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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 4, Issue 4 (August 1, 1929)

McPherson's Doug — The Wee Bit Terrier

page 44

McPherson's Doug
The Wee Bit Terrier

In the early days of the Wairarapa railway I was travelling down to Wellington one afternoon when I met in the train a gentleman who, for the purpose of this chronicle shall be called McPherson. He was an engine-driver on the Hutt section, and having by some accident scalded a leg, was travelling in and out to the hospital to have it dressed. McPherson was known up and down the line as an expert angler, and when we met on the train he at once broke into a recital of the wonderful white moth that he had been wrapping and how deadly it had proved in luring the large “trooties” from the shallows and depths of the difficult Hutt River.
Railway Head Office Picnic. (Photo, A. J. Bland.) The Committee which organised this year's successful picnic at Maidstone Park, Upper Hutt, Wellington.

Railway Head Office Picnic.
(Photo, A. J. Bland.)
The Committee which organised this year's successful picnic at Maidstone Park, Upper Hutt, Wellington.

Presently, looking up into the rack of the carriage, his attention was captured by a brace of cock pheasants that I had rather ostentatiously displayed there.

“Whase burds are thae?” he asked excitedly, and when I assured him that they were mine, he asked where I had got them, and what sort of a dog I was using.

I told him that I shot the pheasants on Mr. Buchanan's place, in the Taueru River, and that I was using a setter.

At once he was up in arms. “I wadna’ ha'e ane o’ thae setters on my min',” he declared; “the great big lolloping brits! They gang smashin’ an’ crashin’ through the raupo an’ the fern an’ wauken up ilka burd i’ the country side. Gi'e me a tarrier!”

I told him that a terrier was not my idea of a sporting dog at all, but he quietly replied: “Ha'e ye ever h'ard tell o’ the wee bit tarrier that I had whan I was drivin’ the “Fell” engine on the Cross Creek?”

I told him that I had not. He expressed the greatest incredulity. “Why, man, the fame o’ that douggie is world wide. He was a wee bit thing jist aboot sae high, but intelligent—he was a damned sicht mair intelligent than maist human bein's! An’ I'd gang doon to the Wairarapa Lake o’ a nicht for a crack at the deuks. Crawlin’ on my belly through the raupo, I'd luik roun', an’ there wad be my tarrier doun, on his hauns an’ knees too, jist like a buddie. An’ come to the shelter on the edge of the loch, an’ the deuks wad come fleein’ in jist at the daurk'nin’ for a feed o’ chickweed. I wadnae fire at them settin', as that wad ha'e been a waste o’ ammuneetion, but I'd put my barrel into them as they were comin’ doun, an’ anither barrel into them as they went fleein’ oot, an’ I've seen as mony as forty deuks lyin’ dead on the watter a’ ance!” “Forty?”

“Weel, maybe no’ aye forty, but whiles twenty or ten, as the case micht be. An’ syne my douggie wad jist slip owre intil the watter an’ bring thae deuks in ane at a time till there'd be a big hump-lock sae hie alangside me. Of coorse there were page 45 disadvantages aboot my tarrier—there's disadvantages aboot maist things in life—Sometimes ‘twad happen that a big deuk was jist hurtit. My doug wad grap him by the neck an’ the deuk wad up an’ swoom oot to sea wi ‘m, an’ I'd ha'e to rip aff a’ my claes an’ gang in aifter ‘m mysel'. But, as I was sayin'… !

“Ye'll maybe ken Wullie McKenzie's place?

“You mean the Pigeon Bush?”

“Ay, the Pidgeon Bush. Weel Wullie had a lot o’ them damned great American turkey cocks. Some o’ them wad wei’ as muckle as achty puns.”

“Eighty pounds?”

“Weel no’ a’ o’ them achty puns. Some fifty, or sixty, or the like. I sort o’ took an interest in thae burds, an’ sometimes on a fore-nicht J wad tak’ my gun under my oxter and ha'e a daunder round Wullie's place, jist to ha'e a bit keek at them. An’ sometimes I'd fin’ ane o’ them lyin’ deid, an’ I'd tak’ it hame to the wifie to mak’ kail wi', an’ syne it was gey eaten cauld.

“Ane nicht I was up at Wullie's place wi’ my tarrier an’ my gun, whan I h'ard a terrible squawkin’ i’ the bush up alang the ridge. I rins up the ridge, an’ there was the tarrier grippin’ the neck o’ ane o’ Wullie McKenzie's great big turkey cocks. As sune as the burd saw me he kind o’ ta'en fricht, an’ flew awa’ up onto the tap o’ a big white pine, and there he was rollin’ up and doun until my dog chokit ‘m and thae baith fell to the gr'und thegether … But ye ocht to ha'e some of thae white moths o’ mine for nicht fishin', they're gey guid!”

A Model Workshop. The electrically operated traverser at the Department's new workshops, Hutt Valley, Wellington.

A Model Workshop.
The electrically operated traverser at the Department's new workshops, Hutt Valley, Wellington.

A few Sundays after this recital, our friend McPherson was sitting on the banks of the Hutt River. It was a delightfully sunny day with just the slightest touch of a southerly. Along in the distance was seen approaching an immaculate figure wearing the latest in waders and gear and carrying a Hardy split cane rod. As soon as he got within hailing distance McPherson called, “Guid mornin', are ye gettin’ ony luck, the day?”

“Oh, yes, excellent luck,” exclaimed the fisherman. “I've got quite a few nice fish.”

“Let's ha'e a look at them!”

“Oh, certainly!” and carrying his bag across the stream he opened it for inspection.

McPherson dragged a handful of fish out on to the dry sand, and then looking at them contemptuously exclaimed: “Wee bit McTavishes!”

“I don't understand you, sir!”

“Weel there's a banker chiel ca'd McTavish comes up here frae Wellington ilka Sunday; I've never seen him mysel', but I've h'ard telt o'm. He's aye dressed up to dick an’ he gangs fishin’ in a’ the backwatters an’ creekies and catches a’ the wee bit spratties in the river. Syne he gangs aboot Wellington a’ the next week as proud as a cock wi’ twa tails tellin’ folks what a wonderfu’ catch he made on Sawboth.”

“Sir, my name's McTavish!”

“Weel, wha'd a’ thocht it!”