THE SKETCHER.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1726, 29 March 1905, Page 14

THE SKETCHER.

THE DROVER.

By BEN IVESON. Author of "The 'Stockman/'’ etc. (Specially written, for the "Netv Zealand Mail/ 5 ) It was a, hot summer day. The sun wag doing its best to shrivel us up and the dust exerting itself to the utmost to choke us. Three thousand coast wethers were crawling along in front of us* their tongues hanging out and their breaths coming as by spasmodic efforts. The dogs followed lazily behind the sheep. Occasionally you would see one of the dogs sneak off and lay under a small ti tree or cottonwood alongside the road, thankful to get out of the scorching heat of the sun for a few seconds. Contentedly he stretches himself out. Sheep, master, heat and dust all forgotten till his master’s voice or another dog, in a fit of jealousy, disturbs him. Every drover’s dog loves a fight, but it is too hot to-day to fight or else the disturbed dog would, soon pitch into the disturber. ’T'is easier work to cut off a sheep from the mob and chase it. Binding himself a target for a stone from his master he slinks away with his tail between his legs. "Dust! Dust 1” It is Happy Jack who is speaking. "Enough to choke you. And not a bloomin’ pub on the road. Wish some of them durned Prohibitionists were drovers; they’d soon advocate two pubs to the mile along a cursed road like this.”

Three days we had been on the road with the mob. It was six that morning when we turned the sheep out of McGarrick’s paddock on to the road. It was now two in the afternoon, and in another four hours we hoped to see civilisation and the railway station yards. The "pannikin boss 5 ’ at McGarrick’s had loaded us with stale bread and pork to make our dinner off. He had dumped us into an outhouse to sleep. We didn’t object to this as we were only drovers. Drovers are used to being bundled about and dumped anywhere like a sack of wheat. What we did object to was "Slippery Bill,” who had just returned from his annual "bust” at the township, coming in about midnight and threatening to "spiflicate” us with an axe, the said Billy being in the "d.t J s.” and taking us for devils. We quickly settled William and the balance of the township "chain-lightning” (usually called by the name of whisky) he had upon him. Now we were cursing our luck for not having saved some to do us on the road. Dust! Dust! When we started off in the morning Sweep was ahead of the sheep steadying them. They needed no steadying now, and Sweep was crawling along lazily in the scrub at the side of the road. We were on foot, our horses following sleepily behind. Happy Jack and Body got round to talking dogs. It was only natural they should do so. When farmers meet they talk farming; ploughmen could not leave the smithy at the township without comparing notes as to how the soil in the last paddock turned over; two drovers could not drink "chainlightning” at the pub without consoling with one another on the "durned hardness of the diggin’ on that six-foot drain job.” So it is with drovers. They must "talk shop.’ 5 Their shop is dogs and horses.

"Drovers, nowadays, don’t know how to train dogs,” . said Rody. "I train mine in a way that suits ’em and in a manner they understand. Eerinstance, —Bob, will yon come in to my heel. Come in do yon hear. —'That’s the way I talk to Bob. It’s plain English and he understands you see. Jack there has some of the French breed in him and —Jack sacre mon doosh pukeroo ta frying-pan.—There you see that is French for ‘come in behind me.’ See how he obeys. Rough’s the worst dog I’ve got. A regular colonial. Got ter talk kerrect colonial to him. My colonial' oath he understands it.” Just then Rough exit a sheep off from the mob. "Rough, you lop-eared, lantliern-jawed, boss-eyed, * knock-kneed, herrin’-chested, pub-nosed son of a squint-eyed rattlesnake come in to me heel. D’you hear. Bob come aivay here” yelled Rody. Then to Happy Jack he said. "That’s the style I talk ter Rough. Real colonial. Half the drovers reckon their dogs are no good ’cause they don’t work properly. Bloomin’ cause of dogs not workin’ well is because they don’t know ’ow to work ’em. My dogs ’ud be no good if I talked to ’em all in the same langwidge. You’ve got to know a dog and talk to ’im in the langwidge he understands.” Dust! Dust! We come to a fair-sized river. The sheep eagerly plunge into the water, some seek the deepest part, swim about and drink the cool water. Dogs follow suit. Usually the deadliest of ♦nemies the dogs and sheep now fraternise together. Even old Bob, xvho was never known to give in to a sheep yet or treat it gently swam out of the way to> allow an old ewe to nibble some watercress growing on the bank. We turn our horses loose with bridle reins trailing on the ground and seek a spot above the sheep to slaken our thirst and wash the dust down. Slowly and in straggling order the sheep make their way out of the river and commence nibbling the grass on the river bank and along the * side of the road. The dogs are lying beneath toi-toi bushes. "Ought to be good creek fer eels,” said Rody as we squatted underneath a spreading manuka tree. '"Talkin’ about eels reminds me of a little experience I had once,” said Happy Jack. "Spit it out,” we cried. "Right oh,” replied Happy .Tack. ‘Hi was last summer and I was bringing a draft of blackhead fats to Waipawa. One night I struck a place, called out of politeness an hotel m a forsaken part of the province. Having nothing eh-: * to do after tea I got a line and intend. -p to go eeling. The landlord of the pvb on Seeing me with the line in my hsnd

asked, 'Where are you goin’ ? 5 I replied, 'over in the creek yonder/ 'Over in the creek,’ echoed the landlord. 'Yes/ I replied. 'There’s nothing fnnny about that is there? There’s eels there, isn’t there/ 'Well/ said the landlord in measured tones, 'when the cockatoos came here first they lived high for a time on the wild pigs. When these gave out they tackled the wekas. They next turned their attention to the eels, but now it is a case of the cockatoos after the cockabullies, and there’s hardly a coekabully left, let alone an eel! Might say haven’t been eeling since.’ ” * » • The sheep crawl in a ragged line along the road. A whistle to the dogs and the stragglers are rounded up and we start the dreary drive again. Over hills, along plains, across rivers, and as the shades of the night are falling, we see the lights of the township ahead. Round the back streets to the railway station sheepyards we make our way, and as the clock strikes seven we get the last of the sheep in the yard. Our work is not done yet. For next morning we are up at two o’clock loading the sheep into trucks, and at seven o’clock we see the last of them as the train steams out of the station with its load for Ngahauranga or Petone. The drover works long hours and experiences all sorts of weather and hardships. The work is monotonous but the pay good. In winter time the drover has stormy weather, bad roads, and swollen streams to contend with and has many a narrow escape from death in crossing raging torrents. The drover’s most faithful friends are his horse and dogs. Without a good horse and properly trained dogs a drover could not do his work. The drover has two sets of dogs— on© set of three for sheep and another set of two or three for cattle. The drover’s horse is like his master —plucky and hardy—and a worthy companion of lie that "follows the road.”