The Traveller.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 998, 17 April 1891, Page 12

The Traveller.

4* UP THE WAIRARAPA. ROUND ABOUT FEATHERSTON. (FROM OUR TRAVELLING CORRESPONDENT.) Why a man with all the world of nomenclature before him, containing all sorts of appropriate and euphonious names to choose from, should elect to call his horse “ Bug ” is more than I can understand. When my friend, the owner of the animal in question, offered me the loan of him ho did not make himself so clear as he might have done, and I awaited the outcome with some trepidation. The nag, however, was better than his ” epithet ” and was not by any means a crawler, so I have asked my friend (for the sake of euphony, as grammarians have it) to re-name the unfortunate animal and add the expense to his selling price. The remnants of the south-easter were hanging about on Monday morning as I set out for a jaunt down Kahautara way. The air was very bleak, and the sun hidden behind great banks of threatening clouds, but ns the day grew older, the clouds dispersed, old Sol came out, and the afternoon was all that could be desired.

Going towards Martinborough, opposite Mr Burt’s thriving store, one passes Mr Donald’s butter factory, the only one in the Featherston district, and that entirely a private concern, merely Using the milk from the proprietor’s own dairy farms. One of the great wants of this district is a factory of this kind on a large scale to take milk from all the dairies. It is needless to point out the advantages which a factory enjoys for the turning out of a uniform quality; any practical man kiiows that, and one would think the lesson taught by the prices realised at Home for factory butter as compared with the average of the dairy article, would have borne fruit long ago in the erection of a first class factory. In this important grazing district, however, it seems to have been left to one enterprising man to do this on his own account and entirely for his own benefit. Nowhere in New Zealand have I seen a more suitable district for a large butter and cheese factory than around Featherston. The roads are first class (a most important matter), and I am informed on good authority that within a very limited area the milk of six hundred cows could be easily available. Below Donald’s factory for a mile or two the road runs through a narrow belt of land of poor quality and very stony, about the only indifferent land near Featherston. A creek, which makes a convenient watering place for horses coming into town, and is called Donald’s Creek, crosses the road a little further on, and below this a few hundred yards are the white gates of a private road leading to Longwood, Mr Fharazyn’s beautiful residence. This road cuts straight through the stony patch of land I have referred to, and brings one out opposite the avenue leading to the house. Longwood is a wooden house of fair size, and has the appearance of having been added to from time to time. The family being from home I treated myself to a casual glance at the grounds, which are fairly extensive, well laid out, and kept in beautiful order. The lawns particularly were most noticeable, carpeted with soft, thick velvetty grass of even quality. They were lawus, aud not the apologies that have to do duty for such at too many colonial houses. Further down, the Martinborough road crosses the Tauherenikau River, which is here spanned by a long narrow bridge much the worse for age and sadly in want of a coat or two of paint. This river is here a huge shingle bed with very little water in it at present, a high shingle bank in the centre dividing two shallow streams which unite lower down. A little below this the Kahautara road turns off to the right, passing through some of the finest land in the district. Right up to Messrs Bidwell’s station there are Bmall settlers who have land on either side of the road, and all, without exception, seem well to do. I called on Mr T. Burton, senior, who has been settled in the Wairarapa for some 34 years past, during which time, he informed me, there had only been one season so favourable for grass as the one just passed, and that was 12 years ago. A short ride further brings one to Mr Jas. Donald’s dairy farm, or rather, one of them, for this gentleman has three. Here no fewer than 75 cows are milked, and about three-quarters of a ton of milk is the result, taken into Mr Donald’s factory in Featherston every morning. Tlianks to the milking contractor, Mr Duck, I was able to test the quality of the milk, which fully sustained the opinions I had formed of the pasture. By this time I began to feel a bit peckish, and felt very grateful indeed to an old Devonshire worthy who hospitably entertained me at dinner, and whose good lady provided such roast apples as would have done credit to her native country. To my mind the best way to cook an apple i 3 to roast him. In no other way are his natural juices retained. Then how tempting he looks as he comes on the

table, hissing hot with his golden flesh peeping in places through his darker skin. Do not spoil him with cream, but sugar him just enough, eat him hot and be thankful for orchards. On cold nights he i 3an unceptionally good supper. After dinner, I jogged on a little further, until Messrs Bid will’s estate was reached. These gentlemen own a large tract of exceedingly good land, and so far as I could judge, the plough could be put into the most of it, and I believe some portion of it is cropped, but, as both the owners were away from home, I could do no more than notice the portion passed through on my way to and from the station. Returning to Featherston, it my good fortune to see at Mr Gooderick’s farm, about the most promising half-bred foal, that has come under my notice for many a day. The sire is Treason, and the dam a heavy draught, but very active mare, belonging to Mr Gooderich, and the result is a credit to both. Featherston was reached about 7 p.m., and concluded my labours for the day. During Monday night the first frost of the season occurred, and a very severe one it was ; but Tuesday made amends for it, being a gloriously bright, sunny day till towards evening, when it began to blow as the wind does blow here, and only here, so far as my experience goes. My route to-day was South Featherston, and a good start was made at 9 a.m., man and nag having tuckered well. The South Featherston road 13 reached before the Tauherinikau River, and runs in the same direction as the Kahautara road, which is on the opposite side of the river, a good bit nearer Martinborough. The road for a good distance up passes through land of lighter quality than the Kahautara land, but gets better further on when Mr Alec Yule’s land is reached, which is drained swamp land of the very best. Mr Yule is still draining, and is evidently sparing no pains to make his block of 2000 acres one of the finest pastoral farms in the Colony. Further up the road the enterprising Mr Donald is erecting buildings for yet another dairy farm. He evidently believes in butter, though most of his neighbours at present pin their faith to sheep, all the farmers on this road running more or less. "Very little cropping is done, bat I noticed some splended paddocks of turnips, which are a great success so far, with no signs of the “fly.” Everyone goes in for sheep, sheep, sheep, nothing but sheep. No one runs cattle that can help it, and even the dairy is slightingly spoken of—all eyes are turned to mutton, for the present anyway. One farmer, justly disgusted at the absence of a factory that would take the milk of his thirty cows, talked to me of giving up his dairy and relying entirely on sheep. It was pleasant to find on this man’s place a really well-built and fitted cow shed, scrupulously clean, with stalls for thirty cows. Too little attention is usually paid to this matter, and Mr Murray Jackson’s byre is quite an example of a better state of things than mostly prevails. Rain now began to threaten, and looking across the Wairarapa Lake towards the hills I took tho warning I saw there, and made the best of my way back to Featherston, arriving just as the first drops Began to fall. Then followed such a storm of wind and rain as this year had not yet provided even in Featherston, famous they tell me, for gales. All night long the wind howled from the north-west, the rain beating heavily on the roof and against the window panes louder and louder as the wind grew in strength until about 4 a.m. the noise was deafening. The house rocked with the fotce of the gale, once heaving me out of a sound sleep to wake with an impression of earthquakes. Wellington has its little breezes, and it can on occasions blou a. trifle in Auckland, but it blew here last night in a way that neither of these cities can ever hope to rival. In the morning the gale nowise abated its vigour, and the rain fell, if possible, harder than ever. A flock of sheep in a paddock opposite my window presenting their rear parts to the “cauld cauld blast” furnished me with a much needed example of patience under trying circumstances. The storm did not exhaust itself until evening, but at sundown there came a welcome lull, the rain ceased, and Boreas ceased from troubling. Reader, did you ever buy a horse 1 If you are a horsey or a sporting man, of course you have, and equally, of course, you always came out best in the deal, but if you are not one of the knowing ones, and have had occasion to purchase the “ noble animal ” for your own use, let me ask you if you ever realised so intensely in your life before the fact of your utter iucapacity to satisfy yourself, combined with a horrible suspicion that everyone, including yourself, is more or less of a rogue, and that a horse is tho most unsound animal in existence. Yon want a horse —a hack, let us say —and. you start with the idea that you know exactly the kind of animal you require and the price you are prepared to pay for him. Fond illusion ! By the'time you have seen half a dozen horses of as many styles, and had a talk with the half dozen owners, you are bewildered, and though in an amateurish kind of way you may be a fair judge of a horse, the transaction generally ends by your purchasing tha most unsuitable animal of the lot at a higher price than you had fixed a 3 a limit.

Then, when you have got him, what misgivings attack you, how anxiously you,

examine Mm, how closely you watch him, how indignantly you repudiate Jones’ insinuation about that off fore leg, and how terribly certain you are that Jones is right. Oh the misery endured by those self-confident (beforehand) amateur horsebuyers.

Now I am not exactly an amateur at this little game, but I never approach any form of business with less confidence than a horse deal, and even when perfectly confident of the boost fides of the seller, there are so many other considerations as to always envelope the deal with more elements of risk than almost any other transaction.

During the past week I have been tryintr to make a deal, hence these moral reflections. One thing, however, I would point out to those about to buy who know nothing of horses. Don’t expect to get a good horse at. a poor price, and let one of your friends who knows do the buying for yon, otherwise you may learn, amongst other things, the astonishing fact that no horse is to be found more than seven years old ; it seems to be the favourite age. My next trip took me towards the little village of Tauherenikau, almost due east from Featherston, on the opposite bank of the river of that name, and about three miles away. It consists of a village inn kept by an old identity of the name of Wilkinson, who has been there from the first, a post office, school, and two or three cottages. Behind the river is the Tauherenikau racecourse, that used by the South Wairarapa Racing Club. The site is a very suitable one, and as the Club gets financially stronger no doubt great improvements will be made. The grandstand, for instance, is far too small, and this was a great inconvenience at the recent meeting. Mr K. McKenzie’s training stables are just close to the inn, and are roomy and comfortable. There are now some six nags in training here, amongst which are General Gordon and Hibernian, the former looking very fit. The district round the village is a good ene, but the land is somewhat stony—surface stones principally. The farmers round seem comfortably off, the labourers have plenty of work, and command their own prices pretty well for contract work, one farmer assuring me it was difficult to obtain men at times. Seeing an intelligent-looking man ploughing, I stopped to have a chat with him. A Church of England clergyman once, and still one, I suppose, he had turned his attention to sowing the more material seed, and is now manfully battling his way as a farmer. After a pleasant chat, and heartily wishing the good man success, I turned my horse’s head towards Morrison’s Bush, a settlement five miles further on. The road runs still through very stony ground for three miles, sheep runs on either side. Mr John Martin has a farm on the right-hand side. It is named Battersea, and contains about 1200 acres, capable of carrying some 1500 sheep. At present it is fattening about 800, destined in the very near future to be devoured by hungry folks many thousands of miles away. Turning to the left up the Greytown road my attention was attracted to a garden before a comfortable old-fashioned house. Over the gate was a fierce looking lion carved in wood, and inside on a oft high pedestal stood a gigantic wooden statue, ic Hector defying the Greek.” Nine feet high, with shield and spear of appropriate weight, his face expressive of contemptuous scorn, he stood a model hero. I looked around for the Greeks, and was not surprised to find them missing. On turning my head quickly I saw beside me a handsome Dachshund ; the surprise was so sudden that I had jumped right across the path before I realised that he too was but a wooden semblance. Just then, a cheery voice hailed me, and I turned to meet in the person of Mr George Wakelin, the creator and owner of these figures, and a very hearty and jolly old gentleman in into the bargain. We chatted of old times, the days when Mr Richard Wakelin, his brother, edited the Wellington Independent, when the three F 3, Featherstone, Fox, and Fitzherbert were names to conjure by, and I was sorry when I had to leave.

Back to Morrison’s Bush Road, and about half a mile further East, till Hodge’s Bush Inn is reached, where I drain the welcome shandy—a pleasant drink this shandy—do glasses hold as much as they used to 1 Or am I thirstier 1 Ward’s Bush line, south from Morrison’s Bush road, passes through what ten years ago was a dismal swamp, now drained to the Wairarapa Bake. Now right from Morrison’s Bush to within half a mile of the Kaiwaiwai road there are dairy farms of well drained paddocks, comfortable homes with smiling gardens, cherry-cheeked cMldren playing in the fieldß, rosy lasses “ bringing hame the kye.” At one place I saw a wench driving home some 20 cows, calling them Rose, Daisy, Violet, and the rest. Each seemed to know her name. It was pleasant to see that each milky mother of the herd had an identity, and was not merely one of so many milking machines. At this farm they made butter for the Wellington market, showing a return of 8d per lb, but most of the farmers up this line prefer to take their milk to the Greytown Cheese Factory, receiving 2£d per gallon, with a further 4d contingent upon the price of cheeße. There are two or three Swedish settlers up this way, and very good colonists they make. Simple, honest, and industrious, temperate too, and kindly of nature, they

retain more of th» old fashioned virtues than too many Britons iu these latter days.

Still jogging along, presently I come to Knapp’s dairy farm. The owner, a rough old bushman with a gruff manner and kindly heart, receives me with a torrent of abuse, under the impression that I left his yard gate open the previous day, leaving a fine chance for the pigs, who did not let it pass. Having convinced the old man that I was not the delinquent, he presently mollifies and regales me with tea and some excellent cheese and bread and butter, intertarded with growls of conversation. Rough old diamond, may he live long and prosper, for I was a-hungry und he fed me. A few hundred yards further up and I came to two pretty little homes ; hard work, perseverance, determination, and skill have made these in what a few years ago was a wet and dismal swamp, and Messrs Brickell and Selman are evidently colonists of the best type and deserve the reward they are now beginning to receive. Just a word about Mr Selman’s orchard. Grateful recollections of russets, ribstones and pippins force me to do it justice. Mrs Selman showed me over her apple room—a model of its kind. All round on shelves were apples, and such apples. Russets, jellyflowers, king pippins, scarlet nonpariels, golden russets—all were there, and many others, too. I have never seen such a clean skinned, wholesome, sound lot of apples in all my life ; not a trace of any kind of blight, scale, or leech. The codlin moth is unknown here—long may he be a stranger. Mr Selman has a little over two hundred trees in bearing in his orchard, the oldest of which are about seven years planted, and the yield is very satisfactory indeed, over a ton. There is a fruit called the white apple in this orchard. A medium size, of a whitey gold colour, with just a faint tinge of pink on either cheek like the dawning blush of maiden seventeen. It is indeed a lovely apple to look at. But it is more, hard and crisp, sweet and juicy, with a minimum of core ; it is an excellent apple either for cooking or desert, and a model keeper, some of last season’s being quite good now. About half a mile further on through the lower portion of the swamp, in which still flourish raupo and flax, but drained and carrying cattle, we come to Mr Coleman Philips’ new residence “ The Knoll.” This house has been built within the past twelve months, and stands with its back to the hill, which gives it its name. It is a haudsome home, but glaringly new, brand new, painfully new. Being painted a light colour, and standing in the sunniest of sites, it is almost dazzling to look at, and there are no trees to tone it down. A few years will no doubt make all the difference, but it has but a bare appearance now. Ascending the hill and turning to the right I find myself on the Kaiwaiwai road leading back to Featherston, and shaking up ray old racer into a sma rt canter I pass farm after farm until I reach the Kaiwaiwai School where I am courteously received by Mr McDiarmid, the master. A well planned little building is this school, two rooms communicating, in which on my visit boys and girls were separate. The former tackling the mysteries of map making, the lasses busy sewing under the superintendence of Miss McDiarmid. The calm confidence with which Mr McDiarmid instructed his boys to delineate the map of India, absolutely horrified me. Ye gods'! suppose he had asked my opinion on the result and no atlas to guage it by. However, he led me away to the playground, where I felt much more at home, and showed me a plantation of young trees on the two sides of it most exposed to the wind. They have had their Arbor Day in Kaiwaiwai at the school. _ What could be better than to practically impress upon the minds of theyoungsters the importance of tree planting, particularly in such a windy district as this ? So Mr McDiarmid has done it, and done it well too last year. The boys dug the holes, the girls put the trees in, and the parents and friends supplied the “ blow out.” Quite three hundred trees were planted, and all but two have done well, and promise in the near future to give the much needed shelter.

Saying good bye to this courteous and energetic young schoolmaster, I made the best of my way back to Featherston ; my nag to his crib, myself to the tea-table ; oats for the one, beef for the other, and neither of us left a particle.

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