OUR SHANTY.
Several years ago now, we bought our land from the Maoris, and settled
down here upon the Pahi. Necessarily, our first proceeding was to
construct a habitation. We might have employed the carpenter and
boat-builder, who resides at the township, to put up a good and
well-made frame-house for us, for a price of a hundred pounds or
upwards. But we had entire confidence in our own abilities, and besides,
there was something enticing in the idea of building our future home
with the actual labour of our own hands.
Moreover, there was another reason, possibly of chief importance: we
could not afford to pay for a house. After paying for our land, paying
for our farm-stock, and calculating our resources for meeting the
current expenses of the first year or two, we found there was but slight
margin for anything else; therefore we decided to build a shanty
ourselves. Meantime, we were camped on our new estate in a manner more
picturesque than comfortable. A rude construction of poles covered with
an old tarpaulin sufficed us. It was summer weather, and this was quite
good enough for a beginning. From step to step, that is the way to
progress, so we said. First the tent or whare, temporarily for a few
weeks; then the shanty, for a year or two; then, as things got well with
us, a well-finished frame-house; finally, a palace, a castle in the air,
or anything you like.
There are shanties and shanties. It is necessary to explain. Primarily,
in its Canadian and original sense, the term means a log-house--a hut
made of rough squared logs, built up upon each other. Such log-huts are
not common in this country, though they may be seen here and there. The
mild climate does not require such a style of building. The labour of
cutting and squaring logs for the purpose is great. The native whare of
thatch is quickly and easily raised, serves all requirements, and lasts
for years. In most parts hitherto settled, water-communication places
the settler within reach of a saw-mill, where he can obtain boards and
so on at very moderate cost. A shanty here, is a name applied to almost
any kind of nondescript erection, which would not come under the
designation of whare, or be honoured by the ambitious title of house.
Rough edifices of planking are the common form.
We went up to Tokatoka on the Wairoa, and there we purchased enough sawn
timber for our purpose, for about twelve or fifteen pounds. We hired a
big punt, and fetched this stuff down to our place, a distance of some
forty miles or so by water. Then we set to work at building.
The site we selected was an ambitious one; too much so, as we were
afterwards to discover. From the first Old Colonial objected to it. It
was too far from the river, he said, and would necessitate such an
amount of "humping." Bosh about humping! returned the majority. It was
only a temporary affair; in a year or two we should be having a regular
frame-house. Old Colonial gave way, for he perceived that, as our
acknowledged boss, he would have but little of the humping to do
himself. And the chosen site was central for the first proposed
clearings of our future farm.
The selected spot was a rising ground in the centre of a broad basin,
nearly a mile across. Steep ranges surround this basin, and the whole
was then covered with light bush. Half a mile in front is a mangrove
swamp, beyond which flows the river--the mangroves filling up a space
that without them would have been an open bay. The prospect in this
direction is bounded by the forest-clothed ranges on the opposite side
of the river, which is here about a mile in breadth. The land within the
basin is nothing like level, and English farmers might be frightened at
its ruggedness. To colonial eyes, however, it seems all that could be
desired.
Knolls and terraces gradually lead up to the ranges, which sweep away to
run together into a high hill called Marahemo, about three miles behind
us. The little eminence, on which stands the shanty, slopes down on the
left to a flat, where originally flax and rushes did most abound.
Through this flat a small creek has channelled a number of little ponds
and branches on its way to the river beyond.
On the right the bank is steeper, and upon it stand a number of
cabbage-tree palms. Down below is a little rocky, rugged gully, with a
brawling stream rushing through it. Just abreast of the shanty this
stream forms a cascade, tumbling into a pool that beyond is still and
clear and gravelly. It is a most romantically beautiful spot, shaded and
shut in completely by fern-covered rocks and overhanging trees. This is
our lavatory. Here we bathe, wash our shirts, and draw our supplies of
water. This creek flows down through the mangrove swamp to the river;
and, at high-water, we can bring our boats up its channel to a point
about a quarter of a mile below the shanty.
The site of the shanty has its advantages; but it has that one serious
drawback foreseen by Old Colonial. Somehow or other, year after year has
flown by, and still we have not got that frame-house we promised
ourselves. It is not for want of means, or because we have not been
quite so rapidly successful as we anticipated. Of course not! Away with
such base insinuations! But we have never any time to see about it, and
are grown so used to the shanty that we do not seem to hanker after
anything more commodious. So all these years, we have had to hump on our
backs and shoulders every blessed thing that we have imported or
exported, from the shanty to the water, or the contrary--sacks of flour,
sugar, and salt, grindstones, cheeses, meat, furniture. Oh, misery! how
our backs have ached as we have toiled up to our glorious site, while
Old Colonial laughed and jeered, as his unchristian manner is.
Our work began with the timbers of the shanty itself, and with the heavy
material for the stockyard. But humping was then a novelty, and we
regarded it as a labour of love. Now we know better, and, when we do get
that frame-house, we are going to have it just as near to the
landing-place as we can possibly stick it. You may bet your pile on
that!
Of course, in building the shanty, we employed the usual fashion
prevalent in the colony. Because, when we set to work we said we were
going to build a proper frame-house, _not_ a shanty. That is a name for
our habitation, which has since grown up into usage. We were none of us
practised carpenters; but what did that matter? We knew how to use our
hands; and had so often seen houses built that we knew precisely how to
do it.
First of all, then, are the piles. These are of puriri wood, tough,
heavy, and durable. They are rough-split sections of the great logs,
some two feet thick, with squarely-sawn ends. They are fixed in the
ground two or three feet apart, so as to bring their flat-sawn tops upon
a uniform level. The irregularities of the ground are thus provided
against, while a suitable foundation is laid.
The next process is to build a scaffolding, or skeleton frame, of
scantling and quartering. When that has been done, the floor is planked
over, the sides weather-boarded, doors, windows, and partitions being
put in according to the design of the architect. Lastly, the roof is
shingled, that is, covered with what our chum, O'Gaygun, calls "wooden
slates."
Our shanty is thirty feet long by ten in width. The sides are seven feet
high, and the ridge-pole is double that height from the floor. There are
a door and two windows, the latter having been bought at the township.
There is a partition across the shanty, two rooms having originally been
intended; but as this partition has a doorway without a door, and is
only the height of the sides, being open above, the original intention
in raising it has been lost, and it now merely serves for a convenient
rack. There is no verandah on the outside of the shanty, for we regarded
that as a waste of material and labour.
The fireplace is an important part of the shanty. Ten feet of the side
opposite the door was left open, not boarded up. Outside of this a sort
of supplementary chamber, ten feet square, was boarded up from the
ground. The roof of this little outroom slopes away _from_ that of the
rest of the shanty, and at its highest point a long narrow slit is left
open for a chimney. There is no flooring to this chamber, the ground
being covered with stones well pounded down. Its level is necessarily
sunk a little below that of the shanty floor, which is raised on the
piles, so the edge of the flooring forms a bench to sit on in front of
the fire. The fire used simply to be built up on the stones, in the
middle of this chimney-place; but, after a year or two, we imported an
American stove, with its useful appliances, from Auckland.
Our shanty is the habitation of some half-dozen of us, year out and year
in. There are in the district a good many settlers of the
middle-classes. Men of some education, who would be entitled to the
designation of "gentleman" in Europe. Of such sort are we. Some of us
are landowners, and some have no capital, being simply labourers. Which
is which does not matter. I shall not particularize, as each and all
have the same work to do, and live in exactly the same style. There is
brotherhood and equality among us, which is even extended to some who
would _not_ be called by that old-world title just alluded to, anywhere
at all. We do not recognize class distinctions here much. We take a man
as we find him; and if he is a good, hearty, honest fellow, that is
enough for us.
A good many of us come from the classes in England among whom manual
labour is considered low and degrading. That is, unless it is undertaken
solely for amusement. Out here we are navvies, day-labourers, mechanics,
artisans, anything. At home, we should have to uphold the family
position by grinding as clerks on a miserable pittance, or by toiling in
some equally sedentary and dull routine of life. If we attempted to
work there as we work here, we should be scouted and cut by all our
friends.
Out here we have our hardships, to be sure; we have got to learn what
roughing it really means. It is no child's play, that is certain. But
here, an industrious man is always getting nearer and nearer to a home
and a competence, won by his toil. Can every one in the old country, no
matter how industrious, say that of himself? Is it not too often the
poor-house, or the charity of friends, that is the only goal of
labouring-class and middle-class alike, in overcrowded Britain? Does
patient industry invariably lead to a better fortune for the declining
years in England? We know that it does here.
This is enough for one digression, though. Be it understood, then, that
we are not horny-handed sons of toil by birth. We were once called
gentlemen, according to the prevailing notions of that caste at home.
Here, the very air has dissolved all those ancient prejudices, and much
better do we feel for the change. Only occasionally does some amusing
instance of the old humbug crop up. I may light upon some such example
before I lay down my pen.
It is now some years since our shanty was built--seven or eight, I
suppose. The edifice certainly looks older. Not to put too fine a point
on it, one might candidly call it ruinous, rather than otherwise. This
is singular and surprising; we cannot account for it. Frame-houses in
this country ought to require no repairs for twenty years at least. That
is the received opinion. We dogmatically assert that the house we built
ourselves, with such infinite labour and trouble, is as good as any
other of its size and kind. Consequently, it will not want repairing for
twenty years. _But it does._ It looks as old as the hills, and seems to
be coming to pieces about us, though only eight years old. Nevertheless,
we will not forswear ourselves, we will _not_ repair our shanty till
twenty years are gone!
As for allowing that there could be any fault in our workmanship, that
our inexperienced joinery can have been the cause of the shanty's
premature decay, that, even Old Colonial says, is ridiculous. No, the
wood was unseasoned; or, perhaps, it was over-seasoned. We admit so
much, but our handicraft was certainly not to blame.
The imperfections of the shanty are many and grievous. The door and
windows have quarrelled desperately with their settings. On windy nights
we get no sleep, as every one is engaged trying to fasten and wedge them
into noiseless security. The door developed a most obstreperous and
noxious habit of being blown into the middle of the house during the
night, with much hideous clatter and clamour. We stopped that at last by
nailing it up altogether, and making a new entrance through the side of
the chimney-place.
Then, each particular board in the sides of the shanty has somehow
warped itself out of place. We are thus enabled to view the lovely
scenery lying round the place from our bunks, without the trouble of
rising and going to the window. Old Colonial says that free ventilation
is one of the great blessings of life. He thinks that the chinks in our
walls are absolutely a provision of Nature, since, he says, we would
certainly be choked with smoke if there were none.
Sometimes the cattle, feeding on the clearings round the shanty, come
and thrust their noses through the gaps in the boards, or stand and eye
us as we are taking our meals. The Saint says he has invited them to
breakfast with us, on the first of April next, by which time he expects
that the chinks will have gaped wide enough to permit of the passage of
cattle.
Of course, the smoke of the fire will not go up the chimney as it ought,
but floats freely about the shanty. This is good for the bacon and hams,
when there are any, that depend from the rafters. It is also a wholesome
thing, says Old Colonial, and sweetens and preserves everything. "None
of your gassy, sooty coal-smoke, but the fragrant vapours of the burning
forest!" so he remarked one night, when we were all blinded and choked
by the volumes of smoke that rolled through the shanty. O'Gaygun is
often funny, but not always original. He says that the smoke floats
about our habitation because it never knows which hole it ought to go
out at!
On rainy nights--and that is nearly every night during some three months
of the year--there is perpetual misery in the shanty. One hears some
choice varieties of rhetorical flowers of speech; there is a continual
shifting about of beds; and often unseemly scuffling for drier places.
O'Gaygun says that he loves to "astthronomise" when lying comfortably in
bed; but he adds, that, "a shower-bath is a quare place to sleep in."
It will be surmised from this that our roof is leaky. All roofs are
that, you know, in a greater or lesser degree, only ours in a greater,
perhaps. Those shingles _will_ come off. We are sure we put them on
properly and securely. The nails must have been some inferior rotten
quality, doubtless. Loose shingles lie about all around the shanty. They
come in useful as plates, as our crockery is generally short. In fact,
O'Gaygun prefers them to the usual article, and always goes outside to
pick up a plate for any stranger who may happen to drop in to lunch. To
use his words, "They fall aff the shanty roof loike the laves aff the
tthrees!"
Somehow or other all these things go unremedied. It would, of course, be
an admission that our work had been unsatisfactory, if we were to
earnestly set about repairing the shanty, and thereby formally allow
that it required such renovation. No one will dare to initiate such a
serious thing. Besides, it is no one man's particular business to begin
the work of mending; while we are always busy, and have acquired such an
amazing notion of the value of our time, that we consider the necessary
repairs would not be worth the time it would take us to effect them.
Moreover, Old Colonial is a bush-philosopher, and delivers himself of
moral orations in the shanty of nights. His views on some subjects are
peculiar, and they are always hurled at our heads with the utmost scorn
and contempt for all who may differ from them. This is his theory on
repairing--
"We are pioneers; it is our special duty and purpose to make, to begin,
to originate. We inherit nothing; we are ourselves the commencement of a
future society, just as Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden. Our
whole time and labour must be given to the one purpose of hewing out
the new path. We cannot stop to repair our faults and failures. For _us_
that would be a waste of energy and of time. It is for those who inherit
the commencement we have made to do that; not for us, the pioneers. They
will improve our beginnings; we must continue onward. _Never mend
anything_, except your manners, boys! Put up with discomforts and
hardships, as pioneers should!"
The furniture and internal arrangements of our shanty are more simple in
construction than elegant in appearance. We go in for utility, and not
for show. As a central feature is the table. It is our pride and glory,
that table, for it was made in Auckland, and imported by us from
Helensville. It is the one piece of furniture we possess that displays
an art superior to our own. Solid, strong and large, made of stout kauri
wood, it has borne a great deal of rough usage, and is capable of
bearing a great deal more.
Besides all the customary uses to which a table may be put, this article
of ours fulfils even another purpose. It comes in very handy sometimes
as a bedstead. I have known two men to sleep upon it on occasions; its
breadth being considerable. For a long time it went by the name of
O'Gaygun's four-poster, that gentleman having a predilection for
sleeping on it. He is a huge, bony Irishman, and somewhat restless in
his sleep. Accordingly, it was no unusual thing for him to roll off the
table in the night, and descend upon the floor with considerable uproar.
This was got over by inverting the table at night, and making him
recline on the inside of it, with the legs sticking up around him. He
does not like this position, though, for he says the rats run across him
all night.
Chairs we have none, except two curious contrivances belonging to the
Saint and the Little'un. We use empty kegs and boxes, sawn logs set up
on end, and the sides of our bunks, when we sit at table. When at our
ease and our tobacco, we either recline in our bunks, or sit on the edge
of the floor opening into the chimney-place.
The two curious contrivances alluded to are styled armchairs by their
manufacturers, and somewhat remarkable objects they are. The Saint's is
made out of the section of a cask set up on four legs. It possesses a
fifth leg, or outrigger at the back, and has cushions of flour-bags,
stuffed with turkey's feathers. The owner doubtless finds it to his
mind, but he has to guard against leaning to either side, or collapse is
always the consequence.
The other armchair is the Little'un's. Now, this young gentleman, though
the most youthful of our party, is by no means the least. He is, in
fact, six feet six inches in height, and is of broad and muscular build.
His private seat is therefore of the ponderous kind. At first sight it
would seem to be of immense strength, since it is made of heavy stakes,
cut in the adjoining bush. These are abundantly jointed with bars and
bolts of the same solid and substantial kind; the seat and back being
composed of sacking. But, in spite of the apparent power displayed by
this fabrication, disastrous accidents are continually happening. The
Little'un has no inborn genius for joinery.
Sometimes it has happened that, as we sat at a meal, a loud crack would
be heard, some part of his throne would give way, and the Little'un
would disappear from view. Shouts of laughter from the rest. Old
Colonial, in high delight, would proceed to show how cleverly the
Little'un had adapted his armchair to his exact weight; and how it was
unable to support the addition of the great load of victuals which that
individual had unthinkingly stowed away. The Little'un would arise
silent and perplexed; and, by-and-by, we would find him deeply pondering
over the manufacture of his scaffolding, and probably shaping another
small tree with his axe to add to it.
The most important items of the shanty's plenishing are the bunks and
beds. The former are made in this way, having been constructed by the
carpenter at the township. A simple folding trestle at head and foot
supports two parallel bars. Across these is stretched and nailed stout
canvas. Each of us has one of these bedsteads, which are very convenient
in the limited dimensions of our shanty, for they can be folded and
stacked out of the way when necessary.
The beds themselves are curiously fabricated. Old potato-sacks,
flour-bags, and the like have been utilized. The stuffing is of fern,
feathers, mounga, and sundry other matters. Each of us has two or more
blankets, which, I regret to say, are a trifle frowsy as a rule.
O'Gaygun's call for special remark.
This descendant of Hibernian kings is content to undergo even greater
inconveniences than he necessarily need do, since he has determined to
make his fortune in the shortest possible space of time. Moreover, he
professes the profoundest contempt for luxury and even comfort. He holds
that almost anything civilized is an effeminacy, and out of place in the
bush, where he considers that life ought to be lived in a stern and
"natchral" way. He is intensely conservative in the primitive usages and
habits of the roughest pioneering times, and emphatically condemns any
innovations thereupon. He works with furious zeal and unflagging
energy, and saves all the money he earns, generally investing it in
gold-mine scrip, or something that rarely turns out well.
In the matter of blankets and bedding, the spirit of O'Gaygun's economy
and self-sacrifice is apparent. His bedding is like that of all of us,
except that it is less bulky--O'Gaygun asserting that a soft bed is a
sin. His blankets have long been worn out; in fact, they are the mere
shreds and tatters of what once were blankets. Bunk he has none. It
would go against his principles to get one. If any of us is absent,
O'Gaygun borrows his bunk for the time. When all are present he contents
himself with the inverted table, his especial four-poster.
To see this eccentric Milesian settling himself for the night is
invariably a mirthful spectacle, and, it may be added, that, no one of
us is more volubly humorous and laughter-loving than O'Gaygun himself.
Reclining on the sacks which he has spread out upon the table, he
proceeds to draw his tattered blankets carefully over his lengthy limbs.
Piece by piece he spreads the coverings. First one foot and then
another, then the waist, and so on, until at last he is entirely
covered. The process is troublesome, perhaps; but when it is finished
O'Gaygun lies as warm and comfortable as need be. Why should he go to
the expense of new blankets?
Of course there is in the shanty a litter of cans, kegs, old
packing-cases, and the like, which come into use in various ways. Among
them are the remains of former state, in the shape of certain trunks,
portmanteaus, and boxes. These receptacles held our wardrobes, when we
possessed such things, and the sundry personals we brought with us from
England years ago, and imported up here.
We have long got over the feeling that it is imperative to hoard up
clothes and things in boxes; in fact, we have no longer any clothes and
things that require such disposal. But in the bush everything must serve
some purpose or other; and so all these now disused trunks are turned to
use. One grand old imperial is now a brine-tub, within whose dank and
salt recesses masses of beef and pork are always kept stored ready for
use. Other cases hold sugar, salt, flour, and so on; a uniform case is
now our bread-basket; each has its proper purpose, and is accomplishing
its final destiny. There is a fine leather portmanteau, or what was once
such, now the residence of a colley bitch and her litter of pups.
Mildewed and battered as it is, it still seems to recall to mind faint
memories of English country-houses, carriages, valets, and other
outlandish and foreign absurdities. There must be magic in that old
valise, for, the other day, Dandy Jack was looking at the pups that
live in it, and remarked their kennel. A fragment of schoolboy Latin
came into his head, and, to our astonishment, he murmured, "_Sic transit
gloria mundi!_"
To avoid the possibility of any mistakes arising from an admission just
made, I hereby beg to state that we do _not_ consider clothing as
entirely superfluous. But we no longer regard it from any artistic or
ornamental point of view; that would be to derogate from our character
as bushmen. We are not over-burdened with too large a choice of
clothing. Such as we have is pretty much held in common, and all that is
not in immediate use finds a place on the partition-rack, or the shelves
upon it. We are supposed to possess _another_ change of garments apiece,
but no one knows exactly how he stands in this matter, unless it be the
Little'un, whose superior amplitude of limb debars him from the fullest
exercise of communal rights.
Our ordinary costume consists of flannel shirt and moleskin breeches,
boots, socks, leggings, belt, and hat. In chilly and wet weather we
sling a potato-sack, or some ancient apology for a coat, round our
shoulders. When we visit the township, or our married neighbours, we
clean ourselves as much as possible, and put on the best coat we can
find in the shanty. We do not entirely dispense with such things as
towels and handkerchiefs, though the use of them is limited, and
substitutes are employed. Razors, of course, were discarded long ago,
but some antique brushes, and a small piece of cracked looking-glass,
represent the toilette accessories of the shanty.
Our custom is to wear our clothes just as long as they will hold
together, before we renew any garment by purchasing another of its kind
at the township store. There is no time for mending in the bush, so we
are often rather ragged. Washing is a nuisance, but we feel bound to go
through it sometimes; and very knowing laundrymen are we, up to every
dodge for economizing elbow-grease, and yet satisfactorily cleansing the
things. But we do not undertake this work too often. Old Colonial has
laid down a law upon the subject. He says--
"Frequent washing spoils clothes, and causes them to rot sooner.
Besides, it is unnecessary where there are no women about, and a loss of
time if it trenches on more important work."
Dandy Jack is an exception to the common sumptuary habits of the bush.
In fact, he is an exceptional character altogether. Place him where you
will, and he always looks fit for a drawing-room. How he manages it, no
one knows. Many have tried to imitate him, but without success. They
have expended much money, and time, and thought, in the endeavour to
compete with our dandy chum, but have had, sooner or later, to give up
in despair, and return to tatters and grime like the common run of folk.
Dandy Jack always carries a small swag about with him from place to
place, wherever he may temporarily pitch his tent. If he rides, it is
behind his saddle; if he boats, it is beside him; if he walks, it is on
his back. Yet it is not only this that enables him to appear as he does.
Other people can carry swags as well as he. But Dandy Jack has a
peculiar genius which other persons lack. That must be it!
There is one portion of our domicile that we are accustomed to speak of
with a certain fond and lingering reverence. This is THE LIBRARY. High
up in one corner, festooned with cobwebs, are a couple of shelves. Upon
them are a pile of tattered newspapers and periodicals, a row of greasy
volumes, mostly of the novel sort, one or two ancient account-books, and
the fragmentary relics of a desk containing pens, ink, and paper. Such
as it is, our library is more than every establishment like ours can
boast of. There is precious little time for reading or writing in the
bush.
The smaller half of the shanty, divided from the rest and from the
chimney-place by the incomplete partition already spoken of, is termed
by us the dairy. It is not in any way separate from the rest of the
house, though, since we use it and sleep in it as part of the general
apartment. But here, arranged on shelves all round the walls, are tin
dishes and billies, a churn, a cheese-press, and the various
appurtenances of a dairy. Humble and primitive as are these
arrangements, we do yet contrive to turn out a fair amount of butter and
cheese. At such seasons as we have cows in milk, this makes a fair show
to our credit every week, in the ledger of the township storekeeper, our
good friend the Mayor.
It will be readily understood that our table equipage is not of the best
or most sumptuous description. It fluctuates in extent a good deal from
time to time, and always presents the spectacle of pleasing variety. We
are never without appliances and substitutes of one kind or other; and
members of the society now and then add to the stock such items as they
severally deem desirable, or happen to pick up cheap "down the river."
Experience has taught us that meat is meat still, although it may be
eaten direct out of frying-pan or stew-pot. It is just as good, better
we think, as when served up on Palissy ware or silver. Knives and forks
are distinctly a product of civilization; custom holds us to the use of
them. But what are a sheath-knife and a wooden skewer, if not
everything that is needed?
Those ultra-conservatives among our number, those rigid adherents to the
most primitive bush-life, of course despise all the refinements of the
table. Plates, forks, and spoons are to them degeneracies,--things that
no noble bushman needs or requires. They scorn any leanings towards
luxury and ease. Give _them_ a life that is totally free from the petty
trammels and slavish conventionalities of the old world!
At one time we were possessed of but a single plate, an iron one, which
had lost its enamel, and was half eaten through by rust; we had only one
fork, and that had only a prong and a half remaining. But we had our
cooking-pots and billies, our sheath-knives, wooden skewers, fingers,
and O'Gaygun's shingle-plates. What more could any one want? And if
there were not enough pannikins or mugs to hold our tea all round, there
were empty preserve-cans, gallipots, and oyster-shells! We were content
and happy. But this blissful state was to be rudely broken.
One day, a member of our party had been down Helensville way. There had
been an auction of the effects of a settler, who was moving off to the
South Island. Our chum had not been able to resist the temptation, and
had invested all he was worth in an assortment of goods. It was night
when he returned, and we were all in the shanty. He came up from the
boat, staggering under the weight of a great kit full of crocks and
such-like.
Of course, the excitement was great as we surveyed the heap of new
treasures we had acquired. Even O'Gaygun was enchanted for a moment,
till he remembered himself, and assumed the stern and savage bearing
befitting the leader of our conservatives. His scorn was withering.
"F'what might this be?" he would ask, fingering contemptuously first one
thing and then another.
"An' f'what do ye do wid it, at all?" he inquired, as article after
article was reviewed, affecting the airs of wonderment supposed to
belong to a child of nature.
Presently his humour changed, and he passed into the declamatory stage.
"'Tis a sinful exthravagance! a temptin' av Providence!" he exclaimed.
"Plates! an' faaks! an' dishes! an' sacers! did ivver anny wan see the
loike? F'what do ye expict nixt? Kid gloves to work in, maybe! That
ivver I'd see the day whan sich degrading emblems av the ould
superstitions of sassiety was brought into the bush! Ough!"
So much and more the O'Gaygun. But there is a sequel to the incident.
Some time after, when we had learnt to love and cherish these
acquisitions, the Little'un was one day detailed as hut-keeper. It so
happened that he had our entire stock of crockery to wash up, as we
generally work through the set before any one will act as scullery-maid.
The Little'un got through his task; he washed every plate and cup we had
got; but, not finding any towel or cloth handy, he disposed the things
on the stones in the chimney-place, round the stove to dry. There he
left them, and went off to chop firewood, forgetting to fasten the door.
Directly the Little'un's back was turned, a wandering pig arrived on the
scene. Seeing the open door, he resolved to prospect a bit, and
accordingly entered the shanty. What followed can now never be precisely
known, but conjecture allows us to arrive at the probable truth.
The pig's first discovery was a number of comical objects, whose purpose
he could not divine, stuck about among stones and gravel. He ruminated
over these awhile, and at last inquisitively snouted one dish that stood
alone, like a small monument. Down went the strange thing and smashed.
The pig thought this was singular, and was somewhat startled. Still, he
resolved to persevere in his investigations. He inserted his nose into a
long, hollow thing that lay there, but could not get it out of the jug
again. In his horror and fright at such an extraordinary accident, he
plunged round and round the place; and, as he went, things fell and
cracked and crashed under his feet in an awful and terrifying manner. At
last he hit the thing that covered his snout against something hard, and
it, too, broke. But a splinter wounded his nose, and made him squeal and
fairly scream with pain and fright. At last, executing one final
pirouette and gambado, while the strange things crunched and crackled at
every move of his, he rushed out through the door, oversetting a man who
was coming in with a bundle of firewood.
It was a scene of woe when the rest of us arrived from work. Concern and
consternation sat on every brow, as the Little'un unfolded his tale, and
we surveyed the universal smash of our crockery. Only O'Gaygun showed
signs of levity. In stentorian tones he shouted:--
"A jedgment! a jedgment on ye, bhoys! The very bastes is sint to prache
aginst yer exthravagance an' lukshury! The pigs is tachin' ye as they
tached the howly St. Anthony av ould! O glory, glory! 'tis grand!"
But his remarks were ill-timed. Conservatism was out of favour just
then, and the Liberals were in power. The wrath of the assembly was
turned upon this audacious prophet; and, excommunicated from the shanty,
it was very late before humanity compelled us to let him have his
supper. And I may mention that fresh pork chops were added to the bill
of fare that night.