Chapter XXXIII.

Edgecombe.

Edgecombe was, at the time we write, a quaint little town, with narrow streets and pebbled pavements. Not a straggling town, like those mostly to be met with in the colonies, where each citizen must have an acre of ground for his diminutive shop front. The danger of a sudden attack from the warlike natives in the neighborhood had compelled the citizens to cluster under the shadow of their citadel, as did the Tyrians and Greeks when founding a colony in times of old, when Italy was a barbarous land, and the pillars of Hercules the boundaries of the world. Indeed, I am not certain whether a bull's hide could not have encircled the place, especially if the hide was taken from one of the enormous shorthorns grazing within sight of the town. Perhaps the African cattle of those olden times were as large as our own, only if I had been able to give poor Dido a hint, I would have suggested to her the choice of a four-year-old steer in preference to a bull, as the hide would have cut up better.

The citadel at Edgecombe looked down on the little township protectingly, and Edgecombe itself looked out on the sea. The wall of the citadel was of stout wood, high and loop-holed, and its long slits of eyes gazed far over the surrounding undulating country. Inside the wall were a few buildings of corrugated iron, con- page 14 stituting the barracks, and a well had been sunk to a tremendous depth in the middle of the enclosure to supply the garrison with water. Oftentimes had the women and children of the little township, and from the surrounding country hurried up the hill into this citadel for protection, carrying their valuable effects and household gods with them; whilst their husbands, brothers, and fathers prepared to meet the advance of the foe. The Edgecombeites had grown used to this sort of thing, and were always prepared to shift their lodgings. We are told that such is the case with some tribes in Central Africa, who, when they think they have built a town in a wrong place, shift everything; it not being an uncommon sight for a town of a couple of thousand houses to be rebuilt in a couple of months. Many a hard fight had taken place almost within sight, and well within sound of Edgecombe, and the little churchyard at the foot of the hill testified to the number of the slain. The numerous gravestones did not mark the resting place of single occupants, but in many instances half a score of names were monumently emblazoned upon a single stone. Here rank and file lay in seried rows, equal at last in death, while mother earth enshrouded the remains of all alike, and the citadel above protected the enclosure.

The grave unites; where e'en the great And rest.
And blended lie th' oppressor and the opprest!

In most country places in New Zealand the graveyards are open unprotected places, generally in a state of ruin and neglect, but the citizens of Edgecombe took some pride in their churchyard, and endeavoured to preserve the handsome monumental stones over the graves. For here lay the gallant and the brave, who formerly had protected them, and who had yielded up their lives in fair and honorable fight. The passing visitor may often be seen conning the names engraven on the stones; knowing little of the cost of the struggle that formerly had checked the Maori from driving the white man into the sea, and thinking little of the many bitter tears that had fallen in England from the relatives of the slain when the news of the dead had reached home.

Nor could the Maori foe be called a dishonorable enemy. Fairly enough had he given notice of his intention to fight, and fairly enough were the outsettlers warned to leave their homesteads. First came the trouble, generally about the land, then ensued negotiaton, followed by distrust and preparations for war. Strongholds were built, stores were accumulated, potatoes were dug and corn harvested. Then perhaps a couple of white men, who had foolishly exposed themselves to danger, were killed, and the Government knew that war was really meant, for that was the Maori method of declaring war. Herein our readers will notice the difference of the antipodean practice. Tacitus relates that Augustus to prevent civil strife enjoined the tribune appointed to the custody of his person, "not to delay to slay Agrippa whensoever he himself had completed his last day." At least Tiberius said so, and Agrippa duly "passed away." The Maories always kill a man to stir up strife. In Africa a different practice prevails. There, or at least in some parts, it is related that when men grow very old, or tell very long stories, they are killed, we imagine by way of example, which circumstance should prove a warning to some of the readers of this narrative. British troops, when British troops were in the colony, were sent in thousands, and their tents gleamed white o'er the country side. But British troops were almost useless in the bush, and their zeal in the open was restrained by the conflicting counsels of the chief commanders. Many a time were the men marched out to attack the enemy, and many a time were they marched back to camp again without making the assault, whilst officers threw down their swords passionately, and men sullenly piled their muskets.

Then, when the British troops were withdrawn, and the colonists had to defend themselves, how well did the small number of colonial Volunteers follow the enemy through the dense heart of the pathless forest. "Strike right in until we come to a track," was the maxim of a tough-hearted little commander, and what such a march as that meant is only known to any one who took a part in it. Bad is the best in a New Zealand bush, with its dense undergrowth and entangling creepers. But steadily our fellows pierced the bush, crossed rivers, scaled precipices, straight to the place where a Maori stronghold had been erected, not knowing from one moment to the other that a hostile fusilade would cut them to pieces, and fancying every now and again that gleaming eyes followed at the side of their line of march.

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With them, too, went the friendly natives; brave, patient allies, ever ready with good advice, and ever ready to fight. Pity is it that their advice had not more closely been followed, for by following it many a slaughter would have been saved. How often has some friendly native extricated our men from the heart of the bush, remaining with the column at the risk of his own life, and patiently waiting the weary march of the wounded and dying I Easily would it have been for him to have made back to his own people, but he did not do so. All honor to such actions. May they be better known and recorded than they have been hitherto.

My readers will consequently perceive that there was an air of the broad arrow over the little town of Edgecombe, and over its inhabitants as well. Many Majors and Colonels resided there, and society wore a strong dash of the military aspect. The rest of the colony charged the Edgecombites with being fond of a little war, as it made trade good, in consequence of Government money having to be spent in the place; but this was a calumny. The real truth of the matter was that the good people of Edgecombe had to bear the brunt of mistaken land legislation. Situated so far from the great ports—where the Government held its meetings; where the war ships of England anchored, and where population was so numerous that the Maori would have been foolish to show his head—and surrounded by the thickest of the Maori tribes, what wonder is it that the fostering sore of Maori discontent all over the colony here found a head and broke upon the peaceful inhabitants. Here the Maori could strike, and he did not fail to do so, for with the great unpathable bush behind him, he felt as secure in the face of 10,000 British troops as of ten. Here, too, the land itself was of the best quality, and he fought for its possession; while just as tenaciously the Saxon invader, knowing the value of the land, fought for the foothold he had gained upon it. Well is it reader for you and I that we never took up our residence in Edgecombe, or we might long ere this have lost the number of our mess.

"I see you are taking a couple of fine beasts up with you Easthorpe," said Major Gordon, the worthy Resident Magistrate of the place to Charley, suddenly meeting our two friends in the street. "Are you not afraid the Maoris will turn you out of Terua some day?"

"No, Major," replied Charley, "I am not. You must send me word when to come in and take up my quarters in the barracks."

"Well, I don't make any rash promises, but if you have nothing better to do come and dine with me this evening, and bring your friend Mr. Manning with you, and we will talk about it. I have a word or two to say to you."

"What is up," said Charley, after Major Gordon had left them. I wonder whether we are going to have another war?"

"Not we," replied Philip with all the candour of blissful ignorance. "And if we do, I shouldn't much care."

"Perhaps you wouldn't, Manning, but what about Terua and all my improvements?"

"Yes, that is an awkward question," said Philip, still thinking, however, of himself. "But let us go and see the bulls fed, and then we can see what the Major has to say."

Major Gordon's house was pleasantly situated in the suburbs of the town. It was a plain but comfortable one-storied villa residence, surrounded by a wide verandah. The pinus insignis, macrocarpa and eucalypti sheltered it completely from the fierce winds from the sea, leaving room, however, for a good view of the harbour from the front windows of the dwelling. The yellow flowers of the silvery acacia hung pendantly over the verandah, and creepers of honeysuckle and jessamine encircled the posts and trailed along the top. The mildness of the climate, tempered by the sea, enabled a wealth of geranium and fuschia to blossom nearly the whole year round, while the luxuriant shrubs and green carpet of closely-mown grass proved the richness of the garden soil. Little trouble was there in cultivating that soil. "Stick anything in, sir, and it will grow" was the gardener's estimate of its capability. From all parts of the world had Major Gordon obtained seeds and plants, and the pride he took in his floral treasures constituted some of the happy moments of his life.

The wide hall of the dwelling was ornamented with Maori weapons. Club, spear, mat, and stone adze hung upon its walls, and a curious collection of musketry added to the warlike air of the whole. Where those guns originally came from, or page 16 how they fell into Maori hands, was and still remains a mystery. There hung the good Brown Bess, good to miss fire once out of three times; a gun that had caused the original owner to use more bad language, perhaps, and to eat more powder—in the hurry of biting off the ends of his cartridges—than usually fell to the lot of mankind. Above it loomed a heavy blunderbuss, with its huge bell-mouth, the pride for a time of some ancient Maori chief, who had given for it more bales of flax and cured heads of slain friends and enemies than we should like now to recount. Below hung other quaint weapons : long raking Spanish muskets, with carved barrels and silver-ornamented stocks, utterly useless at a hundred yards; old Enfields and new ones, Sniders and needle rifles. All were there, the representatives of a century and a half, perhaps, of modern warfare. Heavy unservicable piratical-looking pistols hung peacefully on the walls, their muzzles breathing weird some tales of buccaneering days long gone bye. A Malay kreese and the Major's own sword hung side by side, while some half-rusted but ugly-looking bayonets, of an extremely old type, completed the collection. These weapons the Major had gathered from friendly and hostile natives. The latter taken, likely enough, from the stiff fingers closed around the barrels in death. Anything that could fire shot or slug was eagerly sought for by the Maoris of old, as it still is even now, for the terrible raid of Hengi, who swept the Northern Island of the colony in olden days with his then newly-acquired present of muskets, scattering death and desolation in every village, driving the inhabitants into pathless swamps, and leaving hecatombs of slain behind him, first proved to the native the necessity of arming himself with something that could meet a similar attack. Many a chief carefully dried the tattooed head of a slain enemy (it did not matter whether the man was actually an enemy, provided he was well tattooed), and many a score of women prepared numberless bales of flax, to exchange with the passing trader from Sydney for the coveted musket and keg of powder. But all those days are gone bye, and the Maori can purchase as much material and ammunition as he cares to pay for, stringent laws to the contrary notwithstanding. Occasionally dray-loads of guns have been seen to pass through Edgecombe. But wherever there is a restriction in the sale of war material to savage tribes, it is curious to relate that the said tribes usually buy such material, not singly, but by the dray-load.

Major Gordon was in his garden when Charley and Philip opened the front gate, and after being shown all the rare plants, and before going into the house, they stopped to look at the wide expanse of sea and noble beach below.

"Aye, Mr. Manning," said the Major, "the beach is worth looking at from this point. I could tell you a few queer stories about that beach too, only we musn't keep the ladies waiting for dinner." And the Major led the way into his house.

In the drawing-room our two friends found Mrs. Gordon and three of her daughters, tall, slim, quiet-looking girls, who had, however, passed through all the troubles of the early settlement of the place, with as much composure as English girls ordinarily do under such circumstances. Once, though, they had to go into the barracks for a few days, and much objected to the giving-up of their own comfortable home. Whenever troubles followed afterwards their one wish was "not to have to go into the citadel." They could all talk the Maori language fluently, and from the lips of an English girl, native languages appear to flow pleasantly. On the whole, in spite of the wars, they rather liked the natives, and each had sundry female friends of her own in the enemy's camp who were always ready to tell them "Not to be afraid; but that they (the friends) would say when the fighting was going to begin." Indeed, Mrs. Gordon completely relied upon an old crony of a native woman to tell her such news, which the old woman usually did; and, if the truth were known, the Major himself paid attention to such warnings. But I am speaking now of days long gone bye, when the Gordons were little girls, and rather enjoyed an outbreak, if the truth could really be fathomed, for then their Maori or half-caste nurse could tell them fearful tales in the twilight, and send them wonderingly to sleep. The bad part of the affair to them was having to go into the barracks. That they always objected to.

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Chapter XXXIV.

The Major's Dinner.

Mrs. Gordon was an invalid, and the cares of the house fell upon her daughters, who each took her week of management, and were fairly good housekeepers. The palm of housekeeping fell by general consent to the younger of the three girls. The eldest shirked the business dreadfully. Sometimes the Major would confess his inability to understand how it was that his daughter Lizzy (the youngest) could manage the servants as she did, but there the fact remained, she did manage them; and whenever her week came round (Miss Elizabeth's week usually consisted of ten days, and sometimes of a fortnight, upon special occasions), the Major could not grumble about his dinners. If anything disagreeable was to be said in the kitchen, Miss Lizzy was by universal consent declared the deputy, and never a murmur was heard. This strange power of charming servants is worth a vast deal in these degenerate days, when the maid is as good as the mistress; for with some poor people servants are the bane of their existence; and with some servants all the power of the charmer, "charm he or she never so wisely," is completely thrown away. Yet if Major Gordon is to be taken as an authority, his daughter Elizabeth had a peculiar charm of her own, and the most unruly Bridget submitted to her sway.

The dinner passed pleasantly enough, as all such dinners do, and the Major filled up the most part of the conversation with laughable reminiscenses of the olden time, occasionally varied by an all round attack on the parsons. A new clergyman had lately arrived in Edgecombe, and the gentleman appeared to be the object of the Major's aversion.

"Don't go to church, Easthorpe," said he, "until we get a better specimen of a minister than we have at present."

"I am afraid there is little chance of my being able to," replied Charley, "as we must get away to-morrow morning."

"Well, you will miss nothing, I can assure you. Why on earth the people at Home should send us out such woe-begone specimens of humanity I cannot conceive."

"Mr Hardy is not so bad, papa," said his eldest daughter. "He will get used to us by-and-by."

"Bad," replied the Major, with withering contempt. "Bad! Well, he may not be bad so far as parsons go, but what earthly use would he be for a brush with the natives. Besides, I can't bear a ranter."

"You don't expect clergymen to fight the Maoris surely, papa," said his daughter Lizzy. While Mrs. Gordon explained to Philip that "the clergy" was the Major's sore point.

The Major was nonplussed for a moment, and paid attention to his knife and fork.

"No, Lizzy," said he at last, "I don't expect a clergyman to fight, but I do expect to find something gentlemanly about him. Why they should send us out such fellows I can't understand. Now, look at the old Archdeacon. There wat a parson for you, and a man to boot, although he did happen to adjourn service one fine Sunday morning to go and unload a cargo of cattle he had got down from Sydney."

"Why, couldn't the cattle wait," laughingly asked Philip.

"No, sir, they could not, at least the Archdeacon thought so, for directly the clerk whispered to him that the ship had come in than he very briefly dismissed the service, and off he went. What is more the congregation went with him. There wasn't many cattle in New Zealand in those days, but there were plenty of parsons. It was a great day for Edgecombe when the cattle were landed safe and sound on the beach, and some of the natives who had never seen a beast before were rather surprised at seeing the cattle come out of the ship. The Archdeacon worked like a man that day, and took his coat off besides. I guarantee your Mr. Hardy hardly knows what a cattle beast is. And as for fighting, of course he will have to fight some day."

"You surely don't expect ever to have another war," said Charlie, enquiringly.

"Don't be too sure of that, Easthorpe," replied the major, looking straight at him, and then becoming silent.

"You mus'nt mind my husband, Mr. Easthorpe," said Mrs. Gordon; "he always says that we are to have another war, but I don't believe we ever shall."

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"You are not aware, my dear," said her husband, quietly looking down the table, at his wife, "that Huru te Kure's mob have broken out of prison, and there is no knowing what they will be up to."

"No, Harry!" said Mrs. Gordon, somewhat anxiously. "When did that occur?"

"Only yesterday," replied her husband. "I received the news this afternoon."

"And where are they now?" asked Philip, who with Charlie had often heard of Huru te Kure in the south.

"Making a bee line for Edgecombe, as fast as their legs will let them," replied the major. "But don't be alarmed my dear," continued he to his wife, "they are not here yet. Only it will be just as well for Lizzy to lay in a stock of provisions in case we do have a seige."

Mrs. Gordon and her daughter heard the news without showing any particular alarm, although Charlie felt a slight touch of nervousness when he thought of the exposed position of Terua. Major Gordon's women-folk, as we have before related, had been too much accustomed to items of intelligence, such as this, to allow it to disturb the decorum of a dinner table. If the truth were known, slight glimpses of volunteers under arms, and garrison balls in Edgecombe, crossed the minds of the girls, and very likely they thought more about furbishing up their ball dresses, and the state of their wardrobe, than laying in a stock of provisions. Five women out of six usually think about these things first of all when anything unexpected happens. Did not Creüsa hang behind to save some of her wardrobe when Troy was in flames, and is not this example one of the earliest records of history? The French say that the unexpected always happens. When it does, it may be taken as a safe rule that the female portion of British humanity usually think of the state of their wardrobes.

"You will have to volunteer, and take a rifle up with you to protect your cattle and sheep," said Miss Lizzy Gordon to Charley.

"I don't know whether I can," answered Charley. "What say you, Manning. Shall we join, and build a stockade at Terua?"

"I wonder whether we could hold it?" answered Philip.

"That depends," replied the major, who remembered cases quite as unlikely as this turning out well. "But don't let my daughter quiz you, Easthorpe?"

"Oh, papa, I am not quizzing," indignantly replied Miss Lizzy, blushing deeply at, the charge. "Will not Mr. Easthorpe really have to defend himself?"

"Arn't you?" answered her father, who apparently knew his daughter's ways pretty well. But just then Mrs. Gordon, rising, put a stop to her further reply.

As the ladies passed out of the room Miss Lizzy made a half-shy look at Charley, who stood at the door, and reddened-up again when she caught him looking smilingly at her, which clearly enough showed how unjust and groundless had been her father's charge.

"No doubt," continued the Major, after Charley had resumed his chair, "no doubt there will be a little trouble, and you may have to look after yourselves out there, but we shall soon have Mr. Huru. Colonel Clair is after him by this time with the Rangers, and unless Huru takes to the King country and doubles back the Colonel will very likely get-up with him. I hope the rascal won't cut the wires."

"But will the King shelter him?" asked Philip, alluding to the Maori chief who had, in direct contradiction to the Treaty of Waitangi, lately set-up the title of King, and openly defied the authority of the Queen by closing his country to the whites.

"I can't say," replied the Major. "It is very likely he will, as he is allowed to shelter all the murderers and villains in the country side. A Maori now-a-days has only to murder a white or two to be petted and caressed by the King and his people.

"Why doesn't the Government depose him, Major," asked Charley, sipping his wine and preparing to light the cigar that he had selected from the Major's box.

"Depose him," laughed the Major, "Why, man, if we don't look out the King is very likely to depose the Government. He wants to know now what business we have in the country at all at all."

Charley and Philip remained silent, not being acquainted with all the intricacies of Maori troubles.

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"Yes," continued the Major, pursuing his own train of thoughts, "it is very likely that Huru will create a disturbance, and the worst of it is that these disturbances always spread. We shall have the natives here kicking up a noise, I suppose. However, Easthorpe, don't you alarm yourself unnecessarily, and here the Major knocked the ash off his cheroot. If you will take a bit of advice from me, I advise you to look after your cattle and sheep out at Terua until you are told to let them look after themselves."

"Thank you, Major," replied Charley, and from the quiet tone in which he spoke, Philip knew that Charley would follow the advice.

"You should keep friends with the natives about you," continued the Major, "as you will learn a good deal from them. Do you intend making a long stay in this part of the country, Mr. Manning," enquired he of Philip.

"I really have not made up my mind," replied Philip. If broken bones require setting I may as well be here as anywhere else."

"Manning is a bit of a saw-bones," said Charley laying back in his chair, and gazing upon Philip as a sort of medical curiosity, not knowing much about his powers in that line, and thinking him a better hand with a stock-whip than a lancet.

"Ah, indeed," said the Major, courteously thankful for the information. "Then if anything happens out at Terua you will be in safe hands, having a medical man with you."

"I don't know that," laughed Charley, and Philip smiled, pretty well guessing at what Charley was hinting.

Here Miss Lizzy Gordon's entrance created a move, that young lady returning to look for a book on one of the sideboards. Whereupon her father caught her, and wished to know what she meant by disturbing gentlemen during their after-dinner smoke?"

"I really beg your pardon, papa," said his daughter, standing near his chair, while the soft light of the dinner-lamp fell upon her white dress and pleasant face, "but mamma wanted her book."

"Then mamma will have to wait a little, and you must just sit down until we finish our cigars," said the Major, but directly he let her go she was off. "It is a curious yet strange circumstance how it comes to pass that girls do not like singly to face the after-dinner cigar. Instances are on record in which a couple have together ventured to brave the danger, but these are rare and exceptional cases, and can only be considered in the light of a lusus naturæ. Now, nothing tends to the degraded subjection of English women more than this special banishment to the drawing-room, and why the 'strong-minded Women's Rights' person does not rebel is a mystery. Here is a grand opening for agitation literally thrown away, yet what a deal of agitation it would take to break-down the invisible bands of even one of the slightest of our social customs, the Women's-Rights person to the contrary notwithstanding.

Chapter XXXV.

Back Again.

Charley and Philip, after finishing the evening at Major Gordon's, and thanking him very much for his advice, returned to their hotel, and early the next day started for Terua, Charley having borrowed horses for the journey. The following evening by pushing the stock rather hard found them at Terua. It was pleasant to see the way Philip's two dogs Lassie and Darkey entered the homestead. After all their knocking about by sea and land, after being tied-up in out-of-the-way corners and strange stables, the barking chorus of the dogs at Terua sounded like music to their ears, and they sniffed round Henry Easthorpe, and then jumped upon him with all the delight of old acquaintanship. They certainly did not know Terua, but they knew Henry, and consequently they felt themselves at once at home, and immediately went up to the Terua dogs and made friends. The Tenia dogs growled a bit, as if they didn't exactly agree to this sort of familiarity, but Lassie wriggled herself pretty quickly into their remembrance, and gradually it occurred to them who she was and where she came from, for some of them had come from Woodlands, and of course remembered Apanui. Whereupon they walked away and ceased barking.

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"I see you have brought the dogs with you Manning," said Henry Easthorpe, smiling all over his face at the sight of his old friend and neighbour.

"Yes, Henry, I couldn't very well part with them, you know. We found them useful in bringing the rams over the hill. What a wretched track. Why havn't you a decent road?"

"That is nothing to what you will see yet," replied Henry. "Wait till you come out at the back. But you fellows must be hungry," and Henry rang for the Chinese cook to bring in some tea.

"You had better get Dick to stable those bulls somewhere, Henry, for a few days, until we can knock up a place for them," said Charley, unbuckling his leggings.

"There is'nt a place to be found, except the wool-shed," replied Henry. "We can put them in a couple of the horse stalls, if you like:" and Charlie consented to this proposition.

No conveniences in the shape of farm buildings existed at Terua, and, what is more, were not likely to exist for some time to come. A scrub stable had been run up for the plough horses, at the cost of a few days' labor for a couple of men. It was a kind of break-wind, with four or five stalls, and one side completely open. A few upright posts and top cross pieces formed the frame, and the back and sides were then lashed. Divisions were run up inside; a brandy case, or other kind of handy box, formed the feeding boxes; some pegs, driven in the uprights, received the harness, and there was the thing complete—as good a stable as one would wish to work in, there being plenty of room for the horses to kick freely out into the ambient air. Of course the horses were not kept in at night; they never are, except in the extreme south of the Colony, and the animals appear to be all the better for this mode of treatment. The draughts of the stable are thus avoided and the horses do well. Of course some grow old and are often sold for a song, but on the whole the open paddock and gorse hedge save a deal of illness; so that the horse works on until it is time to shoot him. This is better than the sport mentioned by Pepys in his diary, called "selling a horse for a dish of eggs and herrings."

In this commodious building the two bulls were tied, some dry fern cast for litter, and there they were bedded down comfortably after their long drive. They had made friends on the journey up, after a severe tussle on the public road, wherein the old bull had fairly home the young one back off his legs into the ditch, and when he got up, looking rather foolish, and showed fight again, had borne him across the road on to the other side and jammed him up against the fence, which proceeding settled young Mr. Bully, and he grew civil ever afterwards. The oldest of the bulls was a bit footsore, and when he got to the station, and Dick had stood him in a pool of water for a litte while (the said pool being encircled by all the hands about the place) to take a "thrifle of th' inflammation" out of him. Amidst many criticisms the bull stood, bellowing lowly at the sight of the cows, but evidently enjoying his bath. After that night however the old bull was put in the cow paddock, and the young one in the horse paddock, and from that day to this it is to be doubted whether either of these animals has ever even smelt the inside of a stable.

The rams were put in the ram paddock, which by this time had been enlarged and made secure, and the ewes ran with the cows until a little paddock could be got ready for them. Henry did not believe in carrying on as Beeton had done. Each class of stock was kept in its own paddock, as much as possible, whereas Beeton had allowed every thing to go where it pleased. True enough, there were a few fences on the place, but these had never been kept properly secure, and, as a general rule, the slip rails at the gateways were in so wretched a state of delapidation that stock preferred to go through them rather than the fence. Henry very quickly had the slip rails seen to, and the fences patched up, but it took the shepherds a long time to break the sheep from poking themselves through, or at least trying to poke themselves everywhere.

The sheep yards at the homestead had been patched up sufficiently to pass the stock through, but they were of so unworkable a plan that Henry had utterly condemned them, and was erecting a new set of yards upon a plan of his own

"Just look at the way the sheep had to go," said Henry to Philip next morning pointing to the race, the end of which butted up against one of the page 21 yard fences, as if a clean run for the sheep could not have been found somewhere or another. "Beeton often used to complain about the difficulty of passing the sheep through, and no wonder."

"It faces the son too, said Philip."

"Of course it does," replied Henry. "But don't look at them any longer. I will show you the plan of my new yards bye-and-bye," he continued, with all the conscious pride of an architect and designer. "Come along man," and the two started off to where the ewes were lambing.

Charley had, after his long absence, settled down to his books and accounts, and almost all the contractors about the place thought it fit to sacrifice a day's or half a day's work in order to say something or another about their particular jobs. One wanted the posts he had delivered counted, another his fence chained up, a third his scrub measured. So Charley's hands were pretty full. A few had, of course, got drunk down at the little public-house, and were still there for that matter, having perhaps quarrelled with their mates. They were waiting for a settling-up, and had spent all, and more than all, of the money due to them. When Charley and Philip passed the house with the bulls it was peculiar to see how these fellows melted, as it were, from off the verandah and disappeared inside. Of course, the men would not have made such fools of themselves if there had not been a public-house in the neighbourhood. Much more scrub and fern would have been cut and fallen, and consequently a greater area of grass laid down, had they kept sober, but then they could not keep sober with all those tempting bottles gleaming on the shelves not three miles off. Nor was there any necessity for a public-house, or, rather, drinking-bar (for no one would care to sleep or eat in the place if he could help it), in that particular spot. True it was a ferry in winter-time, and the authorities, by granting a license, received a certain number of pounds sterling in exchange, and so added to the revenue; but at what cost? In place of putting their money into a piece of land and becoming decent settlers the labourers regularly transmitted their wages to England for a certain quantity of alcohol, which, when drunk, was completely lost. Nothing did so much harm and was the cause of so much annoyance to Charley and Henry Easthorpe as the wretched little shanty of a public-house down by the river.

Charley therefore had his hands full, and Philip went about with Henry during the following two or three months, and assisted him with the lambing. The ewes lambed in the large paddock they had been accustomed to lamb in, and a most miserable lot of sheep they looked. Until the boiling-down place, in process of erection, was finished little or nothing could be done in the way of culling, for it was no use sending the culls over the hills to Egdecombe.

"You must do the best you can, Manning," said Henry, "but a good many of the old ewes will die on your hands."

"I expect they will, replied Philip, but we will see what sort of a percentage we can get."

Philip had about eighteen hundred to two thousand sheep to look after in his rough boundaries, while Henry and the other shepherds looked after the remainder. There were in all about six to seven thousand ewes to lamb. Beeton had allowed the sheep to lamb without giving them more than one shepherd's regular attention, the consequence being that the man could not possibly look after all the sheep. Deaths were therefore numerous, and the percentage of lambs small. Henry Easthorpe, on the other hand, adopted a more humane system. The ewes were carefully looked after, and instead of getting 55 to 60 per cent, of lambs he got nearly 70, which meant an extra five to six hundred lambs. Certainly the hills afforded good shelter to the sheep from the fierce cold south-easters, for from whatever quarter the wind blew shelter could be found. The feed was wretchedly bare in consequence of the overstocked state of the run, and it was pitiable to see the poor things crawl about biting the scant herbage.

All this, however, was in course of rectification. The hills were good dry limestone ranges, and there was nothing to prevent their being brought into splendid feeding condition.

"We will boil-down all the old crawlers, Manning, as soon as we can," said Henry, "and Charley says that he will have a five hundred acre paddock ready during the autumn, and that will relieve us of a good many of the dry sheep next winter."

"How many will you cull?"

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"I think about three thousand," replied Henry.

"And will you be able to sell any of the fat stock," asked Philip, for even upon the most wretched run some sheep will get fat.

"Yes," replied Henry, "and boil-down what the butchers won't take. I shall get rid of at least six thousand this year all told, and if Charley finds new ground for a couple of thousand that ought to relieve the lambing-paddock next winter."

"So it will," replied Philip, "and two or three years of that sort of work will soon give you plenty of feed. Why, you ought to carry thirty thousand sheep on this ground!"

"Forty," laconically replied Henry.

"No," said Philip incredulously.

"Charley says we shall carry forty," repeated Henry, "and if he goes on clearing I think we shall."

"If the Maoris don't stop you."

"Hang the Maoris," replied Henry, pitching a piece of stone from where he was sitting, right away down to the bottom of the gully. For this conversation occurred one day when the two were out on the run together, and had sat down to have their lunch. Horse-flesh was not much used at Terua, all the work having to be done on foot.

"They havn't caught Huru yet," said Philip.

"No," replied Henry. "I wish they had."

"What would you do, Henry, if he was to come here?"

"Well, I'd have a fight for the stud sheep," replied Henry, after thinking for a few moments, and coming to the conclusion that it was his bounden duty to save the stud flock. "But there was a Maori woman up yesterday from the pa down the river wanting some medicine. Didn't Charley toll you?"

"No," replied Philip.

"Well, there was then," said Henry. "Suppose you go down to-morrow and see what you can do for her. We might get some news. I will get Alex to give an eye to your sheep."

"Agreed," replied Philip, and having finished their lunch, our two friends went on their rounds.