STATION SKETCHES.

Otago Witness, Volume 11, Issue 2280, 11 November 1897, Page 60

STATION SKETCHES.

Bx David M'Kee Wright.

No. I.— SOME STATION MEN AND A

CONVERSATION.

Let us get away up the country as far as the railway will take us, and on beyond into the land where tourists never go, where the homes are few and far between and the broad hill-sides lie yellow hi the sunshine, and the wide flat spreads brown and barren-looking to the winding curves of the river. Here is a station nestling in the folds of the hills amid the green grass of irrigated paddocks and the shelter of -bending willows and tall poplar trees. Yonder is the woolshed, built of grey iron, set among the posts and rails of its circling sheepyards. The manager's honse lies to the right, with its white gate and its darker trees, and on beyond are the Btabks and huts where the station-hands live.

I want you to come up there and get to know some of the men of old Nsw Zealand. Away to the north, dottiDg the broad plain, are the farmsteads of a newer race ; down in the city a new people are at work in shop and factory ; bat here, and here only, yon will see the old New Zealand life that is fast passing away.

It is 5 o'clock, and the ploughman is comirg through the stockyard gate riding one of his horg'ee, while the other tbree trot towards the Btable with. claD king harness ; a shepherd is coming down the steep, rocky hill at the back leading hig horse, while his dogs ran before him ; ewes and lambs keep up a continnous bleating as they creep round the steep sidling nibbling at the short grass among the rockp, and ;here and there, if you have good eyes, you will see disturbed rabbits scampering up the hill to shelter. Where the creek runs by the end of the long, whitewashed hut a conple of men in shirt sleeves are washing themselve3 after their daj's work, and out on the pile of firewood a swagger is sitting beside his swag waltiDg until the boss comes home.

There are voices talking in the bur, and the Round increases as man by man comes Lome from bis day's work. After a while the cook's' cheery voice rings out — " Roll up, jou mutton viorriers I R >ll up, roll up, roll up I " The long table in the kitchen is filled amid a hum of voices and a clatter of tin pannikins. All is light-hearted merriment and banter. The words are strange, and often coarse enough ; but kindly good nature marks everything that is said, and offence is not lightly taken where none is intended.

Let me introduce you to some of the company. Every man among them has a life history tbat if it could be written would make a volume brimful of interest. There is Tom Preston near the bead of the table ; you are sure to like. him. He. is big and bronzed, with brown beard -and hair and eyes that strangely attract you. Tom- used to be in business in a big Scotch town, but he belongs to the' station now, and the life would not be' the same here without bim. He ia everybody's friend, and he;cah do anything, foom bookkeeping to hanging a gate. Then there is Hugh Wilson, the head shepherd, a little like Tom, but graver and with less to say, for tbe destinies of a b'g sheep run are in bis hands. Jack Kelly sits next him, a man of 35, who looks 50 with his bald head and grey whisker. He is the life and soul of the party with his colonial-Irish fun and his •ndlcss yarns. Then there is the ploughman, who laughs best at what Jack fays, and near the bottom of the table Charley, the cowboy, tries with all his might to be funny, and gets the laugh as often as not turned npon himself. There is a Chinaman there that you ought to know, Mignonette we call him — a jolly good fellow, too, and the beet sample of a man that ever wore a pigtail. There are others a« well tbat will interest you, like Skiting Harry, tbe little sandy-whiskered man near the window, and William the Liar, the solemn grey-beard, who laughs the least. Behind them all moves the cook attending to their wants — a short thickset man with Herculean arms and shoulders, the finest specimen extant of a colonial Cockney.

Sit. down beside them at the table; you trill be welcome enough here. There is a tin plate and a pannikin for yon, and you will get better bread and sweeter mutton than you «re l;k«ly to meet in town. William the Liar and Skiting Harry have joined in the conversation, and there is a merry twinkle in Jack Kelly's eyes as he listens. They have been talking about the heat of the weather.

" A bit different this from the top of the Old Man Range the winter^of the big snow," gays Jack.

" The winter of the big snow," chimes in Skiting Harry with a nasal accent supposed to be Yankee. "1 mind the time of the snow of '63 when I crossed tbe Old Mao first, in the dead of winter. I guess there's nobody knows more about that lot than me."

11 The winter of the b ? g snow waa quite good enough for me," says Charley. " I'm off it when it comes to digging in the garden with a crowbar."

'• Oh, you reckon you're killed, you do," eayß William the Liar. " When I was up north in what they call the Jam Country — ever beard of the Jam Country ? "

" I reckon it's me should know the Jam Country," cays Jack.

" Well, up in the Jam Country there was 25ft of snow "— — " Good enough," sajs the cook. -" You don't believe it 2 I take my oath there was 25ft."

"I believe that," says Jack. "I've seen 18ft myself on the flat, and they reckoned that the mildest winter there was for years." " Well, up in the Jam Oonntry me and nay mate was out prospecting for copper, and we got lost in the fog."

" That's right," gays Jack encouragingly ; •' I know what a fog's like on the Jam Ranges."

*• Well, there we were stuck for the night, and no more shelter than a snow-grass tussock over as, and it csme on to freeze. Yon may laugh, but the frost up there ain't no laughing matter. I tell you the gospel truth, I got np in the morning with stones as big as spuds hanging to my hair."

" Djn't believe a word of it," says the ploughman with a sly wink at Jack, who ha*

been drinking in the story with the face of an undertaker.

" I do," enxi e Jack, " I believe every word of it. I'll tell yon what happened to me up there. You mayn't believe it, but I take my oath it's true. I was out with my swag that winter of the 18ft of snow — the mild winter —prospecting for mutton and a place to doss for tbe night." " Good enough," from Jack the cook. " Well, I got stuck in a black fog. You know what a black fog's like, Bill."

" My oath I " says Wiiliam.

•' There I was on 18ft of hard snow without so much as a tussock, and freeze — I tell you, chaps, I had to carry my blanket on my shoulder stiff like a sheet of galvanised iron till 12 o'clock before the sun was strong enough to thaw it. There, that's the Jam Country for you."

" Good enough I " comes from all quarters, and the old hut rings with laughter as the men rise from the table and begin to fill their pipes.

The sun is, setting in red and gold over the high rocks of the western range, and many another yarn will be told before the evening is over.