THE DROVER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIII, Issue 19418, 28 August 1926, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE DROVER.

BT A.P.I.

POET AND HUMORIST.

Whether it is the long periods of solitude and self-communion he experiences on out-back tracks, with no companionship save that of his dog and his horse, or whether it is the constant being in touch with Nature when driving stock over lonely roads, the fact remains that the drover, generally, has a poetic appreciation. Whereas, in certain cases, the sufferings of his stock beget indifference and callousness, they usually fan into flame that spark of sympathy and kindliness that is inborn in most men. Is it any wonder, then, that while sauntering behind his bleating sheep or lowing cattle, through bush-clad mountains and fern banked streams, with sympathy and understanding in his heart, he should think of the glories of Nature, and develop poetic tendencies and aspirations. When he does put pencil t-o paper he is generally shy and reticent about showing his effusions to the world at large, and it was only by special pleading that I persuaded one drover friend of mine to give me copies of some of his work. Here are some lines in which he senses that indescribable hush before dawn when he goes in the starlight to the accommodation paddock for his stock:— BEFORE DAWN. There is a moment ere the newborn day Compels black Night to cast his robe away: Before the world stirs, restless, in respose. Like a young babe that, sleeping, subtly knows That dawn and waking time is near—a hush. And silence wonderful o'er field and bush. A space of still suspense—a calm unbroken— Yet filled with songs unsung and words unspoken. A moment that no worldly stress can clod: That dims our eyes, and makes us think of God. . Ho sees sunrises and sunsets in crimson and gold, moving mists lifting from the crags, and sunshafts breaking through distant clouds. . At night, high in the hills, he secures his stock and camps in a deserted whare:— NOT LONELY. I am not lonely in my hut at night. For the big moon doth shed her silvery light . v Through the racked frame that once a window bore. And lights the vacant hearth and broken floor. Not lonely! No—for in the bush around Are friends, and songs, and symphonies that sound Like distant orchestras, whose music nils And echoes through these gaunt, serrated bills. . Sweet harmonies that float, and fade, and Around' the music of the waterfall. Companions? Yes—for near the smouldering logs , . I see the huddled figures of my dogs. With watchful eyes fixed patiently on me— Man's truest friends, and best of company,. Not lonely? Ah—deep in the embers Through' half-closed eyes, I see a place I know _ , . Tn the far-distant city. Roses, twine Round a wee home I love to thmk is mine. Two dimpled faces, sweet with childish charms— . , , babv sleepinff in its mother s arms. Not lonely! No—but may the time soon come. ... , When I shall be on my glad journey home. " ' Btamour in the Bush Country.

He can seldom put his poetry into words, for his powers of expression are generally limited; but it tinctures his genial sense of humour, and is the salt and savour of his tales and reminiscences Some years ago I owned a block of bush country away in the Waitotara hinterland. The drover who did my work was a big, jovial giant, named George , who had a keen sense of humour and an ever-ready fund of anecdote. He made great capital out of the unsophistication of the immigrant. "Yes," said George, one day, "there are some sage-green chaps coming from the Old Country nowadays. Last week I was away back in the rough country behind Patea, and I met a couple of Homies looking for land. 'What d'ye think of the land hereabouts ?' said I. 'Not much," said one of them, ' it's frightfully rough; but there's a slashing good farm down the road that's carrying 20 sheep to the acre.'' 'Which is it?' said I. And would you believe it, when he explained where it was, I located it as the accommodation paddock. "He was a very verdant importation from the 'Big Smoke'," said George reminiscently, "but not so simple as the English boy who answered an advertisement for a competent fencer by turning up at the sheep-run with a pair of fencing sticks and a set of foils. "I met one of them at Ngamatapouri," continued the burly knight of the road, "and he complained that we did not know how to fence. 'See that fence going over the spur of the hill,' he said; 'the wires are all loose, and T think there are not enough posts.' 'Have another think,' said I. 'Those are the telegraph wires alongside the road line'." On the Road with the Flock. But it was in the more detailed and descriptive stories that his imagery and pathos was disclosed. He had a habit of naming the most noticeable units of his flock, and, on one occasion, on his return from a very rough trip with 800 store lambs to my now burn, 40 miles from the city, over slipped and broken roads, I asked him how he had fared. "Well," said the leviathan reflectively, "when I got them, past Kai Iwi I had the 'dyers' (those that were considered too weak to do the trip) all sorted out. There was Little Angelina, Sweet William, with only one eye, Archibald, with his long tail, Tiny Tim, Marguerite, and a lot of others. I had to *force them through mud up to their bellies time after time, round slips and breaks and watercourses. I chucked many dyers over the banks, and on the third day, when I paddocked them at Paparangi, I was surprised to see Sweet William still there looking at me reproachfully, also Archibald, with a let-me-die-in-peace look in his face, Marguerite, and Tiny Tim. I punch them along all next day through mud, slush, and slips, threw a lot more out, and thought all my favoured few had shuffled off this mortal coil. Late that night I reached the farm gates, inside of which was the promised land of rape and turnips. Some of them were so weak they could hardly crawl through the gates The last to go through, to my astonishment, was Sweet William. When he staggered through the gates he dropped exhausted on the grass, and I distinctly heard him whisper, 'Thank God!' "