The Human Equation

(By S.W.L.)

It was down on Bank's Peninsula, and from the signal hut I could see a clear thirty-mile stretch along the path of the rising sun towards the Chathams. Why people rave of Honolulu sun risings and settings when they can see similar effects from the Port Hills of Canterbury is something which only a psychologist could explain adequately!

Down in the hollow I could hear and see a musterer getting in a few stragglers. These are cunning ewes who, with their lambs, have managed to evade the hurried round-ups. There are many little caves under over-hanging rocks in the high bluff cliffs, where a ewe might keep her lamb for a few weeks longer. And, alas, there were places where no man or dog could reach and where mother love prevailed until a merciful shot ended the sufferings of a slow starvation.

My watch-mate relieved me with a muttered salutation and slinging my “tucker-bag” over my shoulder I made my way down the hills towards a musterer who was exhorting a mysterious Ginger to “come away here,” and threatening to “bust” the same Ginger's ribs in whenever and wherever it was possible to do so.

When I reached the musterer I gently enquired what was the cause of his wrath.

“What's wrong?” he replied. “That cow of a dog is hanging about there and won't come up.

He's usually very good. You wait till I get him, the blasted bag of bones.”

I answered that I could not wait to witness the disagreement with the aforesaid Ginger and anyway, perhaps Ginger had found something; but this suggestion was scornfully rejected, and I went my way, leaving the musterer sitting erect in the saddle—like a warrior awaiting the charge —his eyes glittering with wrath while he howled dire long-range threats at the unfortunate Ginger.

I reached home and, curious to know what Ginger was doing, I trained a powerful telescope in the direction of the bluffs. I soon picked up Ginger, who was trying to work his way round a large boulder underneath which I could see a small cave and something white which, later, I recognised as an old ewe and her lamb.

A sense of justice (which has made me some enemies, but also some very good friends), induced me to swallow a hasty cup of tea and retrace my steps up the hill in an endeavour to save the ribs of Ginger from displacement. There was no need for my intervention. The dog had got the sheep out of the cave, and when I reached the musterer he was standing beside his horse, yelling endearing blasphemous epithets at Ginger.

“D'ye know, he said, a twinkle in his eyes, as he critically admired Ginger's handling of the sheep, “I wouldn't sell Ginger fer fifty quid!”