SALE DAY

Otago Witness, Issue 3782, 7 September 1926, Page 81

SALE DAY

By

PINEGROVE.

(Fob thb Witness.) The streets of the little country township are thronged with people. Motor cars and horses and carts are continually entering the town, and flocks of sheep and herds of cattle are passing through its streets. Most of the horses and carts are driven into livery and bait stables; the motor cars into garages and car-parking areas. The sheep and cattle are being driven to the saleyards. All is astir with bustle and excitement. It is sale day or, more familiarly speaking, the “ cookies’ picnic.” A sale day is held in the little country township every fortnight for the buying and selling of sheep and cattle and all farm animals. Some of the farmers come to buy cattle, some to sell cattle, but the majority of them come just to look on. The women mostly come to do their shopping and to gather together for a gossip. The township in general is fairly small, but on average days it seems too large for the few people who are to be seen about its streets. The every-day population of the town, including that of the suburbs, is about 500, or more. About 11 o’clock every sale day a train from the bush districts arrives bringing people from 30 miles back. A large number of bush folk make it a practice of coming regularly to the sale; farmers and farmers’ wives, sawmillers’ wives and sawmillers themselves sometimes—the sale holds a charm for all. As time goes on the streets become more and more crowded. The people are mostly all simple, honest, sociable bush folk, void of all the unnecessary sham that we find in larger cities. The train from the north, or from civilisation we might say, arrives at halfpast 11. It brings lawyers and a dentist or so, perhaps. Motor cars and carts still continue entering the town. About 12 o’clock the tearooms and restaurants beeome packed with people, and remain fairly busy all the afternoon. The rattle of dishes and cutlery can be heard from the street, sounding like music to the, ears of the hungry individuals. At 1 o’clock the sale starts. The saleyards are at the entrance to the town, and although a big crowd, mostly men, is there the streets are still fairly crowded. As we wander about the streets we meet men who are looking at things from the business point of view. Perhaps it is an opossum skin buyer, who is quite affable to us, and offers us about half their value for our skins. In the main part of the town —known by two large shops joined together, both with verandahs, and situated at the crossing from the general post office—two Salvation Army representatives, a man and woman, sing and preach and play a kind of harmonium. Big crowds gather on the verandahs to listen. The two large shops and the crossing act in a similar way to the little township as the Fountain does to the city of Dunedin. The Army preaches and sings for about an hour, and then a collection is taken up. A large number of shillings and sixpences are thrown in along with a few half-crowns and florins and an odd pound note. Very few bush folk refuse to give something when the hat is going round. Along the street one often hears a conversation between two bush lads. Perhaps one is standing by a verandah post looking sleepy and downhearted when the other comes up and stands beside him. The Newcomer: “ Well, Tom, an’ how’s things? ” Tom: “Oiriglit! Having a look round? ” The Newcomer: “ Yes; long time since I’ve been here. I sorter lost meself a few minutes ago; went tearing into the butcher’s shop to get a loaf of bread.” Tom: “ ’Strutli! Yorter come in oftener.” The Newcomer: “ Can’t very well; got no hack worth talking about. ’Ad your dinner ? ” Tom: “Yairs. I had dinner at Brown’s.” The Newcomer: “I had a hot pie at Riley’s. You ought to go there, Tom; there’s a dinkum little waitress there.” Tom (ignoring remark): “ What price did you get for your ’possum skins this year ? ” The Newcomer: “ Haven’t sold yet. Going to wait and sell by auction. Those blanky middlemen only give you halfprice.” Tom: “ I dunno. It pays to sell straight out.” The Newcomer: “No, it don’t.” And so the bush lads keep on arguing and talking about bush subjects while we wander on through the crowd. Mates who have not met for years are apt to hold their greeting in the very centre of the crowded footpath. There is no street control in country townships like there is in large cities. Instead of keeping to the left people are more inclined to keep to the right, while some again prefer the middle of the street. •Down at the saleyards the auctioneer is busy. The yards are full of sheep and cattle. Along the top of the yards stand old “ cockies,” watching the bullocks, „ and praising their condition, and pointing out certain two-year-olds that could do with some more grass, or a certain heifer that would make a “good little

milker.” There also is the butcher from some bush district on the lookout for some old bullocks to buy cheaply, kill, and then sell to the bu6h folk as firstclass beef at full price. At 3 o’clock the bush train departs with its load of passengers, making a big decrease in the crowds seen about the streets. People who live a great distance from the town, and who have large herds of cows to milk, begin to harness up their horses and carts, ready to return home. Motor cars also begin to leave the town on their homeward journeys. Motor car owners have more time to spare than owners of horses and carts, but after 4 o’clock there is nothing much to stay in the township for. The shops still have people in them, all pushing past one another to retrieve parcels they have left there, or to buy something or other to take home for tea; but the “kick” of the town is gone. As we leave the town by horse or motor car we frequently overtake and pass flocks of sheep and small mobs of cattle going to their new pastures or back to their old ones if they have not brought a reasonable price. There are many people to be seen here and there along the road, all returning home. There is neither joy nor sadness in the homeward journey, for the bush folk take it all as a matter of course; just as the sun sets it will rise again; so will the hush folk visit the township again some other day.