Brighter Britain! Part 8

Besides, it is unnecessary where there are no women about, and a loss of time if it trenches on more important work."

Dandy Jack is an exception to the common sumptuary habits of the bush.

In fact, he is an exceptional character altogether. Place him where you will, and he always looks fit for a drawing-room. How he manages it, no one knows. Many have tried to imitate him, but without success. They have expended much money, and time, and thought, in the endeavour to compete with our dandy chum, but have had, sooner or later, to give up in despair, and return to tatters and grime like the common run of folk.

Dandy Jack always carries a small swag about with him from place to place, wherever he may temporarily pitch his tent. If he rides, it is behind his saddle; if he boats, it is beside him; if he walks, it is on his back. Yet it is not only this that enables him to appear as he does.

Other people can carry swags as well as he. But Dandy Jack has a peculiar genius which other persons lack. That must be it!

There is one portion of our domicile that we are accustomed to speak of with a certain fond and lingering reverence. This is THE LIBRARY. High up in one corner, festooned with cobwebs, are a couple of shelves. Upon them are a pile of tattered newspapers and periodicals, a row of greasy volumes, mostly of the novel sort, one or two ancient account-books, and the fragmentary relics of a desk containing pens, ink, and paper. Such as it is, our library is more than every establishment like ours can boast of. There is precious little time for reading or writing in the bush.

The smaller half of the shanty, divided from the rest and from the chimney-place by the incomplete part.i.tion already spoken of, is termed by us the dairy. It is not in any way separate from the rest of the house, though, since we use it and sleep in it as part of the general apartment. But here, arranged on shelves all round the walls, are tin dishes and billies, a churn, a cheese-press, and the various appurtenances of a dairy. Humble and primitive as are these arrangements, we do yet contrive to turn out a fair amount of b.u.t.ter and cheese. At such seasons as we have cows in milk, this makes a fair show to our credit every week, in the ledger of the towns.h.i.+p storekeeper, our good friend the Mayor.

It will be readily understood that our table equipage is not of the best or most sumptuous description. It fluctuates in extent a good deal from time to time, and always presents the spectacle of pleasing variety. We are never without appliances and subst.i.tutes of one kind or other; and members of the society now and then add to the stock such items as they severally deem desirable, or happen to pick up cheap "down the river."

Experience has taught us that meat is meat still, although it may be eaten direct out of frying-pan or stew-pot. It is just as good, better we think, as when served up on Palissy ware or silver. Knives and forks are distinctly a product of civilization; custom holds us to the use of them. But what are a sheath-knife and a wooden skewer, if not everything that is needed?

Those ultra-conservatives among our number, those rigid adherents to the most primitive bush-life, of course despise all the refinements of the table. Plates, forks, and spoons are to them degeneracies,--things that no n.o.ble bushman needs or requires. They scorn any leanings towards luxury and ease. Give _them_ a life that is totally free from the petty trammels and slavish conventionalities of the old world!

At one time we were possessed of but a single plate, an iron one, which had lost its enamel, and was half eaten through by rust; we had only one fork, and that had only a p.r.o.ng and a half remaining. But we had our cooking-pots and billies, our sheath-knives, wooden skewers, fingers, and O'Gaygun's s.h.i.+ngle-plates. What more could any one want? And if there were not enough pannikins or mugs to hold our tea all round, there were empty preserve-cans, gallipots, and oyster-sh.e.l.ls! We were content and happy. But this blissful state was to be rudely broken.

One day, a member of our party had been down Helensville way. There had been an auction of the effects of a settler, who was moving off to the South Island. Our chum had not been able to resist the temptation, and had invested all he was worth in an a.s.sortment of goods. It was night when he returned, and we were all in the shanty. He came up from the boat, staggering under the weight of a great kit full of crocks and such-like.

Of course, the excitement was great as we surveyed the heap of new treasures we had acquired. Even O'Gaygun was enchanted for a moment, till he remembered himself, and a.s.sumed the stern and savage bearing befitting the leader of our conservatives. His scorn was withering.

"F'what might this be?" he would ask, fingering contemptuously first one thing and then another.

"An' f'what do ye do wid it, at all?" he inquired, as article after article was reviewed, affecting the airs of wonderment supposed to belong to a child of nature.

Presently his humour changed, and he pa.s.sed into the declamatory stage.

"'Tis a sinful exthravagance! a temptin' av Providence!" he exclaimed.

"Plates! an' faaks! an' dishes! an' sacers! did ivver anny wan see the loike? F'what do ye expict nixt? Kid gloves to work in, maybe! That ivver I'd see the day whan sich degrading emblems av the ould superst.i.tions of sa.s.siety was brought into the bus.h.!.+ Ough!"

So much and more the O'Gaygun. But there is a sequel to the incident.

Some time after, when we had learnt to love and cherish these acquisitions, the Little'un was one day detailed as hut-keeper. It so happened that he had our entire stock of crockery to wash up, as we generally work through the set before any one will act as scullery-maid.

The Little'un got through his task; he washed every plate and cup we had got; but, not finding any towel or cloth handy, he disposed the things on the stones in the chimney-place, round the stove to dry. There he left them, and went off to chop firewood, forgetting to fasten the door.

Directly the Little'un's back was turned, a wandering pig arrived on the scene. Seeing the open door, he resolved to prospect a bit, and accordingly entered the shanty. What followed can now never be precisely known, but conjecture allows us to arrive at the probable truth.

The pig's first discovery was a number of comical objects, whose purpose he could not divine, stuck about among stones and gravel. He ruminated over these awhile, and at last inquisitively snouted one dish that stood alone, like a small monument. Down went the strange thing and smashed.

The pig thought this was singular, and was somewhat startled. Still, he resolved to persevere in his investigations. He inserted his nose into a long, hollow thing that lay there, but could not get it out of the jug again. In his horror and fright at such an extraordinary accident, he plunged round and round the place; and, as he went, things fell and cracked and crashed under his feet in an awful and terrifying manner. At last he hit the thing that covered his snout against something hard, and it, too, broke. But a splinter wounded his nose, and made him squeal and fairly scream with pain and fright. At last, executing one final pirouette and gambado, while the strange things crunched and crackled at every move of his, he rushed out through the door, oversetting a man who was coming in with a bundle of firewood.

It was a scene of woe when the rest of us arrived from work. Concern and consternation sat on every brow, as the Little'un unfolded his tale, and we surveyed the universal smash of our crockery. Only O'Gaygun showed signs of levity. In stentorian tones he shouted:--

"A jedgment! a jedgment on ye, bhoys! The very bastes is sint to prache aginst yer exthravagance an' lukshury! The pigs is tachin' ye as they tached the howly St. Anthony av ould! O glory, glory! 'tis grand!"

But his remarks were ill-timed. Conservatism was out of favour just then, and the Liberals were in power. The wrath of the a.s.sembly was turned upon this audacious prophet; and, excommunicated from the shanty, it was very late before humanity compelled us to let him have his supper. And I may mention that fresh pork chops were added to the bill of fare that night.

CHAPTER VI.

OUR HOME-LIFE.

Among the friends of colonists at home in Britain, among those who talk most and know least of this land of the blest, I specify three cla.s.ses.

First, there are the people who talk of "roughing it" with an air of rapturous enjoyment, and a Micawber-like roll of the voice, as if that were really something good, something both pleasant and praiseworthy in itself. Again, there are those who shudder at the bare idea, and who conceive it, perhaps, to be a good deal worse than it really is. Lastly, there are some who are quite vacuous in the matter, either because the term conveys no meaning to their minds, or because Nature has made them indifferent to personal comfort and discomfort.

Now, in the first place, roughing it is not a nice process. There is nothing at all delightful or charming about it. Plainly, it is suffering. Suffering of numberless discomforts and privations, slight in themselves as a rule, though not invariably so, but certainly a serious matter in the aggregate. Nor is there anything grand or glorious in the prospect of roughing it. Merely in itself it does not add to a man's good in any particular way. It has to be got through in order that certain ends may be achieved. That is about the sum of it.

On the other hand, there is nothing to daunt healthy young fellows in the prospect of roughing it. Only those who are delicate, or who are of sensitive nature, need turn back from the possibility of it. And it must be remembered that, to succeed eventually in any path of life whatsoever, some sort of hards.h.i.+p, toil, and self-sacrifice must be undergone.

Of course, you cannot carry the drawing-room with you into the bush.

That side of life, with much of the refinement belonging to it, is swept completely out of your reach. And what is of more importance still, your existence is apt to grow somewhat unintellectual. Yet these are matters that are already remedying themselves. As comfort and competence are gradually achieved, and as society becomes large, so do the higher results of civilization follow. And as pioneering progresses into the more advanced stages of improvement, so do the opportunities and possibilities for mental work and culture become more generally and readily appreciable.

To us, when we first came out from England, the life here seemed utterly delightful, because it was so fresh and novel. We were quite captivated with it. Our existence was a perpetual holiday and picnic, to which the various difficulties and discomforts that cropped up only seemed to add more zest. But we soon got over that. We soon began to find that it did not rain rosewater here. A rude picnic prolonged day after day, year after year, soon lost its enchantment, and merged into something very like suffering. We began to yearn after those flesh-pots of Egypt which we had left behind us; and there were times when we have regretted that we ever emigrated at all.

Now we have settled down to a calm and placid contentment with our lot.

We begin to see what results are possible to us, and there are signs that our chrysalis condition is finite after all, and that some reward for our toil will be ours ere long. The days of our worst poverty and difficulty lie behind us, and better things are in store.

We have been thankful for one thing. Our society in this district is limited; but it comprises persons of some small amount of cultivation and intelligence. We appreciate this at its fullest, for most of us have, at one time or other, had to work in other parts of the colony, where our only a.s.sociates were of the rudest and dullest mental organization. We are kindred spirits, and are happy in our way, making light of difficulties, laughing at hards.h.i.+ps and privations, and mocking at poverty and toil. By this means we believe that we enjoy to the utmost all the good that there is in this life of ours, and that we measurably lessen the struggles and troubles that have to be gone through.

And now to revert more particularly to our home life in the shanty.

The insect world is a great feature in Northern New Zealand, both as to variety, which is extensive, and as to quant.i.ty, which is illimitable.

Within our shanty there are certain species which make themselves felt, smelt, or otherwise apparent to our annoyance, without taking into consideration the hosts that, as far as we are concerned, are innocuous.

St. Patrick is reported to have driven all the snakes out of Ireland; and, according to O'Gaygun, he afterwards journeyed over here, and performed the same service in these islands. The deed was done, says my informant, in order that this Canaan of the South Sea might be made ready for descendants of Hibernian kings, when the proper time should come; and that time, he continues, was when loyal and true sons of Erin should be seeking afar for a home, where the Land League would cease from troubling; and the landlord be at rest!

Well, we have no snakes, thanks to St. Patrick, but if that gentleman had only continued and completed his work, so far as to have excluded certain insect pests as well, we could have felt more beholden to him.

We have them both out of doors and indoors, but it is with the invaders of our sanctuary that I have at present to deal.

First, there is the mosquito. We have them here of all sorts and sizes.

Sometimes they come by twos and threes, and sometimes they come in swarms. They are a deadly nuisance anyway, and a most obnoxious addition to the inhabitants of our shanty. The peculiar delight of a mosquito is to arrive just at the moment when you are falling off to sleep, properly fatigued with your day's work. You hear a long, threatening boom, which finally ends with a sharp jerk, like buzz-z-z-z-z-z-zup. Then you wait in anxious expectancy for what you well know will come next. It does come, a sharp p.r.i.c.k on some part where you least expected it. You slap angrily at the place, and hurt yourself, but not the mosquito. O no! he is gone before you can satisfy your just vengeance, and he leaves a mark of his visit that will worry you for days after.

Wise people envelope themselves in gauze mosquito-bars, but we are not wise, and we do not. Conceive the fury of O'Gaygun at such an innovation, such pampering, effeminacy, luxury! Who would venture to introduce a mosquito-bar into a community of which he is member? What might not be expected from this most conservative of pioneers? Even Old Colonial says it is better that we should "harden ourselves to it." But occasionally, in the stilly watches of the night, I hear a hasty remark from his corner of the shanty, which leads me to believe that, with all the years of his mosquito experience, he is not wholly hardened yet.

Then there is the sandfly, another enemy of our peace. This creature is not so bad as the first, though. It is true his sting is sharp, and always draws a drop of blood, but there is no after irritation.

Sometimes, when sandflies abound about us, we make them contribute to our amus.e.m.e.nt in moments of leisure. Bets are made, or a pool is formed, and we stretch out our closed fists together and wait. By-and-by a sandfly settles on the back of some one's hand, and proceeds to browse.

Once his proboscis is buried in the skin, the hand is opened, and he is caught, for he cannot withdraw his weapon from the now contracted skin.

Then the capturer pockets the stakes, and executes the bloodsucker. Such is one of our simple pastimes.

Another insect foe of ours is one not wholly unknown in other parts of the world. It is the nimble flea. St. Patrick is not to blame for leaving this reptile here. He is not indigenous. He was unknown to the Maoris until the coming of the Pakeha; but he has naturalized himself most thoroughly now. The "little stranger," as the natives playfully term him, is to be found in abundance in every Maori whare. Excluded with the greatest difficulty from the best appointed houses in the colony, in the humbler residences of the bush, and in our shanty, for example, his name is Legion. Why this should be so, we have never troubled our heads to inquire; we simply accept the fact as it is.

Possibly our floor, that, in spite of a daily brooming and a weekly sluicing, is ever well carpeted with dust and mud, is one source of these pests. And, now I think of it, there is a nightly scuffling underneath the boards, which leads to the conclusion that pigs, dogs, and fowls, are harbouring among the piles beneath.

Every night, before turning in, we are accustomed to shake whole regiments of fleas out of our blankets. Not infrequently we sprinkle the blankets with kerosene oil; and, sometimes, in hot weather find it necessary to anoint our bodies all over with the same thing. That keeps off the crawling plagues until we have time to get to sleep, and then we do not care for them. But I think we really have got hardened to the fleas. We feel the annoyance of them but little now.

One of the chums, a harmless, peaceable fellow yclept "The Fiend"--I know not for what particular reason--has lately invented a new game for our evening's diversion. He calls it flea-loo. After supper it is our usual custom to sit on the edge of the floor, where it abuts upon the fireplace. That part of our domicile, it will be remembered, is paved with a sort of gravel of loose stones, and, sooth to say, with a good deal of _debris_ of every sort and kind. The stove stands in the middle.

As we sit there, the sensations in our legs remind us that fleas like warmth too, and that the gravelly bottom of the chimney-place is a favourite a.s.sembly-room of theirs. But they are of aspiring nature, and this fact was known to the Fiend. Under his advice, each man plants a stick upright in the gravel before him. Then we make a pool and await the result. The fleas soon come out, and begin to crawl up the sticks; and, by-and-by, some individual of the race reaches the top of the stick. The owner of that stick takes the pool. Here is another gentle and Arcadian sport.