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Hop-Picking in Nelson
A picturesque Harvest.

(By Russell Palmer.)

It is an early March morning; there is a chill in the air and the dew still glistens on the hedgerows as the print-pinafored workers make their way to their bins in a Nelson hop-field. They hang up their satchels, don their gloves, cut a string (for the official cutter has not yet arrived) and set out on what would appear to be the almost impossible task of filling the bin. Hop-picking is piece-work, so that the greatest reward comes to the deftest fingers, and these are almost invariably women's. In these days of unemployment many men take on the work, but they are no match for the women, who, for years have made and broken local records. These are the experienced pickers, but there are some who come each year to the hop-fields of Nelson for health and holiday and who go home with a reasonable cheque as well. This is an occupation where town and country meet.

In the hop-growing districts there is such a thing as “hop-picking” weather. Its characteristics are fresh mornings, hot sunny noondays and brilliant star-lit or moon-lit nights. Such conditions add zest to both work and play. One of the pleasant features of the work is that there is no standard of attainment, and it is soon evident whether pickers are there for profit or recreation by noting at what time they arrive at the “garden.” Some, too, are silent workers, while others can talk as busily as they can pick, and the subdued hum of conversation along the row of bins is broken only by the intermittent cry of “string!” as one vine, stripped of its fruit, is cast away and another put in its place. The string-pullers are doubtless not chosen for their power of conversation and repartee, but some of them seem adepts at keeping up a steady stream of good-natured banter as they yield their “cat,” a murderous-looking reap-hook on the end of a very long handle.

Measuring-up time comes at noon, and every bushel that goes into the “poke” means 2 ½d. or 3d. to the picker. Some make tallies of twenty or more bushels in the morning and as many more by five o'clock, while it is a notorious fact that the most successful pickers pick the fewest leaves.

The hops picked by day are dried by night while spread out evenly on big kilns, below which coal and coke fires burn continuously. The fragrant scent of drying hops lies heavily on the still night air over the whole countryside at hop-picking time. The social side of the harvest is losing many of its picturesque aspects, but none of its revelry. It is still one of the best of working holidays. The custom of meeting nightly in the kilns to tell ghost stories in the dark while baked onions or potatoes in jackets are raked from the glowing embers and eaten with salt and butter to taste, seems to have lost its appeal. Seldom now do the villagers and the visitors gather at the camps and stamp out the ringing chorus:

There was a farmer had a dog, and Bingo was his name O!

B—i—n—g—o,

B—i—n—g—o,

B—i—n—g—o,

And Bingo was his name O!”

The place of these homely but old-fashioned games has been usurped by the seductive notes of the guitar or jazz choruses from the portable gramophone. But much remains. Peals of laughter still ring out far into the night; there are still those old-time country dances with their boisterous entertainment, while the camp suppers are still plain but plenteous, for hops have not forgotten the knack of inducing ravenous hunger.

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In the present state of the industry three weeks is sufficient to harvest most of the crops. By degrees a garden where once stood acres of vines, row on row, each with its green-gold burden, is reduced to a few strings. Over the last one it has long been a Nelson custom—in imitation possibly of Kent—to perform a brief ceremony of farewell. The pickers are called to order while the chief string-puller calls for “three cheers for the last string!” as he solemnly cuts the string from the overhanging wire. But time makes ancient customs uncouth, even in hopfields, and to-day it is a common thing to dispense with the last string without any other comment than a sigh. There remains only the “spree,” when the employer pays out the cheques and wishes his workers good-bye till next year.

Hop-growing is the oldest of the varied activities of the small holder in Nelson. The pioneers of the Forties brought the industry from Kent to the fertile alluvial plains of the Waimea and Riwaka. In this century it has been left far behind in point of importance by fruit and tobacco-growing. The older settlers, however, still till their fields in order to cater for a limited internal demand, while it was one of the achievements of Ottawa that it started an export trade for the surplus.

Only in this somewhat secluded district is the industry carried on in New Zealand. Almost the only other hops grown in the country are to be seen climbing garden fences or verandah posts. Hop-growing is an exacting but profitable undertaking at the guaranteed price which obtains to-day. It is even more profitable to the pickers, not because any of them make a fortune, but, because, for health and appetite, there is nothing like a few weeks among the hops. Added to this there is a tinge of romance, with which not all primary industries are blessed. Hop-picking in Nelson brings visions of hop-picking in Kent, but it also suggests cider apples in Somerset, vineyards in Southern France, and vine-gathering on the sunny slopes of Italy.