A "SLUMP" SALE.

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 78, 2 April 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

A "SLUMP" SALE.

A COUNTRY SKETCH. lAMBS AT HALF-A-CROWN. (By M.E.S.) Scarcely a gala day, you will admit. In tliese times sales are seldom festive; moreover, tlie drought lias lasted well into March, and every farmer fears, that the first frost may come before it breaks. The whole countryside is dry and parched, and every week the market reports read lower and lower. Xo one wants sheep, and there is no feed for cattle. . . . Nature, however, lias done her best. It is a perfect day, and the backblocks saleyards are ideally placed. All around the mountains rise blue and glamorous, while far below the wide valley opens at last upon a still blue sea. There is a settlement a few miles away, and the yards arc set close to a metal road; but, for all sign of liuman habitation, it might have been some Edeiij forgotten since earliest creation.

So, at least, for 357 days of the year. On the remaining eight it wakes to frenzied, dusty life. To-day the stock begin to arrive early, for it is a large yarding, and everyone wishes to avoid the heat. By 10 o'clock the noise is incessant and dust rises in a solid cloud that floats across the quiet bush in the dark gully below. Half a dozen horsemen are yarding cattle, with appropriate oaths and much cracking of whips; a score of dogs are barking, and a hundred beasts are calling, some angrily, some plaintively, all raucously. They arc a curiously mixed lot, with "store" catttle in the majority, for dairying does not flourish in these parts, and the trade in fat cattle is poor. For the most part they are "good rough buying," hardy stuff, used to bleak winters and scanty feed, able to forage in gullies and eke out existence in fern and scrub. "Good to clean up your paddocks and a cheap way of doing it," as one man says cynically.

Changed Times.

There are a few good pens of dairy calves, reared so carefully through the long wet months of spring, sleek, quiet and infinitely trustful. In the further yards is a fair muster of sheep; not your sheep of the plains, but a large, hardy breed, with wool blackened by burnt logs and scrub, with biddy-bid thick upon necks ,and bellies. In the sale-ring half a dozen horses are standing neglected, heads down after their strenuous drive, tails flicking sulkily at the swarming flies, ears drooping, dejection and weariness in every line. "Nobody wants them." It seems as though they understood the scornful comments. Their day is over.

It is almost midday when the auctioneers drive up, to be followed immediately by a more luxurious car containing a solitary pair of "outside buyers." Two years ago twenty cars would come from the plains bringing men to buy "the good rough stuff" at this wayback sale. To-day a couple of buyers stroll across, glancing casually from pen to pen; they are the only men with money upon the scene, and they will divide the spoil. By now a dozen dilapidated cars line the dusty road, and thirty tired horses are tethered at ,the fence. Round the horses' heels the owners' dogs are clustered. As with the masters, the day is an occasion in their quiet lives. They i take it as variously as their owners. Here a lively spirit goes the round, challenging all-comers to single combat; there a young dog explores a world that is new and delightful to him, or joins in what is obviously friendly gossip with a group of neighbours. But the old dogs take- little notice. They are tired, their throats parched with the dusty drive, their feet hot and blistered. They sleep by their horses, one glazing eye opening occasionally to watch events, one ear cocked faithfully for the master's voice. Sadly wise in these days of slump, they snatch sleep where they can, gloomily aware that too soon they will be needed to drive unwanted stock back to the bare, dry paddocks.

And now the sale has begun and the little group of buyers move along the rails from pen to pen. How subtle the difference in atmosphere at a slump sale!' Three years ago the auctioneer was full of jokes, a roar of laughter rose ever and anon from the group, and a fine air of hilarity prevailed. To-day the jokes are few and perfunctory, for rare indeed is the auctioneer who remains proof against the depression of a bad sale. Nor is there any artificial aid to mirth; in the "good old days" every car had its bottle or its barrel, and in every interval a little procession would cross the dusty road to "have a look at that engine." To-day the firms are gloomily aware that their commissions will barely cover wages and benzine; no money to spare for "shouts."

Horses for a " Song." One after another the pens of sheep are parsed in. Good young rams are not wanted; breeding ewes bring live shillings, lamlis change hands at half-a-crown. The auctioneer takes his disgruntled way to the cattle. "No bid . . . No bid." "What the matter with you all? You look all right; some of you might even pass for handsome; but not a penny piece amongst the lot of you." The outside buyers reap a harvest; "vealers" at 8/, good two-year-old steers at 25/. And yet beef is dear to buy!

Last, saddest of all, the horses. Three kaiporkas change hands at 15/ each— ugly, useful, sure-footed little beasts, and every one with a heart so staunch that it will go till it drops. A line young draught brings one lukewarm bid of ten pounds, and is led sadly bark to the home where he is almost the only marketable asset. Last of all, an o'ul thoroughbred is put up. "Won a steeplechase down the coast. Look at him, gentlemen, a model horse." They look

at the perfect shoulder, noble head and starting eye —but they look also at th?. swollen hock that tells its tale of crippling. Presently, "I take him for tei; bob." It is a Maori bid, and with laughs and cheers the Maoris take it up. "Fifteen shillings—twenty—and then an English voice, "Thirty shillings." In vm: bold leap lie has outdistanced all. "Want him? Of course not; but J'm not going to stand by and sec him raced to death by every Maori in that pa. There's plenty of tucker on the farm . . . Look at that eye!" Wc look instead at his new owner —and are satisfied.

And so the last bid is made, the last miserable offer accepted. Necessity is a hard master; better to take a few shillings than to see the beasts starve, l' who are sure of their feed, and jheii store-bills, for the winter, take them home, and a laugh goes up as two young men drive their mob out of the yards " ' the homeward track, chanting the whil. "Who'd be a farmer? No buyers .. . No money. . N T o feed. . Diought on. . Slump on. • Wool at twopence-hall-penny. • Cheerio ?