A STOCK SALE DAY.

Wairarapa Age, 20 August 1929, Page 2

A STOCK SALE DAY.

AUCTIONEERS & THE FARMER PUBLIC. THE ART OF EXTRACTING BIDS. (By “Crow's Nest.’') “ Southdown and Co., Ltd., in conjunction with Hogget, Harrows and Heifer, Ltd., will sell at Sunnyborough, on Thursday, at 1 p.m. sharp, 100 fat wethers, 200 m.s. wethers, dairy heifers, hacks, timber and sundries." At 1.00 p.m. plus twenty-five minutes super time, the auctioneer mounts the stockyard rails. Assistants with loud practised voices invite the farmer public to gather round the first pen. The farmers line the rails and prod the sheep. Dealers twiggle their (fingers through the woolly backs in the vicinity of the lumbar region, while others snip the sheep mouths between three fingers and examine teeth for age as though in a dental clinic. “Gentlemen," shouts the auctioneer. “This sale is under the terms and conditions to be seen over at the office." Having put himself on side with the law as to warranty, guarantee, Sale of Goods Act, and other technical trifles, the auctioneer clear voiced and keen, armed against the weather in oil coat and great gumboots, starts. “Fifty fat wethers in great condition. Money in these. Can I get a start at thirty bob? Yes, thirty; thirty-one, thirty-two. Yes. Thirty-three. A fine line these. Will take sixpence. Yes. Thirty-three six, nine; yes. Thirty-four, thirty-four, thirty-four. I'll take a penny. Yes. Thirty-four one, two; thirty-four three; yes; thirty-four four, five; yes; thirtyfour six, seven; yes; eight, nine, ten; yes. Thirty-five shillings I’m offered. Five, five, thirty-five. Any more bids? Thirty-five. Well, what does the vendor say?" We turn to look for the vendor, but he is some distance off discussing lazily whether Stringfellow or Fuller will play centre-threequarter, or Mill be preferred to Hart as half, and the wethers are meantime passed in. Next, another line of wethers, not so good, and they are quickly sold. Then fifty hoggets come under the hammer. ** Too small," says the man from Tauherenikau. “In good nick," says a Taiwaha chap as he plunges his fist in the wool above the kidneys. Up go the bids to 22s 9d, .and hang there. “What will I do?" calls the auctioneer, and the soldier settler vendor replies, ** l expected 25 bob,'' and away they go in pennies to 23s 6d and are sold, and fifty little hoggets depart. They had been in the same salering before, sold as culls from an East Coast Station in March last to the soldier at Ils. He had more than doubled his money and was satisfied. The auctioneers nad had two lots of commissions. The hoggets were going on to good country at Kahautara with good teed, and they would be happy. In six or seven months, minus wool, they would return to the same sale ring and ’be sold as ewes in lamb to Southdown Tams, and would probably bring 32s at least. So the Kahautara buyer would be content and the agents in for more commission, which oils the wheels of salesmanship and all would be very well. Next, to the cattle yards, and another auctioneer posts himself in a sentry box high above a yard that looks like a bull ring. We climb the rails and discuss supertax and mortgage exemption. “Gentlemen, three heifers close to profit," calls the auctioneer. * ‘l'll take bids for the pick. Ten pounds I'm offered, ten-five, ten-ten, ten-fifteen, fifteen; at ten-fifteen; going, going, gone!" and the Lower Valley bidder picks the black heifer. “Can’t beat the All Blacks," merrily exclaims the auctioneer, and up go the remaining two heifers. “Ten, ten, ten-fifteen, eleven, eleven-five, five, five. Take the two. Yes. Eleven-five. Going, going, gone!" And so the second pick brings more than the first, and the Lower Valley man scratches his head. So the throng follow the auctioneer round the expansive saleyards counter clockwise, following the sun, and finish up on the road where during the rural progress a draught horse comes into the line of fire of the auctioneer, starts at £25 and is passed in. Then a boy's pony, ridden by a smiling lad, comes under the hammer. A wag asks if the woolly little pony is engaged in the Derbies and is promptly assured that he is. But this does not help, and at £5 10s the pony is passed in and the lad rides him off rejoicing. The end of the sale. Oh, no! The procession moves on, led by the auctioneers and clerks with bulky account books minuting the proceedings. An English-bred grey thoroughbred plunging and entering into the spirit of the afternoon, scatters the procession by standing on his hind legs and pawing the air like a politician on a want of confidence motion. The procession moves along the road through the town, past the hostelry—which makes a toll in the ranks, the day bejng cold and suitable for fortification—and the merry farmers halt further on at a new building site. As we departed the auctioneer was hard at work extracting bids, selling stacks of timber, window sashes and what-not. But he seemed out of his element for timber boards and window frames are not like the little hoggets. They don't, like the hoggets, return to the saleyards when autumn leaves are falling and bring succulent commission in their trail.