FOLK OF THE MOUNTAIN.

Otago Witness, 1 June 1910, Page 87

FOLK OF THE MOUNTAIN.

By John MacLennan. In the passing away of Mrs Lewis one of the oldest landmarks of Waipori has disappeared. Her connection -with this wonderful goldfield dates back to the earliest sixties; and, like the mountain and the river, her name has become part and parcel of the scene. Her store and dwelling were on the right bank of the river, just facing the white footbridge which was long a landmark in the township, but now has given way to a more pretentious traffic bridge further up stream. Mrs Lewis's store was a rendezvous for all and sundry who wished, along with their stores, to give and get the news. And no one likes news better than a digger ; he simply revels in hearing .about Johnston's claim in Baker's Gully, or the escapades or jokes of Micky Tool. There Avas Micky Hicky, the poet, who, with no education whatever .in the shape of reading or writing, could set anything to rhyme. Wild, incoherent verse it was, but Micky was the acclaimed poet of Waipori, and his recitations were listened to with the greatest respect. Poor Micky! One of Micky's heroes was "All the painter," who used to come down from his hut in the Lammerlaw once a year to spend his cheque. What a lonely life it must have been in that secluded gully, and no wonder "Alf" enjoyed painting the township red. But his paint would soon get done, and the digger would disappear again to his loneliness, leaving Micky to immortalise his holiday in verse. Then there were the two inseparables, Tom Dooley and Mick Casey. To meet them in the store after a sojourn in the mountains was simply meeting with the gods—full of enthusiasm, brimming over with life, keen for tlie point of a

joke—rind there you are. Tom would tryto outdo Mick, and Mrs Lewis would cap the stories of both. Sitting outride the door in the sun, taking in every word, would be "Charlie the Cure." Charlie was a cynic. Like the Persian poet of Fitzgerald, he had done with the wrangling of the universe, and was content with his bed of roses—a candle box turned upside down —in the sun. This story, which the cynic did net deign to deny, was whispered concerning him. Having imbibed not wisely but too well with his friend Micky , they quarrelled. In the fight which ensued Charlie was knocked clown. "Get up, Charlie," commanded Micky. '"What for, Micky?" "Till I knock you down again, Charlie." "Well, then, Micky, I'll not get up." And so the fight ended. But fighting was never a hobby with diggers; that's why this one has gone into history. This is merely a glimpse of the romance of the store. Mrs Lewis's sitting room behind the store was another memorable meeting pice. There the fraternity would meet when the lamp was lit and the log fire blazing merrily in the old-fashioned fireplace, to play <T Hlgh low Jack and the game," or, better still, "Forty-fives," an' "no renegging." What enthusiasm they could work into the cards —dead earnest every bit of it. The more earnest they became the greater became the hilarity. There the joke would be passed that never saw the light till the lamps were lit. Charlie the Cure could work in his cynicisr into the planking down of a trump card, —and leave his partners to wonder how he became possessed of the secrets of the mountains. Thus the simple merriment would go on, heedless of the hour, till Mrs Lewis go£ up to get the sticks in for lighting the morning fire. This prelude to the finish only tended to make the game more hilarious. Tom would plank his bowers on Micky's ace, and Charlie would come m with a mysterious trump, and there is no saying how long the game might have game on had there not been some manner of stopping it. This was the winding up of the clock. When Mrs Lewis took it off the quaint old mantelpiece and started winding the boldest knew it was time to go. And now old Father Time takes a hand ( at winding the clock. Figure after figure leaves the banqueting hall, till those who are left are indeed tired, and glad to seek rest So be it! It is well that when the labourer's task is over they should leave behind them, even as the folk of the mountain do, bright records and blessed memories.