The New Zealand Mail.

New Zealand Mail, 3 December 1896, Page 9

The New Zealand Mail.

Recn j&eafaniL Maif. CHRISTMAS PIKE • STOBY COMPETITION, PBIZB A.WAJE&DS. Class I. Prize of T2 2s Stories of Up-country Life. “HARRISON’S JIM,” by Gef. Field. Class 11. .... Prize of £2 2s Stories of Adventure. " 808 -MY - BOY,” by Mbs Katherine Allen. Class 111. .... Prize of £2 2s Stories of City Social Life. “WHEN WANTING A 'WIFE, PLAY GOLF,” by “Alpha.” CLASS I. Stories of Up-country Life. ||amsaa s p Jieg BY GEF. FIELD. f Specially written for the Nero Zealand Mail.j PRIZE STORY. M BROAD, deep, smoothly - flowing river, winding by sandy beaches or between high banks: banks tipped by toi-toi, native bush, and golden kowlmi trees, with here and there a willow, planted long ago by missionaries or early pioneers. On a convenient ledge, where the backcurrent creeps by, stands a bare-footed little figure dressed in a blue serge suit, well patched about the seat. A felt hat, once brown, but now sunburned to a dull copper tint, sits ex-tinguisher-like upon his head. Underneath it we catch a glimpse of a round, freckled face, half shaded by stray locks of bright red hair—‘real crimson hair/ Doris calls it. This is Bricks ! His baptismal name ? Oh, dear no! Harold Theodore, the first page in the family Bible states, but then—his hair, you know! to some one it had suggested bricks—-and so the name had stuck, as such names do. It is a bright, still morning, and the whitebait are coming up ‘ grand/ Bricks’ watchful eyes look far away along the bank and see the stirring of the water long before the shoal of tiny fish comes into sight. Then, -just at the critical moment, up and along' swoops the big net (just a x ■ . j , -4k

Wellington, Thursday, December 3, 1896:

piece of last year’s mosquito netting, stretched upon a supplejack frame) —excitement lends the necessary strength. Bricks manfully tackles his load, then plump they all go into the kerosene tin. ‘ Only one more shoal, and then I believe it’ll do.’ Bricks gives a big sigh ; he is getting tired, and lias been up since five. But, then, ■wasn’t this Aunt Sabina’s birthday ? ‘And she just loves whitebait !’ ‘ What a jolly good thing those other two are not here/ soliloquises Bricks. ‘ Phil always gets so ox-cited, and scares them, jigging about, and Doris will talk. Of course, it wouldn’t matter any other time, but to-day’s so extra particular.’ And then he stands watchful and motionless again. The new - born sunlight dances and sparkles on the water, the birds are stirring—hundreds of them—sparrows, larks, tuis, and the old kingfisher that has its nest in the white pine tree near the boat-steps. A bee flies by towards the wdllow-catkins, but not a stir from Bricks.

Is that a shoal coming up by the matai log, or just the water rippling against a hidden root ? Far off the turkeys ‘ gobble/ and nearer comes the ‘ cluck, cluck’ of an enterprising hen ; in the distance is Tangi barking noisily—trying to burry up those listless, lazy, milking cows. But Bricks is well-nigh deaf to all these everyday sounds. Yes ! it is a shoal, and must be chased by something larger than themselves; nearer, and nearer, they come —then pause suspiciously, and try to swim away into the stream. Out goes the net, pushed as far as the handle will allow, and in they swoop—whitebait and tyrant herring all together-—a tug and a grunt from Bricks, then up they come, over goes the net, and then the small red hand assists the captives into the kerosene tin. ‘ Grand !’ ho chuckles; that’ll do it good ob !’ How those three little ones enjoy the country life! Once they had been to town, father had taken them —just Bricks and Phil—but oh! how the hard pavements tired their feet; the shojrs were splendid, but Bricks soon found out that everything you wanted cost about a pound, which was a bit rough when a fellow’d only got three bob to buy it with. So be had passed by watches, guns and bicycles, and at last invested in a purse for ‘ poor old Doris who bad stayed at home.’

Then the wharves and the slapping, the interesting loading of their friends, the wool bales and the flax, and then the wonderful machinery down below. Only Phil got sick there, the smells and the heat ‘ and the heaps of cakes he got through at that tea-shop I ’specks/ Bricks had thoughtfully remarked. And then the last day, the circus, how it had inspired them with the longing to perform great feats when they got home — tianging by their calves from a willow branch, and trying to turn somersaults on their way to the ground, till Aunt Sabina, horrified, had stopped the fun. ‘Pity she was so timid/ Phil had said. And then had como the ‘ spell ’ from little Midge, the pony Phil was told he was too young to ride. She looked so quiet and steady standing there. Phil slipped the bit of flax around her nock and scrambled on before she was awake, ‘ just to try and canter like the circus man.’

And Midge had started steadily enough, Phil sitting proudly, holding the bit of flax. At last he gave a little kick to make her hurry up—a lively canter—but just then apukaki had sprung up and flown across the track, a flash of glistening blue, a,nd Midge had seen it and had jumped aside, then darted off, leaving a little heap behind upon the ground, and half-caste Tommy had found him there soon after, white, and moaning piteously, and Joe had bolted off to Harrison’s to fetch ‘ that smart chap Jim/ their ‘ chum/ and he had come and put ‘ it ’ right again. They were but a small household at To Kowhai—grandmother, father, Aunt Sabina, and ‘them orful three/ as old Joe called the children. Doris came first, and there were grand‘points’about Doris. Bricks kadi oonfided a few of them to Harrison’s

Jim on one occasion, in the early days of their friendship, when, sliding off old Kotare’s back be had scrambled up into the dray, leaving his sister to go jogging on alone.

‘ Swim !’ he had said, ‘ why, bless you, she can swim; better’n Phil or me; and, sometimes, when father takes us up the river after ducks, she’ll sit as still as anything, and, when the gun goes off, she never squeals and squawks like other girls. No ! Doris, why she never turns a hair !’ Besides * the three/ there was Tommy, of course, and more important still, Mrs Morgan and her husband Joe, who had come as ‘ married couple ’ to Te Kowhai when they were young ; had seen Miss Nell and baby Sibby both grow up and lived on through all the troubles that came afterwards. But, of the children, only Doris could remember any other life —the home beyond the ranges where she and Bricks and father, ‘jßig John Maitland’ he was called, and their fair, young mother, had all lived, and then, that summer time, when father brought them down ‘ to pay a good long visit to her people.’ How long they none of them had dreamed, for ‘ mother’ had been taken ill, and then gone up to heaven, leaving the little ones, Doris, Bricks and baby Phil, to grow up in the old home where she had lived and played—a little child with golden hair and big grey eyes, like Phil’s. And then Aunt Sibby had been everything to them, had grow-n a woman in the year that followed ; for soon had come poor grandfather’s sad illness, then his death, and after that grandmother had ‘ felt too old and tired/ she said, ‘ to trot about after such active little mites.’ So Aunt Sabina washed and dressed and played with them, concocted wonderful rag dolls and cut out paper figures for small Phil; had made their clothes and taught them all their letters.

Then father had ‘ sold off ’ and come to live with them and helped old Joe to work the place ; and so the years had slipped away.

But -while we have been straying off into the past, Bricks has been very busy with the present, and now is struggling into his school suit. ‘ Any sign of a high-water mark, Phil ? Don’t want Aunt Sib to spot that there wasn’t time for much of a wash this morning—it teas a close shave. Old Morg-y said the bell ’ud have to ring in thirteen minutes ; and then there might only have been —everlasting chops !’ with a scornful sniff.

They mot Jim on the road that afternoon, perched high up on his load of bales, and stopped to shout the latent news. ‘Aunt Sibby’s birthday, Jim.’ ‘lndeed!’ ‘ Yes, and just fancy Jim/ piped Phil, ‘ she’s twenty-four !’ And Jim, guessing correctly what was expected of him, expressed surprise and astonishment at the news. ‘By jove ! a great ago ! fancy ! twenty-four!’ And then they ‘ chucked ’ him up a paper and went on. That night Harrison’s Jim lay in his tent just after tea, and Davy, ‘ the catcher ’ (a bit ‘ soft,’ poor chap, they said), was in his usual place, the old cart-shed. From there Jim heard him crooning over the mill songs, to the jerky accompaniment of his beloved accordion. Jim was not heeding much, but idly building castles in the air—his usual castle —a small cottage on a section of his own, with creepers on the verandah, and someone there to make it ‘ home ’ for him—someone with soft blue eyes, and wavy hair, and ‘ Clementina was a beauty, and her shoes were number nine/ crooned Davy from the shed. ‘ Confound the fellow !’ muttered Jim, and opened his paper. Turning over the leaves, his own name caught his eye -. ‘ Fortescue, James Everard, is earnestly requested to communicato with / and then came Aunt Beatrice’s initials and the old address.

Jim put the paper slowly down, and smoked for a long while. At last ho got up, strolled over to the whare, and borrowed some writing things from Dandy Gibb 3. After that he did what he had a§yer done before—yn’oto home. When

it was done he lay there smoking, and quietly going over the last year or so ; the summer before last, when ‘ right down on his luck’ he came to Harrison’s, and had been taken on as ‘ paddock-hand ’; the hot in the paddocks, ‘ turning,’ ‘ spreading/ ‘ hanking up ’; the junks of beef and duff, served on tin plates, the long bare table in the whare, and the big pannikins of tea. How thankful he had been to rest his aching back at night, and shut his tired eyes, after the fresh breeze had blown the tow-dust in. The tow-lined bunk, with ‘ bluey ’ rolled around him, might have been a downy bed, and Jim had soundly slept, deaf to the hum aud bite of the mosquitoes, or the worry of the everpresent floa. After that he’d got ‘ the carting job/ aud met ‘ those jolly youngsters’ from Te Kowhai.

And next had come the concert, ‘proceeds to be dGvoted to buying prizes for the school/ the announcement tacked up in the station-house had read, and Bricks, meeting Jim at the ‘ turn-off ’ that day, had shouted — ‘ The 10th, you know, Jim !—concert—you’ll be sure to come ?’ And Jim had waved his hand and nodded.

The 10th, by jove ! his birthday—twentyfive ! How many would he spend at Harrison’s P The last he’d spent —yes, droving in rhe North. His twenty-third and second, New South Wales boundary-riding on old Cameron’s run ; tho one befoi’e in India, but he had been down with fever then, and all unconscious of time, dates, or anything. His twentieth, the last he’d spent at home in London with Aunt Beatrice, -when she had jokingly scolded him for putting coals on the fire himself, instead of ringing for the man to, and just then rattle ! bump! had gone the dray over tho ruts. Oh ! life’s little ironies!

Then Jim had lived that evening over again, could see the drawing-room, with its luxuriant loungy chairs, soft rugs and hangings, and the shaded lights. Could see Aunt Beatrice, stately and beautiful, and Gertrude some way off at the piano playing, dreamily, softly, sadly—lie could hear it yet—Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique.

Next week had como the confession to his brother of college debts, ‘ betting a bit you know/ Jim had said; ‘it looked so deuced mean to hang back when ail tho fellows were in. Would Rupert help ?’ And then the brother’s anger and hard words, and Jim’s retort, ‘for the sake of the name,’ tho debt paid, and then -£SO ‘to clear out.’

Next day Jim’s longing for a word of kindness and farewell from sweet Aunt Beatrice, but‘she had been called away/ and only Gertrude saw him—Gertrude, looking cold and shocked ; and Jim had stayed no longer than to kiss his little godson in the hall. He wondered had the youngster quite forgotten him, or had ho catalogued him in his memory as ‘naughty cousin Jim?’

Though in no cheerful mood that night, Jim had gone up to the concert with the rest, all in their Sunday ‘togs’ —boiled shirts, hero and there a ‘hard hitter, and Dandy Gibbs amongst them, freshly shaved, liis hair oiled up, and carrying with him a perfect breeze of ‘Jockey Club.’

Of course, the concert was held in the school house, Rata Flat. A solitary, bushgrown district once, and then tho railway had como through, a few huts had collected, a store followed —which now did duty as Post Office, too —then a station had been built, and the towering ratas in the background, at that time covered with their masses of scarlet blossom, had suggested the name —and so it had been duly printed in the time-tables. The erection of Smith’s saw-mill had given a fresh impetus to the place, and then the want became apparent of a school; so it had followed, and the little Maitlands from Te Kowhai had been amongst tho first to join. The concort had become an annual affair and the settlers from far and near always turned out, arriving on foot or horseback, in buggies, carts or drays; and every quo v/ho a ypicSj thought they

Bun shone on

Christmas and # # . # # Exhibition Mum her

had, wa3 asked to sing l . All was quit© fresh to Jim, who, sitting far back against the wall, in a sad, listless, don’t-care mood, had taken it in. fes ! surely everyone was there; proud fathers and mothers come to hear their children sing. Old Blakely from the store (who had lent his piano for the occasion), Stephens the butcher, Smith’s saw-mill hands, and Harrison’s men. The little room, lighted by flickering candles and one lamp, was packed—babies were numerous; dogs whimpered at thei door, or were kicked into silence and obscurity under the seats. And then th© entertainment. First, a recitation by & bearded giant, who began, stuck, started afresh, then stuck again ; but the audience had clapped and thumped encouragement, so he was fain to finish up with the last verse— ‘ all he could keep hold on !’ Then followed a duet by two red, flustered damsels who clutched each other nervously ; then Brice, his one straight eye fixed sternly on the ceiling and the crooked on© slewed round towards the door, had bellowed out * the battle of something or other ’ —would it never end ? Next, Davy had produced his accordion and sung ‘ a parody,’ popular at the mill, Jim joining in the chorus with the rest — For to scutch or to press, To feed, or to catch, Or to be-e a flax-mill boy.’ And then his own turn came. He had intended singing' Father O’Flynn,’ but apiece of Lindsay Gordon’s, learned while in Australia, had seemed more suited to his mood that night. Aunt Sibbie, near the front, with Bricks and Phil on either side, found herself listening breathlessly as Harrison’s Jim went on : But I’ve cut my cake, and I can’t complain, And I’ve only myself to blame. Aunt Sibbie noted the sad, half-cynical tone. I watch the ladies tripping by, and bless their dainty feet, I watch them, here and there, with a bitter feeling of pain, Ah ! what wouldn’t I give to feel a lady’s hand again. Aunt Sabina’s face was full of sympathy, and she gave small Phil’s hand a nervous little squeeze ; but Jim was going on : I watch them, but from afar, and pull my old cap over my eyes, Partly to hide the tears that, rough and rude as 1 am, will rise ; Partly because I cannot bear that such as they should see The man that I am, when I know —though they don’t —the man that I ought to be. Aunt Sabina’s eyes by now were full of tears, and she held the little hands in a close, tight clasp. Her big sigh when it was over has made small Phil look up: ‘That’s our Jim, Aunt Sibbie’—in a loud whisper. ‘ I say, Bricks, doesn’t he look splendid in his best clothes ?’ And then they joined in clapping wild applause. While they sang their ' glee ’ Aunt Sibhio had sat thinking, and wondering, and —pitying—Harrison’s Jim. For she knew well the ups and downs of hard colonial life; know that many a good old English name was there translated into Brown or Jones ,* that many a hojieful lad ‘ come out to make a fortune ’ had oftentimes ‘ come down,’ sometimes through his own fault—drink or gambling—but just as often through perverse ‘ hard luck ’ and the absence of that necessary ' cheek,’ which, possessed, carried less worthy men perhaps successfully through. But Phil was nudging energetically; ' Your-turn, Aunt Sibbie,’ and Harrison’s Jim had seen her for the first time—a little figure in a soft white dress, with a sweet, ' pensive face, and dark brown, wavy hair. She played the melody herself, and sang the sweet, old song—the most truthful song Jim thought he’d ever heard; it haunted him for many a day—

And her face it was the fairest that e’er tho

Theii Bricks had stood up, proudly holding high a small, red hand to help her off tho stage.

- So that was Aunt Sabina! The subject had never interested Harrison's Jim till

'then, fot somehow the quaint name had made him picture her as gaunt, and tall, ■and prematurely aged; but Aunt Sibby—that was better ; and as such he bad eVet* after thought of her. Next time he met the children of coursb it was all concert talk. ‘And wasn't splondid, Jim, otir getting an ‘And didn’t Bill well r' ‘And Aunt Sabina, hadn’t. .Jilll thought her grand •?’ * And when we got home I heard her telling father about you, and he just laughed, and said something about Aunt •Sib’s roo-matic nature.. . And then Aunt Sibbie said, “At a place like Harrison’s mill a man of that stamp could have such a nexellent influ—- What was it, Doris, that we had last year? You know, when Phil and me were achey, and ill, and always sniffing?’ ‘Oh, that was influenza, you silly 5 Aunt Sibby couldn’t have meant that.’ And poor Bricks, looking critshed, had said, ‘ Of course not.’ Somehow after that Jim had shaved daily, instead of once a week. It was then, too, that he dragged out a fresh suit to put on after work. Of course his mates had chaffed him and wondered ‘Wot was up with the “ Doctor,” that ’e was gtoWin’ such a bloomin’ toff ?’

They named him “ Doctor ” soch lifter he had come. The hints picked up at ‘ First Aid ’ lectures long ago at home had now been turned to good account; and he bad bandaged many a cut and sprain. It was after the concert too that he had tried to take more interest in his mates, many of little Pressure brought to bear on Bryant ‘to try and smoke fewer cigarettes and kave a bit to help the good mother down in town.’ A pound or two to Clark, poor fellow! laid up with a broken arm, a ‘missis’ and two little kids to keep at Rata Flat. And then again, a night up with poor Bruce, come back with empty pockets after pay-day—a touch of the ‘blue devils!’ Poor Bruce !—who knew four languages and talked so proudly of his grand folk at home—lying there, besotted, half-deliric-us, taking great gulps of burning pain-killer to try and quench the craving for more drink. Could they at home ever be proud of him ? Jim wondered. Then early in the spring had come Phil’s accident, and Joe had hurried over. ‘ Boss and Miss Sabina at the Show,’ he panted, * and not a bless-ed doctor nearer than thirty mile—could Jim come over and try what he could do ?’ And Jim had gone, of course, just as he was, in ‘ working clothes,’ had put the little shoulder into place, and grandmother, though half-distracted with anxiety, had noted the deft touch, the gentle bandaging and the soft, soothing, cultivated voice. * A gentleman !’ she thought, ‘ there’s not a doubt of it.’

And that night ‘ Big ’ John Maitland had come over to pay his hearty thanks, and there had been a long talk in Jim’s tent. Next Sunday he had gone for the first time to Maitland’s place, but on the way across had come upon a ‘ picture ’ in the bush—Aunt Sibbie sitting on a fallen pukatea, her lap quite filled with snowy clematis, and there was Bricks-on tip-toe, his tongue stuck well in his cheek, laboriously pinning more clematis into Aunt Sibbie’s hat. Then Doris had seen and seized and dragged him forwards, crying, excitedly, ‘ Aunt Sibbie, it’s our Jim !’ And then Aunt Sibbie, only remembering that this big, lonely fellow had been good to her adopted little ones, and touched by something in the sad brown eyes, held out a little hand brimful of friendliness, and her pretty words of thanks and welcome had been very sweet. And khat had only been the first of many Sundays at Te Kowhai.

‘ Any mail for the mill, Blakely ?’ ‘Yes, “Doctor.”’ Blakely strolls towards the pigeon-holes and picks the letters slowly out. ‘ “ ’Arrison ” two. “ Mister William Brown”—that’sjfrom Billy’s girl, I know ; ’e gets one hevery week reg’ler. “J. Chubbins ” —that’s the fly-boy, ain’t it ? and “James Fort Forty something— Esquire ” —lor ! who the dickens is that ?’ queries Blakely. But Jim, with the precious packet, has gone off.

*So Jim here’s going to take a trip to England/ announces Big John, after ho and Jim have had another long hour’s talk and smoke on the verandah. Wild looks of consternation from the boys! But Jim’s eyes stray to the piano. He sees the tell-tale colour on Aunt Sibbie’s cheeks, her face grow grave and the old pensive look.

‘But I hope 1 may come back again some day.’ Aunt Sibbie does not speak, only looks up—and then, somehow, Jim reads what ho has hoped and longed for in her eyes.

Spring time again! and everything progressing famously, for STim is back, and there will be a wedding ‘when the clematis comes out/ Doris is home from school to ‘take Aunt Sibbie’s place when she is gone. And Doris and me and Bricks will all be bridesmaids ! won’t we, Jim ?’ Phil seizes his prospective uncle by the coat and soon is carried off to see ‘ how the new house is getting on.’ ‘Jim’s castle,’ they call it, for Rupert has made practical amends for his past harshness, and given Jim enough to make a comfortable start in the new land. So he has taken up a neighbouring run; just on a little ‘rise the house is being built, where Auntie Sib may see the old home and the river, and always keep a watchful upon eye ‘them orfulthree’—her legacy. .