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Chapter VII: The Boys

“Who would not be a boy?” — Byron (Childe Harold).

The young male of the natural order so modestly self-styled homo sapiens has ever been the most interesting animal in the whole of creation. The earth is his and all that therein is. He is the heir of all the ages. For him throughout the æons of the past the human race slowly elevated itself above all other animals. For him all the greatest heads and greatest hearts have thought, wrought and fought. To him belongs the future of the world, provided of course that the accursed aeroplane, instrument of envy, hate, malice and all uncharitableness does not destroy him. And so it comes about that boys are well worth study — even more so than the sole representative of the natural order of the †Rhyncocephalia. The dear old †tuatara is a very wonderful curio and that in many respects, but he is of a deadly uniformity — one specimen being exactly like all other specimens: whereas the differences, distinctions and even contrasts between boys are absolutely infinite. The American Constitution set out (at a time when slavery was a recognized institution in the United States) that all boys are born free and equal. I must not venture to challenge so eminent an authority but can positively assert that, even before school-age has been reached, all traces of equality have disappeared. “A man's a man for a' that” shouted from the eminence of a soap-box arouses vociferous applause from those in the audience who page 113 know they are inferior and are therefore proud to claim equality with their betters: but if a farmer, from the eminence of the buyers' rail at a sale of dairy cows, were to call his bids upon the theory that a cow's a cow for a' that, he would attain bankruptcy (or even qualify for sustenance or a pension) with remarkable rapidity.

However, we are getting too old. Let us cease meddling in men's affairs and return to our youth — most men would like to do.

Assuredly boys are worth study. They are a marvel of divine providence. Considering the pranks the imps are always up to it is nothing short of miraculous that any lad reaches maturity “safe, whole and undefaced” as the lawyers express it. Boyhood is the time to enjoy oneself. A boy has all the joy of irresponsibility. He can play any kind of trick for he has nothing to lose.

The boys I have had on Broadlands have been a superior lot take them all round. The main exceptions have been unruly sons of friends. The father having himself failed in the endeavour to make something of his offspring palms him off on to a friend in the backblocks well out of sight. Others have imagined that I maintained a sort of health-resort for weaklings. Certain it is that the air and surroundings of Broadlands are most invigorating, but this was not my job.

Yet there is no rule without its exception, and one of the best lads I ever had was the son of a city friend. He was certainly the best brought-up boy ever on Broadlands. Absolutely honest and dependable and reasonably capable, one could always rely on his doing his very best. And the few lads who in these latter days do their best are sure to get on.

Let me introduce you to some of the other boys:

There was Long Tom, like a long thin plank with battens nailed on the corners. An excellent lad. Splendid with the cows. They just loved him. He never went down the paddock for page 114 them, but just called them up. If there was any odd feed about the station you could just depend on Tom to “pinch” it for his cows. He would risk punishment for the sake of the dumb animals under his charge. In the early days when practically the sole objective was wool there was always trouble about milk in the winter. The difficulty was to get a couple of good milkers in at a time to see us through till the spring. The winter Tom was milking, a neighbour enquired: “How are you off for milk?” I proudly answered: “I have a boy who gives us cream!” The Maoris used to remark of this lad: “He the better boy.” Tom was not a tidy boy and he was gifted with a great mop of curly hair. In feeding his horses he must have found it necessary to poke this adornment into the chaff bin for I frequently had to warn him of the danger of the draught horses mistaking his head for a feed of chaff.

Then there was little Arthur. None of the boys I ever had at Broadlands, no matter what he did in other directions, failed at meal times: but usually a steadying down occurred after about six months. Not so in the case of little Arthur. He held the championship belt right through the piece. When I had loaded his plate with mutton and potatoes I would ask him to remove a spud or two from the top of the heap so that I might see him. He was quite a nice boy and a reasonably good worker, but his shingles sometimes developed a little rattle.

Mad Charlie was a great lad full of dynamic energy and mad ideas. Often I got fed-up with him and was on the point of giving him “the sack” when he would do some outstanding bit of work and I had to change my mind. Finally he left me to go to a neighbour. At this place firewood was scarce. Consequently upon the return of the boss and family one Sunday evening after absence during the day Charlie got unlimited praise for the splendid heap of firewood he had brought in. But when, in the morning, it was found that the firewood was the page 115 result of the cutting down of some ornamental white manuka left around the house, the band began to play a very different tune and Charlie had to pack his swag. Of course he went to the War. Poor lad! He had both legs shot off well up the thigh. But he was quite jolly about it and contrived to make a living of sorts as a motor mechanic. He came up to Broadlands and stayed awhile, thoroughly enjoying himself.

This reminds me of Eric, the first boy I had when I came to live at Broadlands in December, 1908. A fine lad indeed, well mannered, a good honest worker and not complaining of hardship. He went to the War too to keep the frightful Hun from our shores, and was shot in the head. And now pacifists cry down his noble sacrifice: sell to Japan the guns captured by his blood and sweat: talk of returning to the culprits their old possessions that they may establish military bases throughout the earth.

The best tempered and most unselfish boy ever on Broadlands was red-haired Jim. He would cheerfully take the blame for anything sooner than speak a word against his mates.

My good lad Jim announced that he had a relative living on the wild west coast of the South Island who would like to get work within the confines of civilization. I gave my consent and he duly arrived. The first morning at breakfast the new boy seized his mutton chops by the ends of the bones. A good bite on one side and a little nibble on the other side put the boy well ahead of the rest of us. So he helped himself to bread and butter and jam. He carefully wiped out the jam spoon with his forefinger and then sucked his finger that nothing might be lost. After breakfast I drew him aside and pointed out that his manners, though original and doubtless distinguished, were unusual and explained to him the more ordinary rules of behaviour. He was a strange, uncouth, uncomfortable kind of lad to have about the place and I was not sorry to lose him.

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I have had many “new-chum” boys at Broadlands and found them the making of good men. One must of course allow for some awkwardness and ineptitude because of the fundamental and sudden change in their circumstances. Colonial boys suddenly placed in the heart of London or Glasgow would be just as awkward.

Thus Tommy — one of an entire family of five which I took on — was sent out with the mail the day after their arrival. As I had brought them in only the previous afternoon I did not deem it necessary to describe the road. My noble, arrived at the front paddock gate, instead of turning sharp to the left kept straight on. That is the worst of having a confluence and confusion of roads resembling †L'etoile in Paris! Arrived at a paddock, where fortunately a team was at work, the ploughman said: “You crimson young fool you should have turned to your left.” Arrived back at the gate the new chum did turn to his left but failed to reflect that this time his seat of learning was pointing in the opposite direction. When he had not returned by lunch time we formed a search party and found him as completely lost and befogged as a wayback boy would be in the wilds of London. We were glad to rescue our letters.

Another Tommy arrived not long after the war. His great exploit during that critical period had been accompanying his father in a sweeper lifting mines out of the cold North Sea. Arrived at sundry desolate islands the gallant crew of this man-of-war seem to have taken pride in capturing the lone islanders' ducks. When I stressed the dreadful wickedness of robbing these poor folk, little Tommy replied:

“The birds did not cost them anything.”

“How do you make that out?” I asked.

“Why: the birds lived on snow.”

“Rubbish, my boy, nothing can live on snow.”

“But they must have lived on snow. There was nothing else there!”

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Well, at the same time, I had two young Colonial ruffians on the place, and their chief delight was to “take it out” of Tommy. He certainly was fresh. One morning we were all going out in a dray when Tommy jumped off quick and busy and after a rabbit. He gave that little beast a real good run, but his astonishment when it disappeared into the bowels of the earth was unbounded. Such conduct was not fair anyway! Now it was the custom of the lads on the place to bathe in a natural hot spring across the river: but after three or four weeks I noticed that Tommy was not accompanying his persecutors. I asked him about it and suggested he should have a bath in the house. His reply was satisfying: “Ah was barth'd before ah coom oop!” Why waste more soap? One evening at the ringing of the dinner-bell, Tommy was passing through the kitchen when he hesitated and coloured up. “Hurry up Tommy! dinner's ready!” exclaimed the housekeeper. “Ma oonderparnts is slippin doon,” pleaded Tommy. Dear little Tommy! I was annoyed with the Colonial boys for frightening away such a source of innocent merriment.

Now these good lads led an easy life as follows:

Rise not later than 5.30 a.m. in the pitch dark in the wintertime and often freezing hard, with a cold fog. Seize a stable lantern and off down the paddocks to find the house cows. Hunt them up and milk them in time for breakfast at seven o'clock. While one did this the other cut the daily firewood and there was ever a healthy argument between him and the housekeeper as to the quantity requisite and necessary to keep the home fires burning. After breakfast the lads went to their work: fencing, clearing, draining, harrowing, mustering, foot-rotting, dipping, crutching, or otherwise knocking the sheep about. The mail had to be taken out three days in the week, necessitating fourteen miles riding — but that was joy. There was half-an-hour off for breakfast; an hour for lunch, and on certain page 118 jobs two smoke-ohs. Work ceased at 5 p.m. — unless there was something special on hand. It was very rare for there to be any work after breakfast on Sundays, but we worked full time on Saturdays — no half-holiday except for special football, or the like. After tea some of these good lads really liked helping the woman with her washing-up (it all depended on the style of woman). They seldom read anything and almost never wrote anything. They retired early and slept like logs until alarmed by a loudly vociferous clock. If the clock could not by itself raise the dead it was placed in an empty kerosene tin.

For these pleasures some lads paid a small premium. Most worked for six months: some for twelve months without cash wages. Latterly boys got ten shillings and even twenty shillings per week. Of course I “found” them in food and accommodation and this was expensive. There was no poverty in the midst of plenty. All hands had as much as they wished to eat, and the cadet boys had the inestimable privilege of having their meals in the diningroom with me — though I have at times had great suspicions that this advantage was more highly valued by the boys' parents than by the boys themselves. And it must be admitted that cleaning boots, brushing the hair, and wearing a coat are each and all natural aversions and constitute great weariness to the flesh. The lads slept in a small cottage near the station house. This cottage they themselves kept clean. You should just have seen it! If cleanliness be a component part of godliness then were these lads pure pagans. Underneath and round about their dwelling lay abundant wealth of discarded clothes, bags, tins, bottles, and so on. Inside private untidiness pervaded the premises and general disorder ruled the roost. The condition of the roof would seemingly evidence recent volcanic eruptions, but the stark fact of the case was that the boys out and about had heaved these rocks on to the roof for the purpose of defeating the soporific endeavours of the boys in bunk. page 119 About once in three months I developed sufficient energy to make these boys clean up their premises.

As regards book-learning and general knowledge: nearly all boys who came to me were wrapped in the profoundest ignorance. One from the Fifth Form of a celebrated South Island secondary school did not know who Horace was! Another from the Auckland Grammar was talking big about his Latin — of which language he knew practically nothing. Said I: “My boy: I'll give you five bob if you can give me the parts of fero.” To my astonishment he repeated them correctly and I paid over the five shillings. “Tell me now: how do you come to know the parts of fero?” His reply was a knock-out. “The janitor's name was Tooley!” From that extraordinary circumstance I lost my good five shillings. The ease with which money can be lost on a farm is notorious — and I had found a new method!

Let me now mention two fine little lads who were not on the “strength” but came up with their parents — one of my married couples. They were bright little chaps and I liked to take them out with me. One day I had driven out to bring in some parcels too heavy for horseback, and my little friends came with me. While one of them hopped down to open the bridge gate a friendly little fantail hovered around. I held out the whip and the pretty little creature perched on it twittering away “good-oh.” The boys were greatly intrigued and immediately became planners. They would catch a fantail and teach it to sing. Arrived home they enquired of Mother the best means for securing birds.

She recommended the old plan of salt on the tail. Next morning the boys were up betimes and over to the loft above the stable. There they contrived to capture a couple of sparrows which they brought over to the backyard and emptied a saltcellar on their tails. Off the birds flew — and Mother's name was mud!

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When the War broke out the elder boy — about ten years of age — decided that he must go and do his bit. His younger brother warned him seriously as to the dreadful dangers: but our hero remarked that he would arm himself with a sword of such length and weight that no German would be able to approach him!

Quite another type was the son of a real hard-shot couple I had on the place in the early days. He was aged about four and a perfect young devil. He would bash his head on the floor real hard just to scare his mother. One day she ran up to me with the boy in her arms and screamed the information that the boy had swallowed half a bottle of whisky. What should she do?

“Make the child sick.”

“How do you do that?”

“Give him a little mustard in warm water.”

“But I haven't got any mustard.”

“Then poke a feather down his throat.”

“But I haven't got a feather.”

“Then tickle the back of his throat with your finger.”

But when the woman proceeded to put this suggestion into practice the young imp of Satan closed his teeth tight on her finger and she could not draw it back or forth. So the whisky stayed where it was and became absorbed in the infant's body without apparent damage. He must be a great man by now.

Well good-bye to the brave boys. I fear it's true that “Youth's a stuff will not endure.” We all grow old too soon.