Casual Impressions of Colonial Life . . . and Character . . .

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 17, 27 April 1907, Page 22

Casual Impressions of Colonial Life . . . and Character . . .

THE sentiment, the’feeling of something very like sacrilege, with which the casual visitor to bush clearing regards the ruthless destruction of the lovelinesses of the virgin forest, occupies, as may he imagined, small place in the wind of the breaker in of the land. Nor is he affected in the least degree by the hideous ugliness and squalor of his present surroundings. He too has an imagination, but as must ever be the way with pioneers, it is an imagination which dwells not in the past, but fastens on the blight and brilliant future. Him, it seems impossible to discourage. If it were, he must inevitably cut his throat, for in the battle to get the upper hand of Nature, the disappointments are exasperating and of almost daily occurrence. Half of them, which would madden city men.' the settler scarcely deigns to ontiee. His patience under the irritating buffets of petty discomforts, of minor misfortunes, is almost past belief ill its severity. To the casual observance of a townsman, milking, for example, must be one of "perpetual aggravations of life. The bitter hatred with which (for the sake of others) 1 came to regard one or two allegedly innocent milkers,'is not to be expressed in language lit for publication. - Honorable exceptions there may be amongst bush milking cows, but to my mind the whole genus arc possessed of the devil. The entire object of the cow of the backblocks is to give-as much trouble as possible; ‘“To this end her mind is wholly given lip. and the devilish ingenuity with which she will devise new hiding places, and the apparent miracle she will achieve in the getting through or over fences, which are manifestly impassable, show that she occupies her time to some purpose. If “someone has blundered,” and the gate to the cow paddock lias been left open, waste not one second, in wondering. .if the brutes have got out and strayed. Be sure they have or they • wouldn’t be bush milkers, and are in some diabolically contrived hiding place, • heaven knows where. It matters not that you may have seen them safe in .rich gruss a mile away at the far end of the paddock but half an hour before, the bush cow knows ,by intuition when the gate has been left open, and she will get out. by the black art or something akin to it. “Hide and go seek” was a. tine game when we were children, and the cow is past mistress in the art of it; but .played as this allegedly gentle animal loves to play it, in the dusk of the evening, when everyone is already worn out with Iti to 18 hours of ceaseless slogging, it is a pastime only fit for the infernal regions, and then is too severe a punishment for any save the street corner loafer.

Occasionally, I beard vituperative language, but if the settler has children the. affair is reckoned in the day’s work, and that’s all there is .“to.it,” as the Yankees nay. It is very significant, however, that if there are no children. there is no cow, the settler wisely deciding to either do without milk, or. as.most do, use the caimyd article. I’ve .often heard this, and the fact that butter is a rare luxury in baekblocks, commented on by citybred people. They think it spells laziness. Oh, captious city critic, just fry milking for a week, in what is euphemistically called “broken epuntry” in the liaekbloeks! . Ypu will lr »ever care if you sec milk or butter again. I pierely ( mention the malignant naiqre of the bush cow to emphasise. as Gordon Graham, would say, the petty discomforts and. aggravations which might be expected to sour the temper of the backblocker. But, as sajd before,, his eye on the future. He seesnot horror in the blackened burn; he sees not the

ugliness of the new bush clearing in grass a year or so, but still littered with the wildest disorder of half rotted trunks, and hideous, dead, still standing trees.

Determined, indomitable, and undauntable. his eye is fixed on the day when all these rich pastures will be unmarred by stick or stone, and when the land he broke in with so much hardship will be rendering to him or his an hun-dred-fold. ‘ .

Even when the grave disasters inseparable from hard and stern battle in

which he is engaged overtake him, he is only a little whiter, only a little more grim about the lips. He never lies down to those temporary defeats which must occur sometimes. For example: Hie success or non-suecess of a burn is a matter whose importance no person save those who have been through', the : mill—and suffered—can by any possible means comprehend. ......... Failure, or even partial failure, which is almost worse, means the loss of a year’s income, the loss that is of productive power for a year,' and a very serious financial extra outlay , as well, for the underscrub will spring up again, ami will have to be slashed through next spring.

The conditions of a burn must all be favourable. or the -attempt ends in disaster. Thus, every day,.you ran aIV'V for the fallen bush to mature, for the sap to dry out, and the timber get more aitll riibre‘inflanintable, is : td’be'zealously gathered in; so to say. The greater the spell of tine weather.you. can secure, the latest moment to whieli, you can dare t.o put off the liling,,.the better. But, again, though the bush be dry, there must be wind; and, iurtfier, if the wind is in the wrong direction, or. ratlrer, not in exactly the right direction, action is impossible. These are the days—an I it goes on for weeks—when strain shows clearly-in the faces of. the strongest of the men, and when tumbling and tossing in the bunks of nights tells, that, where Anxiety holds sway, dread Insomnia may even enter the worn-out backblocker’s cabin. Halt a dozen-times in the night you will hear the partners turn out, look at the sky. and with wetted- finger uplifted see if there is any wind, and from what quarter it is coming. ■ ...

It is five weeeks since the last rain. The fallen bush is in fair order, but everyday, nay. every- hour, improves it. Day passes after day. -and-the tension is telling on all. 'The arbiter of fate in this matter looks whitely anxious as lie endeavours to decide what is best. At last he gives the dictum: “Wait till midday, it all events.” Alas amt alack! Everything is prepared, but ’tia too late. The wind drops, changes at. dusk, and a-s the darkness closes over the landscape a few big drops of rain fall, and, then literally the deluge. A mistake in judgment (of 12 hours only) has cost the burn for Hie year. Set and white are the faces round the breakfast table. It is the house of death —of the. death of a year's work and hopes. The women, as usual, rise to the occasion and attempt to make conversation; but sooner or later it drops —consolation is impossible, and questions or idle assurances that “all is for the best” impertinent; so, wisely, nothing is said.

Here was simply a ease of gambling with the elements. Taking the matter in all its bearings, the season, past experience, etc., the odds were enormously in favour of a long stretch of further fine weather, and a perfect burn. The stake was. therefore, made and lost, and there’s no more to be said. The reverse Is met liravely and silently, as we Britislftrs have learned- to take our reverses of other battlefields; and be sure it Is this sullen, silent, uncomplaining acceptance of unavoidable reverse, which has ever

rendered us terrible in war, and has made us the greatest pioneering and colonising nation the world has ever known.

It was fated I should not see a burn, and a description of what must be one of the most gorgeous sights in the world cannot be written from hearsay—that must be for another and a later paper. In the ordinary course of events, neither should I have seen bushfalling as conducted amongst these particular settlers, but a camp of Maors-being engaged on the selection in fencing one of the newly sown areas, it was decided to take them “off” for a day, and have an exhibition for my lienefit. “It has to come down some, day, and a day off is nothing much anyway,” says my elder host when I expostulate. • “Are the Maoris good workers?” 1 ask, as we set out for the scene of operations. , . . ... . “Yes. and no!" “As hew?” “They are good when they like the work, and when once started, but it’s often maddening to get them .to start. They will promise to come and promise and promise. They will leave Te Kuiti, or wherever their kainga is, to-morrow. It is a ease of ‘to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow-’ You dare not swear. They would shrug their shoulders, and not come, for the demand for their services is enormous. . They, .are doing you a favour,,and to do more than implore would lie suicidal. In my, beard, I Jiave cursed them lock, stock, and .barrel, but I have had to keep,a smiling face.' Yet once they have com'e, and brought their women .and their picaninnies, and their dogs, and got started, they are rattling good workers.” During, this conversation we arrived at the camp of some eight oy teil flytents of various sizes. Inside several of them fires are burning (how this is,managed, and how the smoke difficulty, is got over I forgot to inquire). Two,or three young Maori women, wives of the axemen, come out, attracted by the barking of. the scores of dogs, without which ho Maori camp seems complete. These are the handsomest native women I have seen (which is saying much), and come from near Te Kuiti, where their husbands are very considerable landholders. The mystery of why they should be content to work and improve other people’s holdings, and absolutely .ami entirely neglect their own (as I saw for myself ,on the return journey) ,is a problem I have since pondered over, but on which I forgot to ask a question. The men have gone on, we find. “You said just now, .‘if they liked their work.’ How do you mean?' “Well, a Maori'likes work at which he can make a splash—a show, Uninteresting solid graft, such as digging, which snows precious little in its accomplishment, he is no good at. : For that you must have white labour.”

‘■Bush-falling the. Maori has taken very kindly to, and some of them are very expert at it- Especially are they good when working alongside white axemen of repute, as was the case here last year.” . “How’s that?”

“Why. they like to try and work the pakeha to a standstill, and will everlast

ingly plug in to that end. Of Course, they don’t do it exactly, but I’ve no doubt they keep the other man going, though, to say the truth, when it’s a contract-—sO many acres in so many months—there’s no eight hours’ fakement, or many ‘spell -hos’-l’ You’ll hear their ages ringing and the trees crashing by sun-up till after the last of the light is gone, arid then .they often have a walk of two'or' Hired mile’s to tlujc camp. They Worked right. Up till the

day before Christmas Eve this year, in order to get finished and go to town for the races, and, my word, they did get through some work that last week!” “And the pay?” '■ “Well, here, we leave the biggest trees standing. We think they take up less grass room, and rot almost as quickly, for when down they only burn partly through. Our class of bush is contracted for at from 23/ to 25/ an acre; .and at that they must make good money, or they wouldn’t tackle it. If everything had to come down the price would be higher.”

“Do they ever save?” “Not they. Goodness only knows how they fritter away their money. The other day in Te Kuiti I gave a workman £3 on account, and of this fully £2 must have gone in the bar, the temperance bar, at Kerr’s in the afternoon..’’ “But what on?” “Genuine ‘soft’ drinks. You tasted that draught hop beer there? Well, it’s plain .innocent hop beer all right, bill in the absence of the real thing it sells just as ‘readily at sixpence a glass. A tot of one or other of the several brands of so-called punch made from chillies is added, if the shouter be ‘a toff,’ and the Maoris drink quarts of it. I’ve often sfeen two 36-gallon barrels go on a sale day. and the Maoris without ‘a b'ean’ next day; but, of course, without any sore 'head either, which ’i» something. They must simply coin money out of “soft tack” at Te Kuiti. Time was when you could get a whisky or a gin anywhere ahri&t, and with so little disguise that to call it sly grog selling was absurd. Now all that is changed, the truth being that the district hopes to get a license, and everyone is being studiously and ostentatiously "Virtuous to show how well we deserve it.”

“Do you want it?” “Personally. I don’t care. I import what little whisky I drink, but it’s no doubt the no-license business is keeping the King Country back.” . Being men of some years and experience. we avoid the pros and cons of a problem which would fill twenty ‘Graphics* to discuss, and then please no one, and trudge on in silence. : “Truth to tell, the virgin bush, oven if you are on the imaginary thing they called a Maori track, is not the place for conversation. It is a-rough and tumble business, in which the new chum Soils frantically behind his seasoned guide, who waits every now and then for him to catch up within reasonable distance. -Don’t canfuse -this business with any -of the bush picnics you may have been to within twenty miles of town. That is civilised, partly broken bush, and you are on more or less clearly defined tracks. This -is a plunge : through; under and over an inextricable tangle of supplejacks, bush lawyer, fallen cabbage, and other trees and ferns which muffle the feet. Its toilsomeness cannot be put into .words; nor, can the thoughts- our has, as one is slapped, ford, scratched, and buffeted, be conveyed in print; I can but ‘touch the button' in saying it-ds infernal, and let imagination •do the rest. I used to be.iticcountcd a fair walker, and have done my thirty miles a day on a tour for a fortnight on eml, likewise I’ve climbed an Alp or so in Switzerland, but - a walk of about four, miles through' uncleared bush on a track, which was in • nd way to be distinguished from the rest of the tangle .(>so far as the uninitiated, is concerned),, will long live in iny memory as the hardest pedestrian ■ work I; ever did.” u . ...

(To be continued.)