myself, took train for Invercargill. The first part of the country was
very marshy, and was covered with great green bushes, called Ti-trees,
and tussocks of grass, any bunch of which would hide a herd of cattle.
There were a number of plants like flags. These a New Zealander, who
gave us much information about the country, whom for variety I will
call Robinson, told us were the New Zealand flax. The Maoris made bags
and string out of it, but Europeans had not yet invented the proper
method of making it clean. The bunches of flax were about as big as the
tussocks of grass. Now and again we saw some tame-looking birds, with
red legs and blue heads, like guinea-fowls. They simply looked at the
train, and either couldn’t or else wouldn’t fly away. Robinson said
that they would fly quickly enough if we went after them with a gun.
A lot of the New Zealand birds, however, are unable to fly. In this
respect they resemble their predecessors, which together constituted
the family of Moas. Robinson said that some of the Moas were forty
feet high, and in speed could eclipse the winner of the Melbourne Cup.
Sometimes they would breakfast at Invercargill and then trot off 565
miles north to the plains of Canterbury for their dinner. Their eggs
weighed fifty-six pounds. They were all dead now, and globe-trotters
often felt disappointed at not getting any sport amongst these animals.
As I don’t believe all that Robinson said, I will reserve my own
observations on these remarkable birds until I come to the place where
I interviewed their remains. I will then tell you the truth.
A curious bird that still exists is the Maori hen, or the Weka. From
its simplicity it might be called the ‘Weak’un.’ It suffers from
inquisitiveness. If you clap two sticks together, it will come to
investigate the reason of the disturbance. To catch it, you place
a bit of red rag on one stick and a noose on the other. While the
‘Weak’un’ is picking at the red rag on one stick you put the noose on
the other stick round its neck. This sounds like the salt dodge, and
although you may not believe it, it is perfectly true. Another bird--a
hairy-looking beast called the Kiwi--suffers from sleeplessness, and
therefore has become a night-walker. There are lots of these birds in
the streets of London. A charming pet for a farmyard is the Kiau. This
dear little bird has retained its powers of flight. Its chief amusement
is to sit on the back of a sheep and pick out its kidneys. It is a
wonderful anatomist, and never fails in striking the spot where it will
obtain its favourite morsel. After the operation the sheep invariably
die, and the kiau flies off to another little lamb to institute a new
investigation.
Everywhere in New Zealand, as in all the South Sea Islands, there are
wild pigs. All of these, or at least their ancestors, were brought out
by Captain Cook.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said MacTavish; ‘he would have required Noah’s
Ark.’ After this, whenever Mac saw a pig, he used to call out, ‘Hello!
there goes Captain Cook.’
Invercargill is a nice town, with one large wide street lined with
good buildings and furnished with tramcars. We saw it at its worst,
for it was drizzling, and the roads were wet and muddy. One puzzle to
a stranger in Invercargill was how so small a place could support such
enormous stores and shops. That all of them did not pay was clear from
an advertisement we saw. It was in big letters, and ran as follows:
‘Great Bankrupt.
‘Certified copy of telegram.
‘Creditors have accepted your offer of 8s. 8d. in the pound.
Amount, £2,627 12s. 6d.
‘(Signed) J. R. and S. M.’
After this followed sheets of advertisements about the low price at
which you could purchase various articles. If ever I start a store at
Invercargill I shall sell rubber boots, mackintoshes and umbrellas.
Over the door I shall write ‘Great Bankrupt Compulsory Sale.’
As the climate was against an investigation of the suburbs, MacTavish
and MacCallum More found a place where they could play billiards with
tipless cues, while I went off in search of a museum I had been told
about.
‘It’s at the Athenæum,’ said my informant. ‘It isn’t much of a place
just yet--only commencing. You’ll find it very interesting. The second
door in the third block.’
I found it without difficulty; and as future visitors to Invercargill
may possibly like to read up special works on its exhibits, I give the
following catalogue of everything I saw:
No. 1. was the skull of a gigantic cetacean. This was in the
hall. Before examining this remarkable relic, students may with
advantage refresh their memories by again referring to the
terrible trials of the adventurous Jonah.
No. 2. Two frowsy deer in a glass case. These were in a passage
upstairs. The attitude of these animals reminds you of the
well-known Psalm: ‘As pants the hart for cooling streams.’
No. 3. A mangy marsupial, probably from Australia. This
interesting specimen is near the frowsy deer. The skin of this
creature, which in every respect, bar building nests and laying
eggs, is a connecting link between the sheep and the ostrich,
cannot fail to impress the thoughtful visitor that moth and
rust corrupt the treasures which we lay up for ourselves on
earth.
A special catalogue of this interesting and valuable collection has not
previously been printed. The council of the institution are at liberty
to reprint my notes in full. Although I have written the catalogue
from memory, I must say that I have often had greater difficulty in
remembering the contents of a shark’s stomach. I trust that there are
no mistakes.
When I meet the gentleman who sent me through the rain to interview
these treasures, it would be well if he had either a suit of armour, or
else a bottle of arnica, or other preparation for the relief of bruises.
From Invercargill we went by train to Kingston, on Lake Wakatipu. The
whole journey was, on account of the drizzly, mizzly, foggy, sleety,
snowy weather, a failure. The Alps of New Zealand in summer-time may
be enjoyable, but in winter they are about as enjoyable as the Arctic
regions. Polar bears might like the trip, but it was even too much for
Scotchmen. The first part of the journey was over swampy brown plains.
Here and there are a few farms and furze fences. The bush we saw was
of a very scraggy second-class description. The trees were stunted,
weather-beaten, covered with moss, and half dead. Beneath them was a
tangle of impenetrable scrub. Mixed in with the latter are tangles of a
vine-like plant called a lawyer, the underside of the leaves of which
are fish-hook-like thorns. It looks innocent, but it is a fearful plant
when it seizes you. I can’t say more, or the profession might institute
an action for libel. The only cheering sight in the murky landscape was
the yellow bushes of furze. There was also a little pleasure derived
from the absence of the monotonous Australian gums. At a place called
Lumsden, big mountains came in sight, the more distant of which were
white with snow. With the exception of a tropical-looking plant called
a cabbage palm, the trees had disappeared. On the hillsides we saw
thousands of rabbits. At one small station we saw a professional
rabbiter with a pack of some twenty dogs, and a horse loaded with
rabbit-skins. A rabbiter may get about twopence for each rabbit-skin.
In the market these skins are worth from 1s. to 1s. 10d. per lb., and
there are about eight skins to a pound. At one station of 80,000 acres
near Lumsden, they employed about 500 dogs, and caught about 300,000
rabbits per year. The total export of rabbit-skins from New Zealand
amounts to several millions per year. In 1881, 8,514,685 skins, valued
at £84,744, were exported.
On the day the first rabbit was let loose in this part of the country,
a great dinner was given to commemorate the successful introduction of
this useful little animal. Shortly after this a law was passed for the
protection of Bunny, whereby it was enacted that any person shooting a
rabbit should be fined--I think Mac said £20. Now the law is that the
man who does not shoot Bunny, but protects and cherishes him, is the
person who is fined. Half the time of the Colonial legislators is spent
in considering how Bunny shall be dealt with. This year the Queensland
Government made a special appropriation of £100,000 to carry on the
rabbit warfare. As a war was imminent with Russia, the same Government
considered that the taxation might be increased £90,000. How indignant
Russians ought to feel if they knew that they had to play second fiddle
to a parcel of rabbits. But what is to be done with Bunny? Bunny in the
Colonies is different to Bunny in the home country. In the Colonies
he can climb walls, run up hollow trees, and swim creeks. Instead of
breeding like the proverbial rabbit, he changes his home habits and
breeds all the year round. He begins when he is six months old, and
continues until he dies.
Any respectable rabbit ought to be ashamed of such a family tree.
One small army of rabbits having started, they breed larger and larger
armies at an increasing rate, which advance like a browsing herd.
‘The rabbits are coming’ is a more alarming cry for the owners of a
station than any cry about a Russian invasion.
In the Cape a question about the vine grub (Phylloxera) threw out
a Government. Rabbits not legislated for would throw out forty
Governments in the Colonies. The Rabbit Nuisance Act of New Zealand
is against poor Bunny, but protects tiger-cats, stoats, ferrets, the
mongoose, native cats, and other vermin, the value of which is doubtful.
In some districts foxes have been introduced to destroy rabbits, but it
is found that Reynard very quickly develops a taste for young sheep.
Weasels and the ichneumon (mongoose) have also been tried, but it is
feared that they may increase like the rabbits, and it is known that
weasels, when in numbers, will even sometimes attack men and horses. In
the Auckland district rabbits have died out partly by natural causes,
a disease called tuberculosis having broken out amongst them. This
has led to the idea that a few rabbits might be inoculated with an
infectious disease, and then turned loose. Pasteur might be consulted
on this point. One way of getting them out of their holes is to smoke
them out with the fumes of certain chemicals ejected by a fan. The
ordinary methods of destruction are, to use phosphorized oats (which
unfortunately kill pheasants and other valuable game), to trap, to
hunt with dogs, and to shoot. To keep back an approaching invasion,
wire-netting partly sunk obliquely in the ground has proved good,
and Government and private individuals have put up lengths of such
barricading only comparable with the Great Wall of China.
We expected to find Kingston, as it was described in a trade report
by an American consul, a flourishing little township. All that we
did find was a solitary house, on the edge of a black-looking lake,
surrounded by precipitous mountains covered with snow. This house was
the hotel. Of course there were no visitors. New Zealanders are wiser
than strangers. At Queenstown, which you reach by a small steamer, the
accommodation is much better. But still, even if you had the Palace
Hotel from San Francisco, Lake Wakatipu is not the place for weather
such as we had. The scenery of ragged peaks whitewashed with snow,
and black cliffs frowning upon a blacker lake, may be fine in summer
weather, but it was sufficient to make us fly away from it at the first
opportunity. At the Kingston end of the lake, there are to be seen some
very remarkable terrace formations marking the ancient level of the
lake. These are cut in glacial moraine, indicating that Wakatipu at one
time may have been the basin of a huge glacier.
In returning, at Lumsden we branched off across the Waiwea Plains, on
a private line. The ground over which we ran was for the most part
flat and uncultivated. To the right and left there were snow-clad
hills. We were now on the way to Dunedin. The farther we went the
more cultivated became the country. There were no forests. All was
laid out in fields, and much of the ground had been turned over by the
plough. I suppose this was for wheat. As we went along the passengers
continued to increase. Most of the men wore long leggings, and were
very muddy. Although our companions were farmerish and muddy, I was
told that some of them were very rich. Scotchmen can make money in any
country. One old millionaire that I heard about was a ferryman. His
name was Fergusson. Wet or fine, Fergusson was always at his post,
ready to pass the time of day with a farmer’s wife, or to answer the
‘Hallo’ of a belated traveller. For a long time it was supposed that
Fergusson was poor, and to add a copper or two, or even a shilling, to
his usual fare was looked upon as quite the proper thing. Fergusson
was always pleasant, and touched his hat to all who came. At last it
got rumoured that every week the postman delivered a big envelope
at Fergusson’s door, and there was a good deal of speculation as to
what this correspondence was about. The big red seal on the envelope
indicated that Fergusson’s business was important. This went on for
two years, and Fergusson’s business was as great a secret as ever.
But there is an end to all things, and so there was to the mystery
of big envelopes. It seems that Fergusson could not read, and being
as desirous of solving the secret of the envelopes as other people,
he called in a friend. Shortly afterwards we heard that the weekly
correspondence was Fergusson’s banking account. How many stations he
owns we are afraid to say, but he still keeps the ferry. People call
him Mr. Fergusson now. Some time before we reached Dunedin, a boy
passed through the carriages, and collected our names to be telegraphed
ahead for the Dunedin papers. It was a long ride of over twelve hours,
and we were glad to find ourselves, about 8 p.m., once more back again
in civilization.
The Rabbit Difficulty Explained.
Seeing and hearing so much about rabbits when in New Zealand
made me anxious to discover the law or laws which governed their
multiplication. When I was in the train on my way to Dunedin, I,
MacTavish, and MacCallum More tried to investigate the question, but I
am sorry to say that we signally failed. MacTavish tried to illustrate
it with a pack of cards he carried, beginning by dealing out a king
and queen to represent a pair of rabbits. Under each of these he
would place six more cards to represent their offspring. But at this
point a controversy arose as to how many should be males and how many
females. But work as we would, we never seemed to have enough cards to
illustrate the thing properly.
After an hour or two of argument, our ideas were so hopelessly
entangled, that for relaxation MacCallum tried to teach us a game he
called poker.
The rabbit question, however, was only dormant. At Dunedin we were
told an intercolonial congress had sat upon the rabbit question.
One outcome of their labours was to recommend the various Colonial
Governments who had found it impossible to legislate against an enemy
they did not understand, to offer a handsome sum to the first person
who successfully placed the rabbit question on an intelligent basis.
The prize was won by a Mr. Macalister, a schoolmaster in Dunedin. His
treatise on the subject, which is known as ‘The Bunnyian Calculus,’ has
since been recommended as a text-book for the junior classes in the
various Government schools.
We called on Mr. Macalister when in Dunedin, who, when he heard that we
were interested in the important question to which he had devoted so
much attention, gave us a pressing invitation to hear the children at
their rabbit exercises.
‘Noo, sir,’ said he, ‘ye wad aiblins like to hear the laddie bairns dae
their Bunnyian Calculus; it’s jist wonnerfu.’
We said we ‘aiblins would.’
‘Well, ye maun ken then,’ continued he, addressing himself, chalk in
hand, to his blackboard, ‘that a guid deal depends on the assoumptions
even in the exawct scieences. Ane is that the doe rabbit litters aucht
times in the twalmonth; and anither, that her feemly consists o’ twa he
and four she anes. Monnie mae assoumptions maun be made that it wadna
jist a’ thegither dae to explain to the callants. Ho’someever, we’ll
reckon the term o’ life to be sax years, and start wi ae bonnie winsome
doe rabbit. It is evident there will be--
(1 + 4) she rabbits at the end of the first term.
(1 + 4)² ” ” ” ” second term.
(1 + 4)⁴⁸ ” ” ” ” sax years.
Here we should soobtrawct ane, for the auld doe will e’en
noo dee, while the first four o’ her offspring’ll be hirplin, and maun
be deducted at the end o’ the next term, belike. But as we maun ca’
cannie wi’ the bairns, an’ no ding them doited a’ thegither, we’ll just
pay no kind of attention whatever to the deed anes; for weel I wat, it
maks sma’ difference in the result, those that dee by natural means,
and won’t affect the first few significant figures. Nae doot ye see,
that it’s jist compownd interest payable aucht times in the twalmonth,
and if we further aloo’ for the deed anes, that is exactly as if a
brokerage, as it were, were soobtrawcted at the end o’ each payment
after the aucht and twa score. I’ll just show ye the exact formula wi’
r for the number o’ she rabbits and R: r the ratio of total rabbits to
she ones at a litter, n being the number o’ years that elawpsed.’
And consulting his book, this is what he wrote on another board:
R
N = ---(1 + r)⁸ⁿ⁻¹ [(1 + r){(1 + r)⁴⁸ - 8n - 1} + 8n]
r
with the most evident satisfaction, and artistically chalking the
whirrlies with the greatest care. It gave me a twinge of toothache, I
must say.
He then completed his numerical example, saying:
‘At the end o’ a score o’ years the number of rabbits descended frae
one doe is
6
N = ---(1 + 4)¹⁶⁰
4
= 684 × 10¹¹².’
‘No wonder,’ says my friend to me, who seemed to understand
it--‘aiblins,’ ‘hirplin,’ ‘doited,’ and all--‘no wonder the Society for
the Protection of Rabbits congratulated themselves; and,’ he added,
‘all the unnatural ways since tried to decrease these rabbits don’t
affect the practical result either.’
All the time Macalister’s demonstration had gone on, Mac and I were
giving significant nods, and grunting assent to all he said.
‘Noo,’ says Macalister, ‘the children will do a few practical
exercises.’
We were rather tired, and, as it was nearly one o’clock, somewhat
hungry; but not wishing to offend the scholar, we said we were
delighted.
‘Jock,’ said he, pointing to the board, ‘hoo mony muckle is that?’
‘Six hundred and eighty-four,’ said the boy.
‘Sax hunner an auchty-four, my braw bairn; but whaat? Tell me whaat?
dinna be blate and skirl a’ thegither.’
With that each child drew a long breath, clutched the back of a bench,
shut his eyes, and began, ‘Of millions of millions of millions of
millions of millions,’ as if they were never going to stop.
Suddenly the schoolmaster lifted his hand, and the noise ceased.
‘How many times did ye say millions of millions of millions?’ asked the
teacher.
‘Five score and twelve times,’ was the answer.
‘Quite correct, you see,’ said Macalister. ‘It’s only an application of
the formula. The rabbits which die don’t affect the answer.’
It was now one o’clock, and Mac was shuffling his feet to get away.
‘Just one more problem,’ said Macalister; and before we had time
to make any excuse about catching our steamer, Macalister said to
the school: ‘With the same conditions as before, assume that Captain
Cook had landed a pair of rabbits in New Zealand instead of a pair of
pigs, how many would there now be in the country? Before stating the
answer, half of you can go to your dinners, but mind and be back by two
o’clock.’
Half the school had no sooner gone than the remainder of the children
commenced saying, ‘Millions of millions of millions of millions,’ in a
monotonous sort of rhythm. When they were going to stop we could not
tell.
At two o’clock those who had been to their dinner came back, and as
they dropped into their places struck up the millions of millions
tune. The detachment who had commenced the answer, being in this way
relieved, retired to their dinners.
‘It’s a gey lang answer,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘isn’t it?’ Mac
looked black. ‘Better take a seat; you will appreciate the children’s
intelligence much better.’
It was then close on three o’clock, and still the children kept on
singing ‘Millions of millions of millions.’
‘Wonderful children,’ I remarked. ‘How many more times will they say
“Millions of millions of millions”?’ I inquired.
‘Oh,’ said the schoolmaster, ‘the number of times they will say it will
be millions of millions of millions of millions of millions.’
Mac looked furious. Millions of millions of millions. ‘The old fool’s
mad,’ he whispered.
‘Civility costs nothing,’ I replied; ‘his tongue will get tired in
time.’
But still the schoolmaster kept repeating, ‘Millions of millions of
millions.’
‘Ask him how many years he will be before he gets to the end of his
answer?’
As it was now four o’clock, and the lamps were being lighted, I
ventured to ask the schoolmaster how many days it would be before he
had finished his answer.
His face lighted up with a smile, and he said, ‘Well, perhaps in
millions of millions of millions of millions,’ and there he was off
again.
‘How many years will it be before the children have finished?’ I broke
in.
‘Oh, in millions of millions of millions,’ he again went on.
‘Well, then, we’ll come and hear some more of the answer to-morrow,’
said Mac.
‘Thank you very much for your entertainment, Mr. Macalister; your
children are very intelligent, and so are you. Good-bye, Mr.
Macalister, good-bye.’ But said I, at the door, ‘What were the other
assumptions you alluded to?’
‘Well, well,’ says he, ‘these rabbits maun hae nae haevings at a’,
sic as scruples o’ conscience or regard to the laws o’ the Kirk o’
Scotland.’
The landlord of our hotel was delighted when he heard that we had
interviewed Macalister on the rabbit question. Some of the members of
the legislature who have not been blessed with the gift of the gab
have found the schoolmaster’s calculations quite valuable. When they
want to block proceedings one of them asks a question about rabbits.
It doesn’t matter much what it is. How many tons of phosphorus will it
require to clear the rabbits out of New Zealand? How many tons of grass
do the rabbits in New Zealand eat every year? How many rabbits would it
take to fill the Pacific Ocean? Anything will do.
No sooner is the question asked, than up jumps a member, and from an
equation in the Bunnyian Calculus, which he shows to be correct, begins
to say ‘Millions of millions of millions,’ until everybody has left the
house.
They have now brought forward a Bill compelling those who speak on
rabbits to express time intervals as geological periods.
After our experiences at Dunedin, Mac and I were cautious when we asked
questions about the rabbit plague.
Dunedin is a fine city, and is in every way creditable to its founders.
It is certainly hilly, but these difficulties are overcome with
tramcars moved by an underground wire rope similar to that which has
been for so many years successfully used in San Francisco. The banks
and churches are of course noticeable, and so are the shops.
At the meeting of four streets in the centre of the town, there is a
miniature of Sir Walter Scott’s monument in Edinburgh. This is to the
memory of a Mr. Cargill, an energetic gentleman and pioneer in the
earlier days of Dunedin.
On the night of our arrival we were entertained with a torchlight
procession, and the howlings of the Salvation Army.
At the Museum Mac and I had our first interview with the remains of the
moa. We saw some of their feathers, and a mummified larynx of one of
these animals. I am not sure whether the moa could sing, but anyhow he
had a larynx. What was more, he had a gizzard. In one corner of a glass
case there were about a coal-scuttleful of white pebbles, which had
been removed from the gizzard of a moa. The moa had therefore a taste
for mineralogy.
‘We shall get some valuable facts about this animal before we have
done,’ remarked Mac.
Then, turning to the director of the Museum, who kindly accompanied
us round the show, he blandly inquired whether the moa ever attacked
travellers.
‘It is an extinct bird, sir,’ said the director, looking very much
disgusted at Mac.
‘Oh, it’s extinct, is it?’ was the reply.
Birds are in great force in the Museum, especially the extinct ones.
One blue-looking fellow, almost as big as a small goose, fetches £250
apiece at the British Museum.