About Christmas time, with the summer sun beating hotly down, we would be taken for an all day picnic by the river. All would pile into traps and buggies, or onto ponies, and with hampers of food we would set out, often accompanied by friends from adjoining stations. I still remember how excited we used to get when the day dawned, and we were actually on the way. We chose for our picnic a spot where the river, shallow, and almost half a mile wide at the bend, went sweeping round in a great horse-shoe curve. The
hot sun shone down sparkling and dancing on the running water as it flowed chattering over the stony river bed. On the left bank the foothills rose gently, and over them towered Mount Cook, 1200 feet high – on the right the road ran between the river on the one side, and on the other a hill, luxuriantly bush covered. Here and there the dense native bush had been cleared, and the slope was covered with a thick rough growth of tussock, with a few cabbage trees and scrubby bushes dotted about.
The bush was enchanting, and was a riot of brilliantly coloured
flowering trees, shrubs and enormous ferns. Brightly plumaged birds flitted in and out of the shadows. But it was the tussocky slope that drew us, for this was our playground. We tobogganed here and we needed no snow – we simply tore a stumpy branch from a cabbage tree with its thick tuft of fibrous palm-like leaves, carried it to the top of the hill, sat on the leaves, and holding the stump firmly between our legs, away we went. With ear splitting screams we bumped and slithered swiftly over the slippery tussock. It required skill, and a great deal of luck to avoid violent collision with the cabbage trees and scrub that loomed in our path, and to
keep our seats to the end of the journey. Indeed we didn't need to go to Switzerland, or even to the snowy peaks of Mount Cook to get all the thrills and spills of Winter Sports!
Of course the wear and tear on our clothes was considerable and entailed patching and repairing afterwards. We used to eat enormous quantities of cold food and drink delicious smokey tea made over the wood-fire, and then paddled about in the river, trying with only moderate success to leap from one flat boulder to another.
If we fell in, it didn't matter, our clothes were taken off and hung over bushes, where they quickly dried, and we played without them, until it was time to go home. The adults of the party asked for nothing more than to sit restingand gossiping in the shade, or listening to the bush sounds, the movements of small animals and the beautiful ringing note of the bell bird.
At sheep-shearing time we children were always there. Flocks of sheep, thousands strong, were brought in by the shepherds from all parts of the station, collected and penned at one centre where the big shearing shed stood. All the work was done by hand in those days, and it was fun to be present to watch the preparations before the work began.
The shears were laid out sharp and bright, with a little drop of shining oil looking like a jewel, where the blades met; and for each shearer a jar of Stockholm Tar was provided to dab on the wound should any animal be accidentally cut. A large table was placed for cleaning and sorting of fleeces and the wool press was
tested.
The first sign of the approaching flock would be seen as tiny puffs of
dust in the distance, steadily increasing in size, and as they came nearer one could distinguish a rider and hear, at first faintly, the occasional barking of dogs, and the shepherds' whistle. The flocks came in on all sides, and the noise reached its height when the sheep were being drafted into the yards. The dogs ran backwards and forwards on the backs of the bleating sheep, bustling them through the narrow opening, and barking sharply from time to time, their red, lolling tongues dripping with moisture.
The shepherds rode close behind, and my father stood at one side
of the gate counting the sheep as they crowded through; I sat on the fence at the opposite side counting “Tallies”. Every time my father called “Tally”, I counted one. Each tally was a hundred, and at the end I had to know how many hundreds had passed through the gate. I put all my concentration into this, for it seemed that the whole success or failure of the day rested on my accuracy. I remember to this day the curious smell of the wool and hot dust, of dogs, sweating horses and men, and saddle leather.
When all was ready, the gang of men hired for the job would start
work. They stood in a long line down the wool shed each with a pen of unshorn sheep behind him, and a trap door in front through which the sheep were pushed into an outside yard when they were shorn, and the day's work would begin. We laughed to see then as they popped out of the trap doors into the open, looking naked and foolish, their eyes wide and startled.
Very soon the fleeces began to roll off in soft creamy masses, and the only sound in the building was the rapid snip, snip, snip of the shears, a shuffling of feet, and an occasional word of command - “Keep still, you awkward devil” (I can’t help feeling the language was more acid than that – Rog)- from one or other of the shearers.
As the fleeces fell to the ground they were immediately scooped up by a “sorter”, and carried to the table, where they were cleaned, rolled up, and put into the bale, which stood on the platform of the press.
When the bale was full and firmly packed, it was sewn up and stacked ready for removal to the wool market. It took many days to finish the shearing; usually one man clipped from eighty to a hundred sheep a day, but it was not uncommon to find some among them who clipped as many as a hundred and fifty. They stopped only for meals, and at eleven o'clock for “Smoko” - usually cocoa or tea, or something cold should they prefer it, - and a quick smoke.
Later came “Dipping”, and again the sheep had to be rounded up and brought in from outlying parts of the station. At these times my mother never knew at what time my father would arrive for a hurried meal and as quickly disappear again, his dogs always at his heels. The dip was a concrete trench with a slide at one end, and a ramp at the other. When it was all ready and three parts full of nasty looking mustard-coloured liquid, the sheep were shot down the slide, and made to swim to the other end, where they scrambled out on the ramp. As they swam they were ducked with a crutch made for the purpose.
One day my eight year old brother decided to help, and seizing acrutch he stepped forward, only to slip, and fell face downwards on the brink of the bath, now full of swimming sheep. In the nick of time one of the men hauled him back, and having administered a sound appropriately placed smack, stood him right side up on the ground – to which the ungrateful scamp replied with a well-aimed kick.
Most of my childhood was spent out of doors, and my constant companion was my brother John. We rambled about the paddocks and plantations at will, and there was hardly a tree on the place that we hadn't climbed in search of sparrows' eggs. From the sale of these, and the combings and clippings of horses manes and tails, we made our slender income.
At the time, sparrows were increasing at such an alarming rate thatthey, like rabbits, were a source of real anxiety and loss to the farmers, and indeed to the country as a whole.
This New Zealand, a small paradise when the Maoris settled there more than six hundred years ago – a country where the rivers, hills, and luscious valleys were warm in the Pacific sunshine, and where no pests existed until brought by the white people little more than a century ago – pigs, rabbits, deer, and in plant life, gorse and blackberries, were some of the curses imported. Disastrous because of their incredibly rapid increase – they were soon out of hand, and strict measures had to be taken to control them. The damage and loss to crops was enormous, so the Government agreed to pay a percentage price for sparrows eggs as well as rabbits tails, to encourage the extermination of these pests.
Tree climbing was second nature to us – wattle trees and firs were easy, but the smooth Blue Gums needed more skill. We used to wind our bare legs round the trunk, and gripping first with our arms, and then with our legs, slid up until we were in reach of the branches, which were often fifteen or twenty feet from the ground.
Sometimes when we were playing in the vicinity of the orchard we would catch sight of something that made us leave everything and run, helter skelter through the trees, cutting across the corner of the station's exercising ground, and throwing ourselves under the lowest strand of barbed
wire that surrounded it, just in time to escape the pounding hooves of Hector! We were on our feet again in a moment, pelting across the open space to the water race.
Here was our destination; the water plough was at work, and as it was slowly dragged along the stream, it sent a steady flow of thick mud and water onto the banks, and wriggling in the silt were dozens of “bullies”, small fish of anything up to four or five inches log, which we excitedly began to catch, before they had time to slide back into the water.
Every time the water ploughs were at work we used to do this, happily squelching about in the thick mud with our bare feet. I can't think what became of the poor “bullies” that I carried home in my skirt and put in large glass jars in the harness room, but it seemed a splendid thing to do at the time.
No comments:
Post a Comment