Station Amusements in New Zealand, Lady Mary Anne Barker [fiction novels to read .TXT] 📗

figure, for he ate less, and walked gravely and sulkily up and down the verandah for hours, but as soon as he considered himself out of danger, he relapsed into all his self-indulgent ways. No one ventured to offer Sandy anything but the choicest meats, and he was wont to sit up and beg like a dog for a savoury tit-bit. But he would revenge himself on you afterwards for the humiliation, you might be sure.

What always appeared to me so odd, was that in spite of his known and unblushing selfishness, Sandy used to be a great favourite, and we all vied with each other for the honour of his notice. Now why was this? If boundless time and space were at our disposal, we might go deeply into the question and work it out, but as the dimensions of this volume are not elastic, the impending social essay shall be postponed, and we will confine ourselves to a brief description of Sandy's outer cat. He was of a pure breed, far removed from the long-legged, lanky race of ordinary station-cats, who from time to time disappeared into the bush and contracted alliances with the still more degraded specimens of their class who had long been wild among the scrub. No: Sandy came of "pur sang," and held his small square head erect, with a haughty carriage as beseemed his ancestry. His fur was really beautiful, a sort of tortoiseshell red, the lighter stripes repeating exactly the different golden tints of a fashionable chignon. In early youth, though it is difficult to imagine Sandy ever a playful kitten, his tail had been curtailed to the length of three inches, and this short, flexible stump gave an air of great decision to Sandy's movements. But his chief peculiarity, and I must add, attraction, in my opinion, was the perfume of his sleek coat. When Sandy condescended to take his evening doze on my linsey lap, I never smelt anything so strange and so agreeable as the odour of his fur, specially that on the top of his head. It was like the most delicate musk, but without any of the sickly smell common to that scent. I believe Sandy knew of this personal peculiarity, and felt proud of it.

A far more unselfish and agreeable personage was Rose, the white terrier, whose name often finds a loving place in these pages. She and Sandy dwelt together in peace and amity, although the little doggie never could have felt any affection for her selfish companion. Rose's nerves were of a delicate and high-strung order, and there was nothing she hated so much as uproarious noise. Every now and then it chanced that during a few days of wet or windy weather, our little house had been filled by passing guests: gentlemen who had called in to ask for supper and a bed, intending to go on next day. In a country where inns or accommodation-houses are fifty miles apart, this is a common incident, and it sometimes happens that the resources of station hospitality are taxed to the utmost in this way. I have known our own little wooden box to be so closely packed, that besides a guest on each sofa in the drawing-room, there would be another on a sort of portable couch in the dining-room. This was after the spare room had been filled to the utmost. A delicate "new chum," who required to be pampered, had retired to rest on the hard kitchen sofa described elsewhere; whilst a couple of sturdy travellers were sleeping soundly in the saddle room. After that, there could be nothing for the last comer except a shake-down in red blankets.

It _always_ happened I observed that everybody arrived together. For weeks we would be alone. I lived once for eight months without seeing a lady; and then, some fine evening, half a dozen acquaintances would "turn up,"--there really is no other word for it. Well, on these occasions, when, instead of departing next morning, our impromptu guests have sometimes been forced to wait until such time as the rain or the wind should cease; their pent-up animal spirits became often too much for them, and they would feel an irresistible impulse to get rid of some of their superfluous health and strength by violent exercise. I set my face at once against "athletic sports" or "feats of strength" being performed in my little drawing-room, although they were always very anxious to secure me for the solitary spectator; and I forget who hit upon the happy thought of turning the empty wool-shed into a temporary gymnasium. There these wild boys--for, in spite of stalwart frames and bushy beards, the Southern Colonist's heart keeps very fresh and young--used to adjourn, and hop and leap, wrestle and box, fence and spar, to their active young limbs' content. They seemed very happy, and loud were the joyous shouts and peals of laughter over the failures; but after seeing the performance once or twice, I generally became tired and bored, and used to slip away to the house and my quiet corner by the fire. Rose considered it her duty to remain at her master's heels as long as possible, but after a time she too would creep back to silence and warmth, though she never deserted her post until the noise grew altogether too much for her nerves; and then, with a despairing whimper, sometimes swelling to a howl, poor little Rose would tuck her tail between her legs, and dash out, through the storm, to seek shelter and quiet with me.

Whenever Rose appeared thus suddenly in my quiet retreat, I felt sure some greater uproar than usual was going on down at the wool-shed, and, more than once, on inquiry, I found Rose's nerves must have been tried to the utmost before she turned and fled.

As for the intelligence of sheep-dogs, a volume could be written on the facts concerning them, and a still more entertaining book on the fictions, for a New Zealand shepherd will always consider it a point of honour to cap his neighbour's anecdote of _his_ dog's sagacity, by a yet stronger proof of canine intelligence. I shall only, briefly allude to one dog, whose history will probably be placed in the colonial archives,--a colley, who knows his master's brand; and who will, when the sheep get boxed, that is mixed together, pick out; with unfailing accuracy, all the bleating members of his own flock from amid the confused, terrified mass. As for the patience of a good dog in crossing sheep over a river, I have witnessed that myself, and been forced to draw conclusions very much in favour of the dog over the human beings who were directing the operation. Some dogs again, who are perfectly helpless with sheep, are unrivalled with cattle, and I have stood on the edge of a swamp more than once, and seen a dog go after a couple of milch cows, and fetch them out of a herd of bullocks, returning for the second "milky mother" after the first had been brought right up within reach of the stockman's lash.

Then among my horse friends was a certain Suffolk "Punch," who had been christened the "Artful Dodger," from his trick of counterfeiting lameness the moment he was put in the shafts of a dray. That is to say if the dray was loaded; so long as it was empty, or the load was light, the "Dodger" stepped out gaily, but if he found the dray at all heavy, he affected to fall dead lame. The old strain of staunch blood was too strong in his veins to allow him to refuse or jib, or stand still. Oh, no! The "Dodger" arranged a compromise with his conscience, and though he pulled manfully, he resorted to this lazy subterfuge. More than once with a "new chum" it had succeeded to perfection, and the "Dodger" found himself back again in his stable with a rack of hay before him, whilst his deluded owner or driver was running all over the place to find a substitute in the shafts. If I had not seen it myself, I could not have believed it. In order to induce the "Dodger" to act his part thoroughly, a drayman was appointed whom the horse had never seen, and therefore imagined could be easily imposed upon. The moment the signal was given to start, the "Dodger," after a glance round, which plainly said, "I wonder if I may try it upon you," took a step forward and almost fell down, so desperate was his lameness. The driver, who was well instructed in his part, ran round, and lifted up one sturdy bay leg after the other, with every appearance of the deepest concern. This encouraged the "Dodger," who uttered a groan, but still seemed determined to do his best, and limped and stumbled a yard or two further on. I confess it seemed impossible to believe the horse to be quite sound, and if it had depended on me, the "Dodger" would instantly have been unharnessed and put back in his stable. But the moment had come to unmask him. His master stepped forward, and pulling first one cunning ear, on the alert for every word, and then the other; cried, "It wont do, sir! step out directly, and don't let us have any nonsense." The "Dodger" groaned again, this time from his heart probably, shook himself, and, leaning well forward in his big collar, stepped out without a murmur. The lameness had disappeared by magic, nor was there even the slightest return of it until he saw a new driver, and considered it safe to try his oft-successful "dodge" once more.

Very different was "Star," poor, wilful, beauty, whose name and fate will long be remembered among the green hills, where her short life was passed. Born and bred on the station, she was the pride and joy of her owner's heart. Slender without being weedy, compact without clumsiness, her small head well set on her graceful neck, and her fine legs, with their sinews like steel, she attracted the envy of all the neighbouring squatters. "What will you take for that little grey filly when she is broken?" was a constant question. "She's not for sale," her owner used to answer. "I'll break her myself, and make her as gentle as a dog, and she'll do for my wife when I get one." But this proved a castle in the air, so far as Star was concerned. The wife was not so mythical. In due time _she_ appeared in that sheltered valley, and, standing at the head of a mound marked by a stake whereon a star was rudely carved, heard the story of the poor creature's fate. From the first week of her life, Star (so-called from a black, five-pointed mark on her forehead), showed signs of possessing a strange wild nature. Unlike her sire or dam, she evidently had a violent temper,--and not to put too fine a point on it,--was as vicious a grey mare as ever flung up her heels in a New Zealand valley.

When her second birthday was passed, Star's education commenced. The process called "gentling," was a complete misnomer for the series of buck jumps, of bites and kicks, with which the young lady received the slightest attempt to touch her. She had a horrible habit also of shrieking, really almost like a human being in a frantic rage; she would rush at you with a wild scream of fury, and after striking at you with her front hoofs, would wheel round like lightning, and dash her hind legs in your face. The stoutest stockman declined to have anything whatever to do with Star; the most experienced breaker "declined her, with thanks;" generally adding a long bill for repairs of rack and