OLD IDENTITY DAYS IN OTAGO.

Otago Witness, Issue 3714, 19 May 1925, Page 70

OLD IDENTITY DAYS IN OTAGO.

By

R. S.

(For the Witness.) [The writer of this series of articles has had a varied and interesting life. Although he is about 90 years of age he has written these notes in a firm hand without the aid of spectacles, and he walks from 10 to 15 miles a day.— Ed. O.W.] I. By way of introduction to these reminiscences of bygone days 1 may say that I have an excellent memory in connection with old-time events, though my memory is by no means reliable when tested by the recollection of yesterday’s happenings. Many everyday occurrences of 50 years ago I can readily recall, jns an instance: I have no recollection of the voyage from London to Port Qhalmers, but I have a distinct recollection of the boat in which my people landed from the ship running aground on the slimy, flat bottom some distance from the shore, and a man, my father, who had preceded us to make a home in New Zealand for his family, lifting me in his strong arms and wading to the beach, and then to the house where it had been arranged that we should stay for the night. The survival of that memory through a stretch of 65 or 66 years is no doubt explained in the sudden transition from life on the “rolling deep" for about seven months on the slow, old sailing vessel to the strange surroundings of life in the new country. Then came the long experience of sunihine and freedom on the, then, very Interesting foreshore of the picturesque little seaport. There are many recollections of noticeable events which occurred a little time after our landing. Maoris from Taiaroa Kainga were constantly to be seen wandering about the beach, and among the scattered houses. Mother used to tell of a wahine bringing one of her little boys and offering an exchange for the chubby, white kid (myself) who had attracted the old lady by a display of white curly hair, white skin, and a white summer dress, a com • bination that seeffted to have won her appreciation. Finding, after a long attempt to do a “trade,” that the white mother could not be induced to agree to the exchange, she went off to'the beach and returned laden with two little ones, the child whom she had brought on the first visit and another of about a year younger, and confidently offered the brace of piccaninnies for the little white fellow. The mater’s refusal to listen to the wahine’s eloquent pleadings brought forth a storm of vituperation, the ftlaori evi dently being of opinion that a person who had not sufficient sense to profit from such a very advantageous offer must be one of the silliest creatures imaginable. The wahine toddled off with manv loud “ouchs” and Svahs” of contempt, and my mother, who was getting a bit soared, kept me carefully in the little cottage we lived in until the Maoris had started in their boat for their home across the Lower Harbour. The one hotel stood at the head of the little jetty close under the high diff, and the shell-backs from the ships and the wharf hands and lightermen accustomed to frequent the bar pretty regularly. A fine, white, billy goat was ?iven to my brother, who was then about 0 years of age. Billy was much petted, and was made considerable jise of by some of the bigger boys, chums of my brother, as a pony, until he grew older, and, consequently, sufficiently wise to get lid of his jockeys by methods which frequently caused damage to the boys, and brought Billy occasional “lickings.” Some of the sailors made the goat’s acquaintance and coaxed him into the bar of the hotel, where he was taught to rear on his hindlegs, put his forefeet on the counter, ind lick rum out of a tumbler. I regret 'that Billy gradually grew to be too fond of the waipiro, and took to visiting the hotel bar on his own emerging therefrom on occasions with very unsteady gait and other evidences of having had a drop too much. My father was annoyed, and, on his return one evening from a trip up the harbour, he took a laifrern and a knife and, accompanied by a neighbour, went to Billy’s sleeping quarters and put an end to his escapades for all time. I remember watching the gleam of the lantern and weeping bitterly when the echo of a distressed, feeble “ba ’ came from the scene of action. The guardian of the peace was Mr Davie Kilgour, and the gaol a tumbledow„ o.d wooden building which occasionally accommodated a drunken jack-tar who could not be induced to keep himself quiet and bohnve. It was said that some of the occupants of tho “gaol” discovered that, by prising two or three boards up from the floor, they were able to get out by crawling under the building, and so get to the hotel at nightfall and procure a supply of sleep mixture to lessen the discomfort of their hard sleeping place. As a rule they were manly enough to return' to their temporarv lodgings so that their kind hear ted custodian would not get into trouble.

The old iron gaol at Dunedin was under the charge of Mr Monson, a kind-hearted, benevolent old gentleman quite unfitted by nature to take charge of any “bad eases.” I remember years after one of my father’s bush fellers, “George” bv name, described how he and a few of h(s mates, run away sailor*, were treated so wall by their gaoler thAt they agreed to take advantnsc pf hla kindness and make a bolt for the •untry; so one day when he had set

them to weed tho kitchen garden they started off for Saddle Hill, and put in two dreadful days and nights wandering about its bare sides. The morning of the third day saw them a penitent little band on the .ground in front of the gaol waiting for the opening of tho door. It was opened by Mr Monson. “Ah! You naughty rascals, where have you been,” he cried. “Come in amt get a warm, and you won’t have long to wait till breakfast is ready. Meantime I wish to learn where you have been hiding yourselves.” “Yes,” said George, “it took us a good while to fill ourselves up with food, for we had lived on hair for most of the time.” “On hair?” queried one of his audience in astonishment. “Why you couldn’t possibly live on hair, George; you don’t mean that.” But poor George did mean it, only it was the “hair of the hatmosphere” and not the “air of ’is ’ead” that he meant. But I am wandering too far ahead of my story and must get back to port again. One bright, sunny day, when my father was. away at the farm, as was usually the case then, the remaining members of tho family, four in number, were at the midday meal, with the door of the little cottage standing wide open, when four Maoris, a man, two women and a young hunchback girl crowded in through the open door. The Maori rangitira was clad in a black frock coat, belltopper hat, and cotton shirt. His nether limbs were bare. The women and girl sidled in and squatted down on the floor with their backs to the wall: the man’s face lit with smiles when ne saw the roast of mutton and potatoes smoking on the table, and. he advanced rapidly with outstretched hands, displaying two rows of shining white fangs, in marked contrast to his oily, dark skin. Now. my perch at table faced the door, and, as the Maori approached very quickly with an evil grin on his savage face, I shrank as far back into my chair as possible, for the visitor looked ravenous, and I was in doubt whether he was after the boy or the mutton. he transferred the potatoes to the tail pockets of his coat, and, lifting the Toast of mutton in both hands, gave vent to a guttural howl of delight that caused me to roll out of my chair and under tho table, from which safer post of observation I was able to view the Maori marching out of the doOr, gnawing hungrily at the roast. The three women who had taken no part in the raid, rose from their cramped positions and, showing their white teeth in broad, appreciative smiles, probably called forth by his successful forage on the pakeha stores, followed their lord and master into the open. air. After a time the white folk resumed their interrupted meal, substituting bread and butter for the more satisfying mutton and potatoes on which they had hoped to fare. The Otago Maoris were rarely troublesome. One time an old chief, “Jacky White,” was put in the lock-up at Port Chalmers for having killed his son-in-law; the latter had offended the old man and he chased the son-in-law to chastise him. As the younger man ran he slipped and fell, striking his head on an iron pot and dying from the effects of the blow either immediately or very soon after. That was the Maori account of what took place. Other rumours drifted in not quite in accord with the Maori version, and the authorities decided to arrest Jacky White and hold an inquiry. The old Mooii was collared pretty easily and locked up in the rickety gaol, and then the fun began. Tho Maoris gathered from far and near, and men and women howled and blubbered unceasingly, onlv varying the performance at times by uttering wild, menacing yells which scared the handful of white folk prettv considerably. At night time the Maoris made big fires to camp beside, and the flare of the fires and the incessant outcries made it even more nerve-racking. The blaze from a dozen different ports and the howling of the Natives have impressed the incident on my memory. TTie situation must have been serious for a few hours, but some methods were adopted to meet the emergency, and the Maoris retired peacefully to their different villages. What Jacky White’s real name was I have no idea, and if any further proceedings were taken is also unknown to me. The beauty spots, which studded the shore on the south side of the Upper Harbour, were then numerous, and presented great scenic variety. One day I was the juvenile member of a boating party floating lazily not far off shore in a little sheltered bay. There was the highest spring tide that I remember ever having seen in those parts with, perhaps, one exception, the night that the river steamers favourite and Pride of the Yarra collided with such calamitous results. On the day I now write of the sun shone bright-, and the water was clear as a mirror and motionless, except where the inshore current ran; but a marvellous sight was great clusters of clematis rising and falling on the moving water close to the beach. The high tide had caught and carried the vines out from the overhanging trees on the bank, and for 20 or 30 feet out shore there floated a belt of thoso beautiful white flowers. All the lovely shrubs and flowers vanished long years ago, ruthlessly unrooted by tho pick of the road navvy, or chopped down to boil the billy. In calm, mild weather the central waters of the Upper Harbour would glint blood-red under the bright sun rays, an effect caused by the advent of millions of little scarletjacketed; miniature crayfish-—shrimps we used to call them, but the more practioalminded boatmen and beachcombers termed them whale feed, and such in truth their mission seemed to bo. With these red-coated invaders came great flockß of sea gulls in the air and shoals of fish in the water below, all alike intent on gorging themselves with the food providod by the bodies of the unlucky little shrimps, the gulls filling the air with wild cries as they fought

and disputed over the feast. Doubtless the gulls and shrimps are still in evidence, but not in tlio countless numbers of those days. Porpoises used occasionally to find their way into the Upper Harbour in spite of the difficult navigation caused by the numerous sandbanks and shoals. I remember ouce, when glowering over the gunwale of a boat into the water, a big, dark shape bobbed with startling suddenness from the depths followed by another and still another, and theu “flop” they were gone. “By jove, porpoises,” said a voice as I tumbled back, scared, into the bottom of the boat. Porpoises, however, rarely ventured into the Upper Harbour, and then only in tho first few years after we came. The wild ducks were fairly numerous occasionally, and, when father was home, he used to get a few, for he was a good shot. lie would sally out with the old, double-barrelled muzzle loader and take advantage of the clumps of native shrub down by the beach to shelter him from the sharp eyes of the ducks. Most folk were satisfied to get ono at a time, but he would wait patiently till the victims were close together and often bring back two or three ducks for one shot. The other sportsmen were envious, for they generally wasted two or tliree shots for each bird they brought home. My brother had a marvellous aid collie dog, a black-and-tan, named Keeper. His intelligence was quite uncanny. It was a red letter day when father had preparations under way to go duck shooting. The dog used to get so full of suppressed excitement that he would be nuite shaky from the effects, and would watch with the most intense interest every movement made by the man with the run. As father stooped and dodged to avail himself of the cover the dog crouched and crawled noiselessly behind him, copying, as nearly as nature would permit, the various movements of his leader. Down by the beach the flash of the gun seemed simultaneous with the heavy splash of the dog’s body into the water, and, no matter how far apart the birds might drift, ‘I have no recollection -of his ever missing one. He was a powerful swimmer and a good gun do-g, and could be left to take any number of cattle through the thick bush with no danger of losing one. His crowning performance, however, was being able to know when the boat was leaving town. At that time the only means by which settlers were able to receive household supplies from town was by the agency of the boats of from half-a-ton to about two tons burthen. The smaller sized boats were in more general use than the larger. When our boat was being made ready to leave for town, Keeper would sit on the bank over the beach and watch the preparations with his big, brown eyes. When the boat started he would make no attempt to follow. Three or four hours after the boat had left the dog would appear close to the beach in front of the house, seated on a little grassy mound which was looked on as his special look-out post. At a little distance he would appear to sit quite still, but close inspection would discover that his eyes were gazing steadfastly in the direction of the town, and that his nose and ears were being kept in active service. Presently Keeper was gone. He generally made his exit without attracting attention—whether accidentally or part of _his wcU-thought-out scheme lam unable to say. Often I have heard mother call to the girl: “Anne, lay the. dinner things. The boat must be coming. Keeper is gone.” About two miles along the beach, townward, Keeper would be by the boat crew standing like a sentinel with his forepaws on a big boulder, waiting to greet the home-coming boat. He would theu scramble along tne rough beach to meet them at the lauding. The puzzle is, how did the dog know when the boat was leaving the town jetty? It was impossible for him to see a distance of five or six miles, and, besides, the town was hidden from sight by a jutting headland. For the same reason he would be unable to hear or smell, and, to make it still more impossible, the wind was often blowing from the dog towards the town. Often Keeper’s extraordinary gift was discussed at home, and it would be found that the dog left his look-out post just about the time the boat was starting on the return trip. I have kept pondering the matter occasionally for about 60 years, and cannot discover any solution to the mystery. Does an intelligent dog possess a sense of power which remains undivulged, and which .the scientist is not able to explain? A few years ago an acquaintance who occasionally trained dogs for use on cattle and sheep farms told me that he sent a young dog, which he had sold, first by train about 20 miles, and then in a waggon probably another 20 mile?. The dog had never been away further than a mile or two from the place where his puppy eyes first blinked their watery opening to the light of day, but three days after he was known to have reaohed his destination he was wriggling in frantic delight round the feet of his former master on the farm on which he had spent the first few months of life. This canine exploit is of course explainable, and cannot be classed with the extraordinary intuition displayed by the dog at the old homestead. In this instance the dog would luive little difficulty in retracing the first 20 miles of the road over which he had been carried in the waggon. When lie reached tho railway station lie would probably wait tho train on which he bad arrived in a dog box. His keen nose would discover that for him, and instinct would teach him to follow along after the iron horse in the right direction. But surely the pup should be credited with some pjift of a higher grade than mere animal instinct! He would, I should think, all through his task have to exercise reasoning power to enable him to overcome the many difficult problem* of bis lengthy return journey.

This is a digression from the subject on which I started, but I cannot help it. I am a lover of all good animals, and to the intelligent dog I lift my hat. I have a vivid recollection of one exciting discovery—a Maori canoe about 10 feet in length, hewn from a totara log, but undergoing rapid decay through being shrouded bv the heavy bush from the sun in a close, damp atmosphere of a piece of swampy ground. This canoe, I was gravely informed, was in course of construction by the Maoris when news came that Captain Cook had arrived off Taiaroa Heads, and was preparing to come ashore. The native ship builders immediately downed tools, and hurried off to assist to waddy, and, afterwards, enjoy for an evening meal as many as possible of tho invaders; subsequently, they had been unable to discover the canoe’s whereabouts. The real cause of the canoe being abandoned could be seen in a too thin section in one of the sides which would catise it to be somewhat easily stove in ; but thw sketch of what had happened to the canoe was the sort of stuff I was being constantly fed up on by the men, young and old. engaged in bush falling and other work. I was an innocent, lonely little chap, and accepted every incredible story told me as authentic history. Some of those bushmen were Australians, and their tales of adventure fascinated me. I was forbidden tneir camp by my father, but maoaged to get in amongst them for a few hours nearly every evening. I could induce the dog to accompany me, and I then felt quite' saie guu* uthrough the bush. Sometimes the stories round the camp fire were all of bushrangers and their exploits, and some thrilling blood-eiii dlers were generally told. Ihe detestable Morgan was generally introduced by some of the adventurers, for he was acknowledged to be the cruellest and most treacherous of all the “hold-up” crew. Tlie stories told alongside the fire were, generally, of the most hair-raising character, and, if any lack of bloodthirsty incident occurred, the deficiency was immediately supplied by some one of the sober-faced but efficient liars seated round the fire. Then, all too soon, “turn in” time would arrive, and an awful retribution- for disobedience of the parental mandate would fall on my head. The friendly dog had generally gone home, probably scandalised by the outrageous lies told by the bushfallers, and I had to seek the “trail” on mv lonesome. Through the dark bush I would creep as fast as my paralysed limbs and fear-frozen heart would permit. Dark forms, flitting from tree to tree, could be seen at every step, and every moment I expected to see a tall form step from behind a tree and hear the customary old-time knight of the road command “Bail up.” When I reached the edge of the clearing fear would lend wings to my feet, and I must have put up big performances for a kid; never feeling safe till well within the shelter of the dear oid home. Tho house stood close to the beach of a well-sheltered bay, and generally life on the clearing was very dull and uninteresting. Occasionally, however, something would happen. One day a survey party camped on a well-sheltered cosy little terrace near the beach. I was told not to go near the camp, but—well, I had just a look at the tents. Next day, just on evening, there was a knock at the house door and, a visitor being quite an event, I flew to the door to get ahead of any one else in opening it. At the door stood an enormously tall man with an enormous black-brown moustache and beard I bolted hastily from the door and looked mother up. The big man was the surveyor, and he explained that he ivas a few feet too long to sleep comfortably in the tent, and might he bring his blankets ana camp on the house floor in the kitchen? He was told that he could have a room and a bed long enough to hold even his six feet four body. He was Mr Arthur Briscoe, a capable musician and honorary leader of the first brass band in Dunedin. He was always busy in his spare time on musical composition, and his name occurs occasionally as a composer in Australian music books. Anyway, he was much the biggest man and had the biggest moustache and beard that I had ever seen, but he looked too much like the description of some of tlie camp fire bushranging heroes for me to feel quite sure of him. (To be continued.)