priest the night fears that had assailed me passed, giving place to
a feeling of rising anger at the whole thing. Here was I--a fairly
decent Englishman, reared in the Anglican faith and living in the
nineteenth century--hindered from going about my business, outcast,
excommunicated, shunned as a leper, my servant dying; all on account of
some fiendish diablerie of heathen fetish. The affair was preposterous,
incredible, ludicrous. Then I looked at poor Puketawa, moaning, prone
in his bunk, and was answered. That at least was real.
Punctually at twelve o’clock the old “tohunga” came over the hill. He
was a tall man, grey-headed and handsome, and in his full robes of
office he looked imposing enough. Halting at a short distance he called
us to come forth. I started forward to expostulate, but he waved me
sternly back.
“Approach not,” he commanded. “You are unclean, you have incurred the
anger of the great spirits. Yet will I intercede, and it may be purge
you of the offence. Now, therefore, bring out your ‘taonga’ (goods) and
everything that you have touched, in order that I may destroy it and
the purging be complete.”
This was beyond a joke. Give up my household goods and knick-knacks to
be burnt? Never! I’d see him hanged first.
“Be off, you old scallywag!” I shouted. “Give you my things, indeed!”
And I began to tell him what I thought about it. He stood impassive,
inexorable.
“Young man,” he answered, “be not mad. Fool! Can you fight the spirits?
Look to your servant. Delay not, lest he die.”
This was unanswerable. I surrendered, and we carried the things
out, Puketawa moving as though in a mesmeric dream. All my
bachelor treasures, bedding, rugs, chairs, cooking-pots, and
crockery--everything went. The pots and crockery he smashed with his
tomahawk, the house and all else he burnt to ashes. Luckily, I had not
been near the store, or that and its contents would have gone too.
What next, I wondered? Had the old heathen done with us? Evidently not.
“Remove your clothing,” he commanded. Here was a pretty state of
things! Being naturally of a modest disposition, I demurred, at which
he lost his temper.
“Hinder me not,” he cried. “Your life or death is naught to me. Beware,
lest I depart and leave you to your fate.”
There was nothing for it but to comply. So, whilst our clothes were
burning, Puketawa and I stood before him naked and unashamed.
Down to the creek, to the pool beneath the waterfall, the old priest
drove us. The stream was full of snow-water from the mountains, and
bitterly cold.
“Enter,” he ordered.
“Needs must when the devil drives,” and with a gulp we plunged in and
stood shivering up to our necks, while for ten interminable minutes the
old fellow chanted prayers and wove his “karakia” (spells) on the bank.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR’S STORE ON THE BANKS OF THE MANGAPAI RIVER.
_From a Photograph._]
At last it was over. We climbed out, and the “tohunga” sprinkled each
of us, separately and solemnly, with a fern frond dipped in the water
of the pool.
“It is enough,” he said. “The ‘tapu’ is lifted,” and walked away.
The humour of the situation appealed to me, and, cold and dripping
though I was, I shouted with laughter. And you will admit the thing
_was_ fairly humorous. Imagine us, if you can, standing there, stripped
of our worldly goods, naked and shivering--Puketawa, a prize convert
from a mission station, and I, a Christian--brought to such a pass by
miserable heathen wizardry that we had been glad to submit ourselves to
the sorceries of the arch-wizard himself to escape the consequences of
the spells that had been cast over us!
All the same, the effect of the hanky-panky on Puketawa was truly
wonderful. Moribund before the arrival of the “tohunga,” he was a new
man after the performance. He laughed with me, his dull eyes again
became clear and bright, and he got quite chirpy; while, laugh as you
will, even I, who had submitted to go through it only on Puketawa’s
account and for the sake of trade, must confess to a sense of spiritual
well-being to which I had been a stranger for some days.
With trade clothing from the store we clad our nakedness. The baptism
business had given us an appetite, and we soon rummaged out a cold
collation. Maoris are always fair trenchermen, but I never saw one put
away such a feed as Puketawa did then. Eat? Long after I had finished
I sat and watched the stuff disappearing--tinned salmon, potted beef,
spiced ox-tongue, dried fish, ham and chicken, pine-apple, Worcester
sauce. King Solomon in all his glory never had such an appetite.
Next day, as though to make amends for the inconvenience we had
suffered, and show that the popular feeling was not directed against
us but against the “tapu” alone, the Maoris flocked to the store with
cash and barter, and I did the best day’s trade of my life. In two days
they had built me a better house than that destroyed. It was as if the
ceremony of purification had conferred a sort of brotherhood upon me,
and I found myself on a better footing with them than ever before. I
never discovered, however, how they learnt of our transgression.
To this day the question of how the “tohunga” became aware of our
accidental presence on the sacred island remains a mystery. That we
were alone there I am certain. Under the circumstances of the storm and
the thick mist, it is equally certain our presence was not observed
from the shore. The “kainga” was six miles distant, a range of hills
intervening. It was a black night; Maoris are chary of being out
after dark. Altogether the possibility of our having been seen may
be dismissed. Puketawa, of course, leaned to the supernatural. Old
stories of occultism practised by the priests, of spiritualism and
uncanny mental telepathy with the spirit world, he told for my benefit.
I do not like mystery, and have no leaning towards the occult, but,
dismissing all this as unworthy of credence, there yet remains the
query of how the “tohunga” knew of our “breaking of the ’wahi-tapu’”
(breach of the sanctity of a burial-place).
In the fullness of his heart at my successful whitewashing, old Te Horo
offered to give me his youngest and prettiest daughter in marriage,
with a thousand acres of tribal land as a dowry. Between you and me,
there have since been times when I have regretted that I didn’t clinch
the bargain.
The Finches’ Festival.
A BIRD-SINGING COMPETITION IN FLANDERS.
BY A. PITCAIRN-KNOWLES.
Bird-singing competitions, in which substantial money prizes
are awarded to the owner of the songster making the greatest
number of “trills” in a specified time, are very popular in
the North of France and Flanders. In this article the author
describes and illustrates a typical bird-singing festival in a
Flemish village. From photographs by the author.
The inhabitants of the rural district of that part of Belgium which
goes by the name of Flanders seem to be possessed of a genius almost
unique for instituting and organizing quaint and curious competitions
designed to administer to that keen taste for friendly rivalry which is
so characteristic of the population of King Leopold’s little domain.
Any stranger penetrating into the heart of the country at the time
of the year when many of the hamlets are about to hold their annual
fairs--spun out to last a week, or even longer--cannot fail to be
interested in the long posters adorning the walls of every “estaminet,”
announcing a separate event for each day of the festive season, and
testifying to the great hold this healthful spirit of emulation
exercises upon the minds of these simple peasants.
Being one of those strangers in a strange land, I was overcome by a
spirit of curiosity when a very limited acquaintance with the Flemish
tongue helped me to the conclusion that the “Prijskamp voor Blinde
Vinken,” announced for a certain Sunday at the untimely hour of seven
in the morning, was a competition in which blind birds were to be the
candidates for honour and distinction, and I resolved to be present at
what promised to be a curiously interesting spectacle.
[Illustration: THE FINCH-OWNERS’ MEETING-PLACE AND HEADQUARTERS.
_From a Photograph._]
Setting out on my bicycle in the early dawn of a stormy morning, I
was borne with the wind through one sleeping hamlet after another.
The pulse of life had scarcely begun to stir; but when I reached my
destination, as the clock struck six, and wended my way to the street
with the well-nigh unpronounceable name where the great event was
to take place, all was alive and bustling. Peasants of both sexes,
representing every stage from tender childhood to decrepit old
age, were strolling up and down or standing about in groups eagerly
discussing the all-absorbing event which was about to commence--the
contest of the blind finches.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE CAGES, SHOWING THE DOUBLE FRONT TO PROTECT
THE LITTLE OCCUPANT FROM CATS.
_From a Photograph._]
At intervals men and boys clattered along in _sabots_, or proceeded
with shuffling gait in gorgeously-coloured carpet slippers, bearing
mysterious wooden boxes under their arms. I inquired into the nature
of their burdens, and discovered that they contained cages which
housed the chaffinches destined to take part in the competition. These
cases, varying in size, bore little similarity to each other either
in design or workmanship, for while some were roughly put together
without any attempt at decoration, others, though evidently the work
of the amateur, revealed traces of minute care and originality of
construction, one being adorned with a rudely carved representation
of the little imprisoned inmate, a work of art presumably executed
by the owner himself or some village genius. A few of the boxes were
really elaborate constructions, one in particular being made of
highly-polished mahogany, on which figured a bird with outstretched
wings, executed in relief ironwork.
[Illustration: THE BANNER OF A FINCH-OWNERS CLUB.
_From a Photograph._]
[Illustration: ONE OF THE JUDGES IN POSITION, READY TO SCORE THE
NUMBER OF “TRILLS” EMITTED BY THE BIRD IN FRONT--NOTICE THE CURIOUS
TALLY-STICK USED IN SCORING.
_From a Photograph._]
There was one spot in particular towards which the future competitors
seemed to be attracted, a rustic inn, over whose portals the flag of
the local finch-owners’ club waved lustily in the vigorous breeze, and
the cheery greeting, “Vinkeniers Welkom,” attracted the attention of
the passers-by. It was here that the organizers and competitors met for
the purpose of settling all matters pertaining to the bird-singing
contest. Even at 6 a.m. beer has irresistible fascination for the true
native of Flanders, and it goes without saying that every entry for
the competition called forth a request for at least one “bock” on the
part of the competing bird-owner. Others, who came as mere spectators,
followed his example, and soon the stream of conviviality flowed freely.
[Illustration: THE COMPETITORS AND JUDGES IN POSITION.
_From a Photograph._]
A few men and boys were already opening their boxes, and tenderly
lifting out strong little wooden cages with double wire fronts,
designed to withstand the attacks of that relentless foe to bird
life--the domestic cat. Meanwhile numbers had been chalked on to
the wall along the side of the road with the object of showing each
competitor his place, and one by one the owners of the feathered
songsters took up their positions, until I counted fifty-six
competitors seated by the roadside, waiting for the signal to begin
the contest. Some of these men had walked as far as twenty miles, and,
having placed their boxes three yards apart, sat down with evident
relief.
[Illustration: A JUDGE AT WORK--EACH MAN SCORES FOR SOMEONE ELSE’S
BIRD, AND STEWARDS KEEP A CHECK UPON THEM TO INSURE FAIR PLAY.
_From a Photograph._]
During the interval of waiting I gathered from several communicative
candidates that it is necessary to blind the little birds in these
“concours,” as they would stop singing immediately they found
themselves to be under observation. The eye itself is not injured,
however, the closed eyelids being merely glued together, so to speak,
by means of a slight touch with a hot iron. Needless to say, this
operation must be performed by an experienced hand, otherwise part of
the lid may be left open, in which case the front of the cage must be
covered, or the shy little occupant will not sing. One is relieved
to know that it is quite possible to restore the bird’s sight by
separating the closed lids.
As the Belgian law does not permit such cruelty to be openly practised
in the country, the birds are imported--or, to be more accurate, are
supposed to be imported--from France. Even the catching of birds for
the purpose of employing them in these curious contests is looked upon
as illegal in Belgium, but laws of this kind are more easily made than
enforced. Probably the Government thinks that by keeping this pastime
under a control which appears to be severe it is doing its duty, and
with this object in view it demands that each owner shall carry on his
person a certificate containing the following words:--
“The undersigned, burgomaster of the town of ----, hereby declares
that Mr. ----, of such a trade, living at ----, is the owner of blind
chaffinches, with which he travels, and that he does not practise the
trade of bird-selling.” For this guarantee a fee of a hundred francs
is charged, it being necessary to obtain a new signature from the
authorities every fortnight.
The success or failure of a bird entered in a contest depends upon the
number of perfect “trills” made by the little competitor in a certain
time--usually an hour. The best result my informant had ever known at
a “concours” was one thousand and nineteen trills in the hour, and
after setting up this record the bird readily sold for a hundred and
twenty francs. As money prizes are invariably offered, these feathered
songsters are often sources of profit as well as sport to their owners,
a good chaffinch easily adding a hundred francs to the family exchequer.
But now let me relate how these competitions are managed and carried
on. I doubt whether any of my readers have ever witnessed such a scene
as I am about to describe, and a brief sketch of what came to pass in
that out-of-the-way spot can hardly fail to interest those who enjoy a
glimpse of peculiar, old-world practices.
[Illustration: A WELL-EARNED REST--HANGING THE WINNING BIRD UP IN THE
SUNSHINE AFTER THE CONTEST.
_From a Photograph._]
As the clock of the village church laboriously chimed out its seventh
stroke the manager of the competition, in a loud voice, issued the
order for the contest to begin. At this there was a general stir. Each
man took up a more or less business-like attitude in front of the
cage of one of his opponents, every competitor acting as judge for
someone else’s bird. Having produced his curious-looking marker--a
thing resembling a four-sided yard-stick, painted black, with a handle
either in the form of a knob or a ring at the top end--the men at once
proceeded to chalk certain cabalistic signs thereupon, which a close
observation showed me stood for the number of trills made by each
bird--“Chuie, chuie, chuie, chuie, chuiep” being a perfect trill. It
is the fifth and last part of the warble upon which success really
depends. If the final “chuiep” is not heard the feat is incomplete, and
the little warbler is not credited with a chalk mark.
The silence was scarcely broken save for the shrill piping of the
birds, and the seriousness exhibited by competitors and spectators
alike would have done credit to the mourners at a funeral. It was
curious to note the manner in which some of the less gravely-disposed
owners spent the interval of waiting for their charges to distinguish
themselves. Some were lightening the serious business of marking by
occasional draughts of beer from huge tumblers, which they had, with
wise forethought, placed close at hand. Others, with that calmness
that comes from long practice, were puffing contentedly at short clay
pipes, while the greater number--among whom were some very youthful
competitors, evidently on their first trial--wore anxious expressions,
never letting their eyes rest upon any other object than the cage and
the scoring-stick entrusted to their care.
[Illustration: COLLECTING THE TALLY STICKS.
_From a Photograph._]
All this time the subdued talking among the group of interested
spectators scarcely rose above the continued chirping of the birds,
which seemed to become more and more shrill and vigorous as the
moments passed, until, after the lapse of half an hour or so, each of
the little songsters seemed ready to burst its little throat in its
determination to make itself heard above its neighbours.
[Illustration: PLACING THE NET AND DECOY-BIRDS TO CAPTURE FINCHES.
_From a Photograph._]
At the commencement of the competition I had been under the pleasant
impression that the little creatures, although selfishly deprived of
the blessing of sight in order to administer to a somewhat barbaric
form of human enjoyment, sang their early morning songs out of pure
gladness of heart and “the wild joy of living,” but my fond delusion
was soon nipped in the bud, for unmistakable notes of anger were by
this time distinct, and it needed not the assurance of one of the
spectators to convince me that, in its wild state, this particular
species of the winged creation, at all events, is far from preserving
that unity and perfect agreement in the home circle ascribed to it by
one of our poets and pointed out for man’s emulation. It is in order
to stimulate an artificially-produced anger, considered necessary for
the success of the “concours,” that these matches are held in the early
morning hours, while the birds of the trees and hedges are singing most
lustily. The chirping of the imprisoned songsters proceeds from a wild
frenzy of desire to do battle-royal with those of their brethren still
enjoying freedom, and by degrees the longing grows for an encounter
with their competing neighbours.
[Illustration: CAUGHT!--THE CAPTURE OF A FUTURE COMPETITOR.
_From a Photograph._]
These matches are under the strictest control, both as regards
discipline and fairness, and any candidate found guilty of dishonesty
in marking is punished by summary expulsion from his club. Stewards
controlling the judging parade up and down with their eyes upon the
markers, so that cheating under such close supervision is well-nigh
impossible.
As the most successful of the finches trilled forth its five hundred
and eighteenth “Chuie, chuie, chuie, chuie, chuiep” the order was
passed along the line to cease scoring and make known the final
results. With startling promptness each candidate sprang to his feet
and began to add his score. The owner of the champion bird, a cripple,
showed calm pleasure as he proceeded to replace in its box his little
favourite’s cage, upon which was painted a landscape which succeeded in
defying every law of perspective.
During the summer months these “concours” are held at very frequent
intervals in the country districts of both France and Belgium, and a
competitor is frequently the possessor of several birds, which are
usually caught by means of a net, but almost every method is productive
of quick results, for the chaffinch is an eager wooer, his addresses
to his lady-love rendering him totally blind to his own danger. He is
beset with rivals, and as the female bird invariably smiles upon the
strongest suitor she is the cause of innumerable battles, in which
it is usual for several lovers to be left dead upon the field. The
chaffinch is very easily trapped by using a tame finch to stir up his
jealousy. A limed twig is attached to the tame bird, who is allowed
to run about where the twittering of the wild birds is heard. As soon
as the latter become conscious of the presence of an alien in their
midst an onslaught is made, which generally ends in the capture of
one, if not more, of the attackers. Another method of capturing the
chaffinch, and the one most in vogue among the Flemish “Vinkeniers,”
is represented in two of the accompanying photographs. A stuffed finch
fixed to a small peg is placed in the grass, clearly visible to the
birds in the trees, while a live decoy, in a cage, carefully covered
up with loose grass and twigs, so as not to attract any attention, is
concealed not many yards away. A long net, spread out on the ground
between the two decoy birds, lies in readiness to make prisoners of the
little feathered warriors as soon as they cluster round the stuffed
bird, incited by the clamours of the caged enticer. A pull of the
long strings, leading into the ambush of the bird-catchers, may cause
as many as thirty finches at a time to fall into the hands of the
trappers.
[Illustration: THE FIGHT AT THE A-T RANCH.
BY FRANK BRANSTED.]
The story of one of the most sanguinary “cattle wars” the
West has ever known. The long-standing feud between the big
cattlemen and the homesteaders, whose advent means the doom of
the open range, led in this instance to a most extraordinary
state of affairs, in which one side raised a regiment of
ruffians to wipe out their enemies, while the other retorted by
laying siege to their opponents’ head-quarters with rifle-pits
and dynamite bombs! “The narrative is absolutely true,” writes
the author, “only the names of the cattlemen concerned being
changed.”
With a rattle of wheels over stones and frozen ground the buckboard
swung round the bend and down across the muddy creek flats. The driver,
Ranger Jones, one of the pioneers of Northern Wyoming, drew off his
leather glove and rubbed his chilled hands on the buffalo robe to
restore circulation. The sun was low in the west, and, after placing
his hand on the heavy Colt that lay reassuringly beside him on the
seat, he drew on his glove and spoke sharply to his team. A moment
later they struck the bridge, and after clattering across the shaky
wooden structure began the ascent of the south bank.
Scarcely had the buckboard left the bridge than from underneath it was
thrust the barrel of a rifle. A sharp report rang out, followed by two
others in rapid succession, and with his fingers groping vainly for his
pistol Ranger Jones, the best rider and one of the bravest men of the
Big Horn country, fell forward off the seat. Shot three times through
the back, he was dead before his head struck the dashboard.
Jones’s death was but one of the brutal murders that about 1890
horrified the settlers east of the Big Horns and north of the Powder
River. This country, which had formerly belonged exclusively to the
cattle kings, had of late years been invaded by homesteaders and other
settlers, who had begun to stretch their hated wire fences along the
creeks and around the water-holes on the alkali flats to the east.
Early in the winter all the settlers in this district had received
warnings that they had been tried by “a jury of their betters” and
found guilty of cattle rustling, and warning them that if they did not
leave the country within thirty days their lives would be forfeited.
These warnings were signed by the “White Cap Protective League.” The
letters, which were known to be the work of the Cattle Association, or
of some of its members, were for the most part disregarded.