Station Amusements in New Zealand by Lady Mary Anne Barker (best reads of all time .TXT) 📖

expected? To this question used to be added sundry anecdotes of earlier colonial life, intended to reconcile me to the manners of these later days. I remember particularly a legend of a man cook, who was said to have walked into the sitting-room of the station where the master was practising tunes on an accordion, and exclaimed, "Now, look here, boss, if you don't leave off that there noise, which perwents me gettin' a wink o' sleep, I'll clear out o' this, sharp, to-morrow mornin'. So now yer know," and with that remark he returned to his bunk.

At last I was goaded to declare I felt sure that the men only behaved in that way from crass ignorance, and that if they knew how much my feelings were hurt, they would alter their manners directly. This opinion was received with such incredulity that I felt roused to declare I should try the experiment next Sunday afternoon. The only warning which at all daunted me was the assurance that I should affront my congregation and scare them away. It was the dread of this which made my heart beat so fast, and my hands turn so cold as I opened the kitchen-door the next Sunday afternoon. There were exactly the same attitudes, every body perfectly civil and respectful, but every body seated. Luckily my courage rose at the right moment, and I came forward as usual with a smile, and said, "Look here, my men, there is one little thing I want to ask you. Do you know that it is not the custom anywhere, in any civilized country, for gentlemen to remain seated and covered when a lady comes into the room? If I were to go into a room in England, where the Prince of Wales, or any of the finest gentlemen of the land were sitting, just as you are now, they would all get up, the Prince first, most likely, and they would certainly take off their hats! Now why can't you all do the same, here?"

The effect of my little speech was magical. Pepper glanced at McQuhair, Moffatt crimsoned and nudged McKenzie, Wiry Ben slipped off the window-seat and shyed his hat across the kitchen, whilst Long Tom, the bullock-driver, "thanked me kindly for mentioning of it;" and every body got up directly and took their hats off. I felt immensely proud of my success, and hastened the moment of my return to the drawing room, where I announced my triumph. I repeated my little speech as concisely as possible; but, alas, it was not nearly so well received as it had been in the kitchen! "Have you ever gone to see a London club?" one person inquired. "Ah: I thought not! I don't know about the Prince, because he always _does_ do the prettiest things at the right moment, but I doubt very much about all the others. I fear you have made a very wild assertion to get your own way." I need hardly say I sulked at that incredulous individual for many days but he always stuck firmly to his own opinion. However, my men never required another hint. They came just as regularly as usual to church, and we all lived happily ever after.

I feel that my chapter should end here; but any record of my New Zealand servants would be incomplete without mention of my "bearded cook." Every body thinks, when I say this, that I am going to tell them about a man, but it is nothing of the sort. Isabella Lyon, in spite of her pronounced beard, was a very fine woman; exceedingly good-humoured looking and fresh-coloured, with most amiable prepossessing manners. She had not long arrived, and had been at once snapped up for an hotel, but she applied for my place, saying she wished for quiet and a country life. Could any thing be more propitious? I thought, like Lois, that my luck, so long in turning, was improving, and that at last I was to have a cook who knew her business. And so she did, thoroughly and delightfully. For one brief fortnight we lived on dainties. Never could I have believed that such a variety of dishes could have been produced out of mutton. In fact we seemed to have everything at table except the staple dish. Unlike the cook who actually sent me in a roast shoulder of mutton for breakfast one morning, Isabella prided herself on eliminating the monotonous animal from her bills of fare. Certainly she was rather heavy on the sauces, etc., and I was trying to pluck up courage to remonstrate, as it would not be easy or cheap to replace them before a certain time of year. And then she was so clean, so smiling, and so good-tempered. She seemed to treat us all as if we were a parcel of children for whom she was never weary of preparing surprises. As for me, I felt miserable if any shepherd or well-to-do handsome young bachelor cockatoo came near the place, dreading lest the wretch should have designs on my cook's heart and hand. I rejoiced in her beard, and would not have had her without it for worlds, as I selfishly hoped it might stand in her matrimonial path.

This Arcadian state of kitchen affairs went on for exactly a fortnight. One evening, at the end of that time, we had been out riding, and returned as usual very hungry. "What are we going to have for supper?" inquired F----. I told him what had been ordered; but when that meal made its appearance, lo, there was not a single dish which I had named! The things were not exactly nasty, but they were queer. For instance, pears are not usually stewed in gravy; but they were by no means bad, and we took it for granted it was something quite new. The housemaid, Sarah, looked very nervous and scared, and glanced at me from time to time with a very wistful look; but I was so delightfully tired and sleepy--one never seemed to get beyond the pleasant stage of those sensations--that I did not ask any questions.

Next morning, when we came out to breakfast, imagine my astonishment at seeing a tureen of half cold soup on the table, and nothing else! I could hardly believe my eyes, and hastened to the kitchen to explain that this was rather too much of a novelty in the gastronomic line. If I live to be a hundred years old, I shall never forget the sight--at once terrible and absurd--which met my eyes. Before the kitchen fire stood Isabella, having evidently slept in her clothes all night. She looked wretched and bloated, and quite curiously dirty, as black as if she had been up the chimney; and even I could see that, early as was the hour, she was hopelessly drunk. Between both of her nerveless, black hands, she held a poker, with which she struck, from time to time, a feeble blow on a piled-up heap of plates, which she persisted in considering a lump of coal. The fire was nearly out, but she hastened to assure me that if she could only break this lump of coal it would soon burn up. Need I say that I rescued my plates at once, and marched the bearded one off to her own apartment.

Oh, how dimmed its dainty freshness had become since even yesterday! Sarah was summoned, and confessed that she had known last night that "Hisabella" had gone on the "burst," having bought, for some fabulous sum, a bottle of rum from a passing swagger. It was all very dreadful, and worst of all was the scene of tears and penitence I had to endure when the rum was finished. The dray, however, relieved me of the incubus of her presence; and that was the only instance of drunkenness I came across among my domestic changes and chances.


Chapter XIV: Our pets.

One of the first things which struck me when I came to know a little more about the feelings and ways of my neighbours in the Malvern Hills, was the good understanding which existed between man and beast. I am afraid I must except the poor sheep, for I never heard them spoken of with affection, nor do I consider that they were the objects of any special humanity even on their owners' parts. This must surely arise from their enormous numbers. "How can you be fond of thousands of anything?" said a shepherd once to me, in answer to some sentimental inquiry of mine respecting his feelings towards his flock. That is the fact. There were too many sheep in our "happy Arcadia" for any body to value or pet them. On a large scale they were looked after carefully. Water, and sheltered feed, and undisturbed camping grounds, all these good things were provided for them, and in return they were expected to yield a large percentage of lambs and a good "clip." Even the touching patience of the poor animals beneath the shears, or amid the dust and noise of the yards, was generally despised as stupidity.

Far different is the feeling of the New Zealander, whether he be squatter or cockatoo, towards his horse and his dog. They are the faithful friends, and often the only companions of the lonely man. Of course there will soon be no "lonely men" anywhere, but a few years ago there were plenty of unwilling Robinson Crusoes in the Middle Island; and whenever I came upon one of these pastoral hermits, I was sure to find a dog or a horse, a cat, or even a hen, established as "mate" to some poor solitary, from whom all human companionship was shut out by mountain, rock, or river.

"Are you not _very_ lonely here?" was often my first instinctive question, as I have dismounted at the door of a shepherd's hut in the back country, and listened to the eternal roar of the river which formed his boundary, or the still more oppressive silence which seemed to have reigned ever since the creation.

"Well, mum, it aint very lively; but I've got Topsy (producing a black kitten from his pocket), and there's the dogs, and I shall have some fowls next year, p'raps."

But my object in beginning this chapter was not to enter into a disquisition on other people's pets, with which after all one can have but a distant acquaintance, but to introduce some of my own especial favourites to those kind and sympathetic readers who take pleasure in hearing of my own somewhat solitary existence in that distant land. I am quite ready to acknowledge that I never thoroughly comprehended the individuality of animals, even of fowls and ducks, until I lived up at the Station. Perhaps, like their masters, they really get to possess more independence of character under those free and easy skies; for where would you meet with such a worldly and selfish cat as "Sandy," or so fastidious and intelligent a smooth terrier as "Rose"? Sandy was an old bachelor of a sleek appearance, red in colour, but with a good deal of white shirt-front and wristbands, as to the get-up of which he was most particular. It was easy to imagine Sandy sitting in a club window; and I am _sure_ he had a slight tendency to gout and reading French novels. Sandy's selfishness was quite open and above-board. He liked you very much until somebody else came whom he liked better, and then he would desert his oldest friend without hesitation. I don't suppose the wildest young colley-pup ever dreamed of chasing or worrying Sandy, who would not have stirred from his warm corner by the fire for Snarleyow himself. Every now and then Sandy must have felt alarmed about his health or his