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t{ I am not yet so bald that you can see my brains.” —Longfellow,

I see Mrs. Butler had to pay 15s. in fines for several strayings of her cows. But I dare say the fun she had was worth the money. You should have seen the old lady when the Inspector of Nuisances was trying to bundle off her milker to the pound. Brown thought it was an easy matter, but he very soon became satisfied that there were easier things in this world than shifting a cow. Brown is an energetic officer—he was great at the waterworks, and has earned golden opinions from the Engineer and some of the Councillors, but he is not great in cow moving. At least, Mrs. Butler knows a trick or two he isn’t up to. He would trot off that cow ; but somehow that cow wouldn’t be trotted. For half-an-hour he laboured, but back to that hotel door would persistently come the old bovine. Two chains of easy jogging poundwards—then a rush home again ; and while the whole machinery of the borough’s civil service waited for him, Brown was being bested by an old cow. Moral for Brown. Never try to trot off a cow belonging to a woman, especially when that woman has the young calf in the back yard, and can make it raise a cry at will. Don’t you know, Brown, that the maternal instinct is just as strong in the horned cow as it is in any other piece of natural history 1

Last night I was perfectly delighted with the music of two or three wandering minstrels who pitched their tent opposite the Somerset Hotel. Their plant consists of— an express waggon, covered in with calico ; a respectable looking white horse ; a rich toned American organ, with stops ad. lib. ; a cornet; a man to play it who knows what he’s up to ; a pretty little girl ; that pretty little girl’s voice and her power to rse it ; an elderly gentleman and his voice, (it’s a rich baritone) and out of that plant is evolved as good a concert as it lias been my lot to enjoy in Ashburton. I gave them my last bob when the girl carried round the hat, and I hope “sufficient inducement offered ” to detain them for one night more so that the good people of Ashburton may have one night more of mellow music in the mellow moonlight—that is, if the old lady wilt be pleased to shine. But, for the farmers’ sake, I would bo content to sacrifice even the sweetest music ever made and the mellowest moonlight that ever shimmered on a pair of lovers, if instead we got a supply just at this time of “ blissful rain from heaven” that droppeth “ on the place beneath.”

That “anointed” individual Phip M‘Guiro meditates haranguing the public in Hay Smith’s paddock on Sunday on the subject of “ the Catholic Religion,” and on Tuesday night in the Wakanui school on “the Education of Children.” Mr. M'Guiro is about as well qualified to speak on either of those subjects as he well can be—for the best orator on any subject is the man who kmws least about it. Mac is likely to wipe put Captain Barry as a lecturer, for the Captain had been several years on the road, and had lectured from 121 platforms before he elicited the odoriferous applause distilled from rotten eggs. Mac’s friends finding eggs are cheap now, are on the wallabi for a supply that will thoroughly saturate him, and help amazingly to get his steam up. As a consequence of the sudden and great demand the egg commodity has risen in price twopence per dozen.

Talking about eggs. A friend yarned a steep egg tale to me yesterday. He goes swpethearting now and again, as all young men do at some time or other of their lives. He reached the dwelling of his ladylove about half-past eight in the evening, meaning to spend an hour of bliss with her whom his soul adored. As he was about to give the conventional tap at the conventional hall door, a yell came from the inside which made his heart leap almost from his bosom. Conventionalities went to the winds in a second, and he xv as inside the house with a bound in less than a second, and before that same second had expired, Maria was in his arms apparently in the agonies of death. She did’t die though. How did this come about, you ask 1 This way. Maria’s young brother, Tom, is death on collecting sparrows’ eggs. He had got together about a hundred or so, and had “ blown them out ” with the object of making a wreath of the shells. The “ blowings” were put into a tumbler, and for a short time they were left there while Tom hunted up some needful gira-crack to help his work'. Thirsting, Maria humbly entered the kitchen xvhere Tom had been at work. The tumbler stood beside the water jug, and in the dark she poured out a small quantity of water into the tumbler ignorant of the fact that it contained the blighted germs of many sparrows. The draught was taken—hence the terrible scream, and my friend’s fright. The main body of those eggs were considerably addled. Faugh ! Chisha.

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Bibliographic details

CHISPA’S LETTER., Ashburton Guardian, Volume 2, Issue 168, 16 October 1880

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CHISPA’S LETTER. Ashburton Guardian, Volume 2, Issue 168, 16 October 1880