everything
to the farmer; the long drought over at last, the dams full, the
parched country revived, the poor thin cattle no longer in danger of
starvation; healthier ostriches, a better quality of feathers, a near
prospect of nests, and in fact the removal of a load of cares and
anxieties.
How early we are all astir on the morning after a big rain! and with
what eager excitement we look out, in the first gleam of daylight, for
that most welcome sight, the newly-filled dam! A wonderful
transformation has indeed been worked in the appearance of things since
last night. That unsightly dry bed of light-coloured soil, baked by the
hot sun to the hardness of pottery, and broken up by a thousand
intersecting deep cracks and fissures, which has so long been the
ugliest feature among all our unpicturesque surroundings, offends the
eye no more; and in its place there now lies in the early morning light
a beautiful broad sheet of water, into which the yellow _sluit_, a
miniature Niagara Rapids, is still lavishly pouring its wealth--not for
many hours indeed will the impetuous course of this and numerous other
_sluits_, large and small, begin gradually to subside. Everywhere the
water is standing in immense pools and ponds; how to feed one unlucky
pair of breeding-birds--my special charges--in a low-lying camp on the
other side of the sluit is a problem which for the present I do not
attempt to solve; indeed, to walk a yard from the door, even in the
thickest of boots and shabbiest of garments, requires some courage, for
it is anything but an easy matter to keep your feet, and if you fell,
you would go into a perfect bath of mud. In some places lie
accumulations of hailstones (accounting for the icy coldness of that
impromptu shower-bath), and, though partially melted, some of them are
still of the size of hazel nuts. The rain is over; and the friendly
clouds to which we owe so much are already far off, and lie in white,
round, solid-looking masses along the horizon. The sky, as if softened
by its tempest of passion, seems of a bluer and more tender tint than
it has been for a long time, and all nature appears full of joy and
thanksgiving. From all sides you hear the loud chorus of myriads of
rejoicing frogs, all croaking congratulations to each other, and all
talking at once; they seem to have sprung suddenly into existence since
last night, and their noise, discordant as it is, is not unwelcome
after the long silence of the drought.
Toto, the instant he catches sight of the water, rushes out of the
house, gallops wildly down to the dam, and plunges in, to swim round
and round and round, barking with delight. He seems as if he could not
have enough of the water; for when, after a long time, he has come out,
and is on his way back to us, he suddenly changes his mind, and dashes
back for another bathe. Then he seems to lose his head altogether, and
vents his wild spirits in a sort of frenzied war-dance along the banks
of the dam; seriously upsetting the composure, as well as the dignity,
of the crow Bobby, a bird of neat and cleanly habits, who, long
debarred from any more satisfactory bath than a washing-basin, has
walked down, with the air of an explorer, to this new lake he has just
discovered; and is croaking softly and contentedly to himself as he
splashes the bright drops again and again over his dusty black plumage.
He does not like Toto; indeed, there is a mutual jealousy between these
two favoured pets of ours, and they are always rather glad of an excuse
for a good row, such as now ensues.
When the commotion has subsided, and Toto is at a safe distance from
the dam, a troop of ostriches come down to drink. They are no doubt
delighted to find such an abundant supply of water, after the somewhat
scanty allowance which has been portioned out to them of late; and they
stand greedily scooping up large quantities with their broad bills;
then assuming comical attitudes as they stretch out their distended
necks to allow the fluid to run down. In the distance, about a dozen
other ostriches are spreading their white wings and waltzing along
magnificently--a pretty way of expressing their satisfaction at this
new and delightful change in their circumstances. But it is sometimes
an expensive amusement; and we feel relieved when all have settled
down, with unbroken legs, into a more sober mood.
The fowls alone do not participate in the general rejoicing; their
house was even less water-tight than our room, and they all seem to
have caught cold, and look draggled and miserable. Two poor
sitting-hens have been washed out of their nests in the kraal hedge;
their eggs are under water, and they wander about clucking
despondently. By-and-by they will all be happier, when the waters have
subsided a little, and they can pick succulent insects out of the
softened ground; but in the meanwhile they show plainly that they do
not see the good of living in a half-drowned world.
And here come two of the horses, with "September,"[3] one of our Kaffir
herds, who has been out on the veldt to find and catch them. Like most
of the other colonists, we have no stables, and when our animals have
done their day's work, we let them go, unless an early start has to be
made in the morning; then, as they sometimes go long distances, and are
not to be caught in a hurry, those that will be wanted are kept in the
kraal over-night. During severe droughts the horses are fed at the
house; but when there is plenty of vegetation on the _veldt_, they pick
up a living for themselves. They do not get very fat, nor are they
handsome to look at; and if an English coachman could see their bony
frames and rough, ungroomed coats, he would no doubt be filled with the
profoundest contempt. Yet, with all their uncouth appearance, they are
far more serviceable than his fat, sleek, overfed animals. They can
travel much longer distances; they do not have such frequent colds and
other ailments--lameness especially is quite unknown among them--and
their services are always at the command of their master, of any of his
friends and acquaintances, or even of perfect strangers who may happen
to require a mount or a lift. For the colonist is as hospitable with
his horses and his vehicles as he is with everything else that he
possesses; and the arrival of an invited guest in a hired conveyance,
though no unfrequent event at English country homes, is a thing quite
unheard-of on Cape farms.
[3] Many of the negroes on Cape farms are named after the
months.
Although in many parts of South Africa horses do not require shoeing at
all, they need it in the Karroo, where the ground is particularly
stony. When a horse's shoes are worn out, he is worked for some time
unshod, until the hoof, which had grown considerably, has worn down,
and the animal begins to be a little tender-footed; then fresh shoes
are put on. This plan renders it unnecessary for the blacksmith to use
his knife, and ensures that the hoof is worn evenly; thus avoiding the
lameness which in England is so often caused by the hoof not being
pared straight.
And in the meanwhile the two horses have been saddled, and off go T----
and Mr. B---- on a tour of inspection round the farm; first of all
making a bee-line for the opposite range of hills, where lies that
particular dam in the fate of which we are so deeply interested. I
cannot ride with them, much as I should have liked it; for the scenes
of devastation indoors claim my attention, and with my dark-skinned
hand-maiden and another Kaffir woman, wife of one of the herds, whom I
have pressed into the service, I go to work; boldly attacking first the
most herculean task of all, _i.e._, the cleaning of the bedroom out of
which we were washed last night. Truly an Augean stable is this first
room; and the sight of its horrors by daylight makes me wonder how by
any possibility it can ever again be fit for human habitation. The
water with which the bed has been deluged was no clear crystal
stream--far from it--and pillows, sheets, and counter-pane are of a
rich brown hue; so are the toilet table and the once pretty
window-curtains of blue-and-white Madras muslin, which now look
melancholy indeed as they hang down, straight and limp, from their
cornice. In fact, hardly anything in the room can boast of having
remained perfectly dry and clean; and the floor is a pool of dirty
water several inches deep. It all looks hopeless; but we refuse to be
daunted, and set to work with a will; things dry quickly in such a sun
as is now shining brightly outside; the mud is "clean" mud, too, and
does not stain or spoil so irretrievably as that of most other places.
A Falstaffian bundle is made up for the wash, which will keep a Kaffir
hard at work for two good days turning the washing-machine; a vigorous
scrubbing and "swabbing of decks" goes on indoors; and by the time the
gentlemen return to lunch, in the best of spirits, and reporting the
dam safe and splendidly full, things have already assumed a brighter
aspect. T---- spends the afternoon in repairing the roof, and I walk
about the house with a long broom, poking and tapping the ceilings to
indicate to him the defective spots; he does the work far better than
it was originally done by the builder of the house, and never
afterwards do we have so bad a deluge.
It was, however, very nearly equalled in magnitude by a previous one,
which, while we were living at Hume Cottage, gave me the first
experience of a big rain--and of a _brack_ roof. T---- being away for a
few days, I was alone in the house with my one black servant, who of
course slept placidly through all the tumult of the elements. I, on the
contrary--the bedroom being water-tight--was lying awake, listening and
rejoicing as I thought of all the good this splendid rain would do us.
Little did I suspect what it _was_ doing in the sitting-room; and I
cheerfully and briskly opened the door of the latter next morning, all
unprepared for the sight which met my eyes. Poor little room! only a
few days before we had taken such pride and pleasure in beautifying
it--and now! It looked like nothing but the saloon of a steamer which
had gone down and been fished up again. The treacherous roof had let in
floods of dirty brown water in all directions; the Turkish rugs were
half buried in mud; the new bent-wood chairs looked like neglected old
garden seats which for years had braved all weathers; and the
table-cloth, on the artistic colours of which we had prided ourselves,
gave a very good idea of the probable state of Sir Walter Raleigh's
cloak after serving as an impromptu carpet for his queen. But the brunt
of the storm had fallen on two sets of hanging bookshelves, well filled
with nicely-bound volumes, and gracefully draped with some of our pet
pieces of Turkish needlework. The books all looked as if they had been
boiled; and the colour which had come out of their swollen and pulpy
bindings had run down the saturated embroideries in long streaks,
showing where a red book had stood, where a blue or green one, etc.
Fortunately, a good cleaning and washing restored most things to a
tidy, if not perfectly fresh appearance; but those poor books never
recovered.
In a few days--incredibly few--the effects of a good rain are seen in
the appearance of the _veldt_, which rapidly loses its dry, burnt-up
look. But, even before the perennial bush has had time to recover its
succulence and verdure, all the spaces between its isolated tufts are
covered with the softest and most delicate-looking vegetation, which,
as if by magic, has sprung suddenly into existence. All these plants,
which are of many different kinds, and some of which possess very
minute and pretty flowers, are indiscriminately called by the Dutch
_opslaag_ ("that which comes up"); and if you happen at the time of
their appearance to have a troop of infant ostriches, there is no
better food for the little creatures than this tender, bright-green
foliage. They are but short-lived little plants; the hot sun soon
drying them up.
If the Cape Colony only possessed mountains high enough to give an
abundant rainfall, what a gloriously fertile country it would be!
Without droughts, what a splendid possession our farm would be to us!
Often, when the coveted clouds have passed so close that it seemed as
if they must be just about to break over the farm, T----, remembering
how the firing of the great guns at Woolwich sometimes brings down the
rain, has thought it might be a good plan to send up a fire-balloon
with a charge of dynamite, and, catching the rain on our land, prevent
it from going off so disappointingly elsewhere.
The short Cape winter, corresponding in duration to the English summer,
is never severe. Cold winds blow from the direction of Graaff-Reinet on
the not very frequent occasions when the higher mountains round that
little town are for a short time topped with snow. In June and July the
evenings and early mornings are decidedly cold. There is sometimes a
little frost at night, and fires are pleasant; but in the middle of the
day there is always warm, bright sunshine. Altogether, our winter under
the Southern Cross has nothing cheerless or depressing about it; and
those to whom the heat of the long summer has been a little trying,
find the change most bracing and invigorating.
For farm life in the Karroo much the same kind of clothing is required
as in England; everything must of course be of good strong material,
and black or very dark colours are, in that dustiest of lands, to be
avoided. Ladies' washing dresses should not be too delicate, nor should
they be such as to require elaborate getting up; for of all the
numerous things which on our isolated farms have to be done--either
well, badly, or indifferently--at home, the laundry department is the
very furthest from being our _forte_. The clothes become so discoloured
from being continually washed in the yellow water of the dams; and the
Kaffir women--if they profess to starch and iron at all--do it so
badly, that the things are often unwearable. As for myself, I was
fortunate in possessing for everyday wear strong cotton dresses of
Egyptian manufacture; which required neither starching nor ironing,
and, after being washed, and dried in the sun, were ready to be put on
at once. For driving, and especially for the long journeys of several
days, which sometimes have to be taken in Cape carts or spiders, a
light dust-cloak is indispensable. Boots and shoes, more than anything
else, need to be strong, and for gentlemen who live the active outdoor
life of the farms, there is nothing so serviceable as the country-made
_veldtschoon_.