MR WILKINS.

Press, Volume LVI, Issue 10269, 11 February 1899, Page 3

MR WILKINS.

Bt A. W. If. fUnanr, ll'*i*orata, CAVTERBrr.v. J. S. W. Wilkins, Englishman, about the •nd of Noptomber < ne ywr. coming to the conclusion that his little income would not kec|> him in conifi-i'i in London, and deciding that ho could not live anywhere else in Kuropo. sold out oi the Funds, raid good-bye t-> his friends, and booked a iKMRttTO for New Z'.-aland. Wilkins. although a town-bird, lir.d always l»nd h-iTviiu's towards a cour.'ry life. His ! tastes were simple, tliou-.'h lolined. and he though; hi Would like lo We a quiet, hippy. : pastoral sort of cisteiice. surrounded by his tiivo.inio i'N'luro-. ins b .ok.>. and a few pot birds, amid I ho l.iv-'y \\-w ZtraLud .-<euery in what ho had heard was the finest climate in tho world. Wilkins was a iii.-in wlin always did filings SySlc-lu:.: :i ;illy. -; i he ballot ;i..« n,_'iy b :oks on .'.he--]! ! ilining : s ho coal-i lv* —t appeared ih.iJ sl''"])-faniiii!g was iho th::: ' to do in Now Zo;!;uid-~-.uu! ho n.iid a v:.-it t > the Agon: (o tioj-d in Victoria street. 'Ihe Agon: -(Joacral was out. but anoj.hjr very poliie i.i nth man \v:s in. ai:d Wilkins had an intcri *-t'i;g .-"•ivursith.n v. itii h::n. Kvi-i'vth::ig sit ai-.l f-ni-nciitlv s.u:<f::ot.->ry. i riic p'lit'' individual siid tint a gentleman like Mr Wilkin-, wiih t .rilil a: Ir.s own disposal. \\ add he m .-! vsrh-me in tliLtvloiiy. lie wa-' in far.-i just toe kind of jargon they wt-:e looking for. 'I iiere would be no dilfii-uhy in p'i'vh i-ing I:nd. n<.'. the leu.-'i. 1 hi'tv w '■;■• irih'.ii:U'i\ih!" ii_i":t-', wlio would 1>" d.'lighted to give hi;: assistance. Was >-!.c.-!>-i;-.:-:i!:ii_' c!'i!iL-.-ij.'r 7 Uh no! (hi tlu*. hi,' rv.n-i y.ai 1.,; h.night si:c-« p. tunic 1 them out. and they looked a;r<T iht-in-gdvex. more or lev-;: the owner i.nly '(■■•lug tihein two or l!:r.';' times a yi'i: - . at lauibiag. •.hearing. iV I . W.is shearing ditliculi': Well, os a rule i«ic eiiiplii r.-d i«,<.*ii to do that Inone. and the only difficulty about that wis paying them afterwards. Here the pulito gentleman smiled. Did the p.dih.* giiiilennn think Mr Wilkins suitable lor a cule-nial life? Th-.. polim gentleman lookn.l at Mr Wilkins with a little twiiddo in his eye. Wilkins was a small, slight young man of about thirty, with a pale kliidont's face, clean sliavon, and with large, mild, cowlike, eve*. "Well." ho said at length, kindly. "I wouldn't be in a hurry to buy if I were you. Have a good look round first. If you inve a friend over there, or if you can arrange it with anyone, try to get some experience, but gut it cheap." After an exchange of pleasant remarks, the polite gentleman wished him good fortune and good-day, and Wilkins left, feeling very happy. He already sow himself the proprietor of a run, with "his flocks increasing and multiplying round him. He saw liis little cottage covered with roses nestling among the trees, hia little garden, his little pet birds and his books. Perhaps ho would chocee a few friends too from among lus neighbours, but only a few, for he did not want to go into society at nil. Wilkins packed up his treasures, and England saw him no more. 11. When Wilkins arrived in Christchurch — for he had decided on Canterbury—he was agreeably surprised. There were no Maoris about, and the streets and shops were for beyond hia expectations. He' spent a week in sight-seeing, leaving liis name and address with several agents, together with particulars of the kind of place he wanted. He told tlw agents he required a nice littlo sheep run, with a nico little homestead, and he woidd like a bath-room if it tvere possible, and a garden with flowers and fruit and things. It struck him that the agents rather passed over tlio question of tlie bath-room, &c. They seemed more interest-' ed in discovering the kind of land he needed. And, of course, that after all was only right, as it was what he would make his income out of. At first places seemed rather dear; anyti'iing from four to fourteeu pounds an acre; and Wilkins liad somcliow or other got the idea that land was bought or had been bought j at £2 an acre in Kew Zealand.. He had £3000' capital, and he had expected to buy about; 1000* acres. After weeks of hurrying from office to office, liearing p;irticulars of "sheep to tlie acre,' 1 , bushels of oats, &c, and locking at plana which made his brain reel, Wilkins found his ideal. Tlwit is to say it seemed to be so. In the first place it was not *n ordinary "run." It was an estate. The "Killgummy Estate" on the Rakaia Plains. There were a thousand acres, and the price was £2 an acre, just the very price Wilkins had been prepared to give. It would grow good turnips the agent said, though not wheat.But as it was sheep Wilkins was going in for tliat fact did not much matter. There was the usual house,on the place; only two rooms, but timber was cheap, and more could easily be added. Ho supposed there was a garden. . . of course there would bo a garden. . . yes . . . but Wilkins liad better go down and see tho place. He would find it well worth tho monoy. Wilkins hesitated. How would he find it worth the money? How did you tell good land from bad ? It was a subject he had not got up; and his books told him nothing of the matter. The agent seemed to judge all the places by the sheep they carried, or the crops they grew. This one, two sheep to tlie acre; that one, twenty bushels of oats; but how to tell without growing the oats or tho slicep first 1 Wilkins, passing through England in tlie train, liad been used to seeing all the land covered with something. This land, being a shoep run, would of course be covered with grass. How could he tell, without digging it up,' what- it was liko; and even if he did dig some Up, how could he know if it was good: However, he knew the agent was respectable—the land anyway couldn't be very dear at £2 an acre. He went home and deliberated. At last he decided to go down and see for himself. It seemed absurdly amateurish not to. He would give a liasty glance at the land, and then come back and offer £1 15s an acre. This idea, struck liim as so brilliant that he went to bed delighted-with himself. At breakfast Wilkins, who was a late riser, received a note from the agent. He said that a customer had offered £2 5s an acre for Killgummy, but, of course, as the place was under oifer to Wilkins, the agent had not yet accepted. He.would be glad, however* if Mr Wilkins would decide at once, as otherwise he might lose tho cliance. This sottkd the matter. Someone else wanted the" place and was ready to give more tlian Wilkins. Wilkin, hurried through liis breakfast, and took a cab to the agent's. He returned to "Coker's the proud proprietor of the Killgummy Estate. The agent gave Wilkins the address of a trustworthy auctioneer who agreed to supply him with tho necessary amount of sheep— Wilkins successfully evading liis advice that lie should attend a sale and purchase them in open market. They were to be delivered on tho run. and Wilkins bought a little simple furniture on tlie sune conditions, and n. plentiful supply of stores. He also purposed a nice big English dog-cart and horse, deciding t;> drive down to the place, as it was only fifty miles, and have a look at the cenery en the way. Our hero lost himself once or twice when ie got out on to the plains, but managed it last to reach Killgummy—a passing horsenan directing him to a gate in a wire fence, vhich lie said was the boundary fence. A •traight grass track led from this gate to a ittle hut in the distance, and Wdkins, ccn--luding that the homestead would be someivhore near, drove gaily on. The heavy English dog-cart rocked about a bit. but the horse was a strong one. and Wilkins took tiie shaking as part of his colonial experience. He was a plucky litvie chap, but be couldn't help v slight feeling of dismay as he gazed at the scene Ik*fore him, iinel thought how fur it was from his ideal. For miles in front of him. and to apparently illimitable distances around, stretched a fiat brown plain, intorseited hero aud there with red-dish-brown wire fences. There were no hedges, no roadside trees, no woods, no cottagus, absolutely nothing ti> break tha rusty monotony. Only on the furthest horizon a ramie of blue mountains, here and there tipped with snow, broke the sky-line. Wilkins had not imagined that the country would be brown. He had pictured long

meadows of greDn wiving grass, with buttercups and daisies slmwing -up against- the sheep. To be in the country and to see not a vestige of given around liim seemed an upsetting of ihe laws of Providence. Then. ton. Ik* was not a judge of land, but this place appeared to consist of huge round stones, between the interstices of which, as it seemed to him, grew great bunches of brown crass. He wondered what tlie sheep lived <>:i. However, the auctioneer, who seemed t't know the place well, had told liim it would carry s > many sheep at this time of year. and he ought U> know. H" supposed they liked the brown bunches, which, on referring to I his book*, lie decided were called "tussocks."' Wilkins drew up at the little wooden hut. with iron roof, that .i-er.ied to have been dropped in tho midd'e of the great plain, got down, and loik.-d in at tho window. It wa< apparently a small two-roomed house. There had been <;nlv one two-roomed house on the plan he had seen. If this was Ix.s flit tire li'ine. wnere was the garden! Ho walked to the back. His furniture had arrived and lay in disconsolate canvas heaps on the ground, lietiind the house was a two-stalled stable and trap-house. He had. fortunately, being a systematic little nun. forgotten nothing Mat was neces-s;:;-v to existence. Horse feed, covers, cookin •_' utensil*, stores, everything that the most fa*t : dii,us bachelor could desire was there in pl.-mv. i\ iikins took off his coat, rolled his shirt shoves up over his little white aims, and started colonial life. 111. A month passed, and Wilkin was alive. The we it her hid bocn beautiful. He had spent tlie first few days in getting his furniture in order, and unpacking his ■treasures, arranging hi.? pictures and books in something like their accustomed order around his little rooms. When he had finished the place had taken a look of home. He had got ti-'.'d to tiie Jong, brown, bare pi:-ins, and their first monotony had given way to a half pleasant sensation of general space and grandeur. In tlie distance the mountain ranges, occasionally tipped with white, locked cool in the warm sun. Ho rode daily round the run, getting to know the boundary fences and the look of the* sheep, difficult to- distinguish at first among the tussocks. As far as he could sco they did not appear to grow thinner, and concluding, after a time, that they were all right, he gave himself up to miking some kind of garden round the hut j buying little pine trees by the hundred from Christchuvcli, and towing vegetables and flowers in profusion. Towards the end of the month most of the work he could do for the present was done. The little pine trees planted neatly in groves; a space carefully dug over, and the seeds put in in graceful profusion, under the" directions of a manual on gardening whichWilkins bad purchased. He began to have a considerable amount of time on his hands, and to wonder what his neighbours were like, and when tltey would call. For it was evident that tlie. great runholders would eventually come to see him. bringing their wives and females generally, so Wilkins regularly washed and tidied up for the afternoon, putin" on his neat black tail coat, and seating himself upon his little verandah to be ready for them. When, however, some* days had nassed and no one came, he concluded that his arrival was not known, and gradually betook himself to his little sitting-room, where he read or dozed away the afternoons. One day, as he lay half aslesp on his sofa, ho heard the sound of horse's hoofs on the neat gravel path which he had made from the fence to the house, and springing up he hastily donned nis black coat and hurried to the door. It must be a caller at last. A man stood there—a working man apparently, dressed in toil-stained clothes, and with rather a truculent expression on his face. . "Good day," said he. , "Good day," returned Wilkins pontely. "Your dog has been worrying my lambs," said the new comer with an appearance of indignation. "He's killed about fifty and worried a couple of dozen more. They were worth 10s apiece. What are you going to do about it?' Wilkins turned pale. His dog Towser was a quiet, harmless looking animal, given him by the- auctioneer, who had been about to shoot it" when? Wilkins had begged its life; - The" auctioneer, averring it was too soft for anything, had reluctantly made him a present of it. It was true that the dog had been absent the day before,' having slipped his chain, but that Towser, meek Towser, who trembled when Wilkins raised liis hand, should kill fifty lambs and worry a couple of dozen more, seemed absolutely incredible. He mentally added up fifty lambs "at 10s, and a couple of* dozen at, say, ss. Total, £31. -.-..- ---"Well," said the man angrily, "what are you going to do?" Wilkins decided that this must be one of the disagreeable cockatoos he had heard about. "Yon must write to mc properly," he said, at length, trying to look stern, "and I will refer the matter to my lawyer." The man gazed at him for a moment, and then muttering something about "seeing all about it," turned and left. Wilkins went out and thrashed Towser heavily. Towser looked innocent, but anyway it was a relief. Two days after he received a lawyer's letter applying for £30 damages done to his client's sheep. There were witnesses to prove Towser's guilt, and Wilkins decided to pay. He went to bed that evening rather thoughtful. £30 was 5 per cent, on £600, nearly a quarter of his capital. His troubles had begun. Later on in the night he woke in bed with a roaring as of a thousand cannon in his ears; and, sitting up, found the room exceedingly hot and stuffy, and his heart beating fiercely. He jumped out of bed and looked out. The night was a fine starlight one, and everything seemed as usual. Tlie noise came from the wind. What was apparently a hurricane of tremendous violence was blowing, hurling through the air with awful fury, and shaking the little hut to its foundations. The peculiar thing about it was that the , more it blew the hotter it became. Wilkins put on a dressing gown, afraid to return to bed lest tlie house should blow down, and looked through his books for an explanation. . He concluded at last that it was what* was called a nor'-wester —a wind which, the book said, occasionally did immense damage on tho Canterbury plains— blowing newly-ploughed and sown land completely away, sometimes to a depth of two or three inches of the top soil, and curying the sheep and fences completely from sight. Wilkins wondered why he had not remembered to have read this before. When morning came tlie strange gale had abated, and Wilkins went out to water his garden. There was no garden.' The'place where it «±ad been was swept as bare'as if the seas had been over it. He concluded he did not like nor'-westers. He grew more used to them, but he never get | to like them. IV. Wilkins had been living during all iLis time on his stores: tinned tongues, poe'ed meats, etc. As a fastidious little man he ; bad supplied himself bountifully at the commencement with these and various other delicacies. When they came at last to an ] | end Wilkins grew thoughtful. ! He had not considered, » th? first flush of nroprietorsbip of Killgummy, how the prices of such things mount up. and to the present time Kilgummy la- 1 , brcught him nothing: while he*bad Tows a r s escalade and | the loss of his pine trees and seeds lo put en the wrong side. '• There was no doubt of a, to laumh out into further expense t the present time w;«s '. impossible. He must live <n million, as he < supposed everyone about liim did. Nothing at" first sight ap* eared simpler, i Mutton was plencni . it Miiri.unucd him, ' so to apeak, whe**rei he went. He grasped * -t.iie one day f-tirred by the pangs of hunger, -yd «r* mit t«> «Mom-it. ,j He found it difficult at first: that is. he ] found it difficult to catch his sheep. Towser « was no use at all. He gambolled around i them in a playful manner, doing more harm than good, and Wilkins unaided was certainly ' not canhble of running a sheep down. He had, by the aid of his books, fathomed some of the mysteries of drafting-yards, races, etc.. i but how" to get the sheep into the yards first was what puzzled him. If seemed a* case : of first catch your sheep, and if he only caught one, that was all he wanted; he i didn't want the lot. "* j After about an hour's excitement Tow- J ser tired of his buffoonery, and seemed to - i decide to settle down to work. i

Wilkins was delighted with h's intelligence* He bounded off at a tremendous rate, rounded up the sheep, and took them along at a sharp trot towards the yards .apparently without an effort. At the gate Wilkins joined him, and j together they shooed the sheep inside. j Wilkins let them all out carefully through ; the race, all but one, a fat wether—-the j doomed one. Towser sat down ranting j and watching the strange sight. J Wilkins's heart was in his mouth. He j had never killed anything before. Given j the choice, there was nothing he would \ not rather have done; but, as I have ] said before, he was a plucky little chap, i and he tad started thus life, and put his i capital into it. He could certainly not j yet afford a man or boy to slaughter for i him; and though the great woolly wether i looked nearly as big as himself, he was j going to kill it. He rolled up his %hirt- j sleeves and took liis knife in his hand. The wether stood and looked at him. Wilkins had learned from his books that the best way to uat-h a sheep was to grasp it by one of its hind-legs, and then throw ie down and turn it over. After a few minutes he succeeded, by making a quick dash at the wether, and iiir.ging himself at it, in catching ho!d of a bony hind-leg. Unfortunately the very | act had put it out of his power to manage, j the sheep in any way, now that he had j caught it, and a few more seconds showed j Towser the strange sight of his master.; going round and round the yard at a j furious rate on his stomach. j However, Wilkins held on, and succeeded j in recovering his balance at last Then ! with a struggle he got the brute on to j its back and tied its legs with his hand- j kerchief. What happened after that Wil- j kins hardly knew. He found himself j seated, sick and faint, on his sofa. He hardly knew what he had done. He knew he had been a refined little English gentleman once; and between that time and the present came a vision of a struggle with some great warm living thing, a struggle literally for life and death, with the advantage all on one side ; and then there was blood—blood on his hands — blood everywhere. It seemed all so very like murder, that Wilkins closed his eyes again and shivered. This was not the Arcadian life he had pictured. From the very start his little castles in the air had commenced to crumble. . His cottage nestling amid the trees, his roses, his garden, his few choice friends, the little income he would make, all seemed to have vanished, and now Wilkins shuddered. To go through that struggle for life again was more than his soul was capable of. He lived on mutton for a week, taking very little interest in his food, however. At the end of that time, he concluded he would rather starve than kill another wether. He began to grow visibly thinner, and a week of hot thundering nor'-westers affected his nerves badly. The intense loneliness and distastefulness of the life he liad so heedessly taken up with no capabilities for it began to impress itself more and more upon his brain. Evjn his favourite little pictures were no longer a joy to him ; and he couldn't settle down to read in his restless state. V. One day as he rode along his run, his head hanging down, an J his thoughts far away, a sudden voice, almost by his side, made him jump. It was the first human voice he had heard for a month. "Looking for your sheep?" it said. Wilkins looked up, surprised. The speaker was an oldish man, on a powerful horse. He was big and strongly-built, with a hard-featured but not unkindly mouth. "Looking for my sheep," stammered Wilkins, gazing round him—"why, they're there . . ." He started and looked earnestly round. There were no sheep in sight anywhere. "Oh, you needn't look for them," said the stranger; "I thought they had broken through your fence at first, but now I've seen the way you ride about with your head down and dreaming like that,. I c.v pect the truth is you left the gate open, soma time or other." With a'sinking of the heart- Wilkins recalled a ride he had taken the day j. reviously. He certainly could not recall shutting the gate. "I've found them," said the stranger, half inclined to smile. Welkins looked up with a beaming face. Here was a neighbour and a friend at last. "In my oats," continued the new-comer sternly. "I don't suppose they've spoilt more than 50 acres, but they've certainly spoilt that. I had to pound 'em, and of course you'll pay the damages to the crop. Wilkins tried hard not to faint. The stranger, who was watching him curiously, gave a slight laugh. "You're a new chum at this work, aren't you?" he asked. "I've been out from England three months," said Wilkins. "Ever had any experience of sheep?" "No, none,' stammered Wilkins, feeling somehow rather foolish, and wishing the unfortunate stranger would leave ehim alone to think a little. "Have you bought this place?" asked the stranger. Wilkins replied in the affirmative. "Well, I'd sell it again if I were you," said the stranger; and wishing him a rather abrupt good-day, he cantered off, after explaining where he would find his sheep the next morning. Wilkins returned home dazed. He wasn't sure what "pounding" sheep was; but he discovered by his books that it meant imprisoning trespassing sheep in a kind of public yard, whence they had to \ be released by payment of various fines per \ head. I In his case, he concluded, after making' it out carefully, that the fines would | amount to 6d per head per sheep; they 5 evidently coming "under Schedule I. Tres- I pass in any fenced land having thereon any •growing crop—"for every ewe, lamb, or wether, 6d." Wilkins had 800 sheep— that was £20. The dwner. of the land could apparently sue for damages. What the damage to 50 acres of oats would amount to Wilkins did not know. He decided he did not want any more callers. He felt that he might shoot the next one that came. Wilkins recovered his sheep by paying the pound fees and £50 damages to the oats. '■'*". The next day he started for town, with the object of selling Killgummy. The agent, however, who had sold him the place did not seem very sanguine as to his probable success. ' Times were bad, he said, and Wilkins would do better to hold on. One or two others expressed the greatest willingness to put it on their books; carelessly adding that they thought they already had all the particulars. One, indeed, the last Wilkin visited, went so far as to remark that he.had had. the place on his books for the last ten years. When our friend mentioned that he was prepared to let it go at £1 15s an acre, thereby losing 5s an acre, the agent laughed heartily. "I should think you would," he said. He was a jovial, frank creature, and he took no note of Wilkins's pained expression. "I could have sold it to you any day the last eight years for 15s an acre, let alone the odd paimd. No. my dear sir, you put it at 15s, and take my word, with forty years' experience behind mc, you will never .get a penny more this side of Kingdom Come." Wilkins went home, and, seating himself in his little parlour, added up a few figures. He had purchased Killgummy for £2000. He had calculated to make 5 per cent, on that, which would be £100 a year. He had paid away £30 for Towser's lambs, and £20 for young trees and seeds which the nor'-wester had taken. Then there were the £50 pound fees and the damages to the oats. It appeared that his first year's profits were gone before he had been in possession three months. Also be had learnt that Killgummy was worth £750 instead of £2000. Wilkins concluded he was unsuited for colonial life. He sold Killgummy for 16s an acre to a brisk young colonial, who knocked a good living out o~ it, and he went to live himself at Dieppe. There an no sheep than.