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Authors: Jack Lasenby
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it.”
“Is it all one farm?”
“All fifty-six thousand acres.”
“Fifty-six thousand acres!”
“Look at that!” said Jazz. A plough was sinking in a swampy bit. Only the handles stuck out of scummy black water. The draught horses struggled but started sinking, too. We watched amazed as the ploughman tore up whole clumps of tea-tree and tied them in bundles.
“Fascines,” said Daisy who was proud of her wide vocabulary.
The ploughman knelt below the necks of his drowning draught horses. He lifted them clear of the swamp, and kickedthe tea-tree fascines under their hoofs.
He took the plough handles. “Giddup!” The draught horses found their feet and drew the plough out of the swamp with a sucking noise. We watched it dwindle north across the plain, the single furrow a straight black line.
“That’s the powerful Mr Given,” said Aunt Effie. “He started ploughing from Matamata this morning. Tonight he’ll finish in Te Aroha. Tomorrow, he’ll turn round his team and plough one furrow all the way back to Matamata. That’s how big the paddocks are on the Firth Estate.”
“How long does it take to plough a whole paddock?” asked Colleen who was always interested in statistics.
“About a year,” said Aunt Effie. “Then a year to sow it in wheat. A year to grow. And a year to cut it down. And then J.C. Firth plans to sail his crop up to Auckland and grind it in his flour mill in Fort Street.
“The only trouble is that he doesn’t know the summer’s too wet here. Before it’s ripe enough to cut, his wheat’s going to sprout and start growing in the ear. It’ll be ruined.
“He’ll build the road to Cambridge. And he’ll build the Tower on top of Tower Hill. But he’ll go broke and have to sell off his enormous farm.” Aunt Effie looked pleased. Telling us a bit of history always made her feel that she was making up for taking us out of school. “He’ll break up part of his estate into little farms around Hopuruahine, and they’ll build a railway station, a school, and a dairy factory there.”
“That’s where we live!” we all said.
Aunt Effie nodded. “Just across there,” she said and pointed west. “It looks different from up the mast of a scow.”
“It’s not just that,” Marie said. “But we’re not even born yet.”
“It’s the 1880s,” said Aunt Effie. “Some of you are born or nearly born, and some of you won’t be born for another century, but that doesn’t matter.” She nodded. “There’s Stanley Landing.”
We looked and saw a concrete jetty and an iron shed waiting for the Kotuku to come and load Mr Firth’s wheat.
“And there’s the waterfall!” said Jessie. We all looked up at the Kaimais, at Wairere Falls, their white bend against the dark bush.
“I wonder if we’ll ever go up there?” asked Lizzie.
“You will,” said Aunt Effie. “Sooner than you think.”
She picked up a couple of us and sniffed. “Whew! You pong! You haven’t had a swim for several months because Alwyn keeps making cannibal eel noises. That’s why everyone’s getting a bit on the nose.”
She ran the Margery Daw in against the eastern bank. “See those two tawas? Take a towel and a lump of yellow soap and climb between them. You’ll come to a fence running off into the pigfern. Keep to the right, and you’ll see a patch of white manooker. The other side of it, you’ll see some pongas down the gully, and hot water bubbling out of the ground – what they call the Okauia Springs. Keep following your noses, and you’ll have the best swim of your lives. You can have a good scrub – and wash your hair while you’re about it. I’ll be waiting in the grownups’ pool to give you a hand.”
We watched Aunt Effie sail upstream. “What if she’s left us here,” said Ann, “and she never comes back?”
“Like ‘The Babes in the Woods’” cried Jazz.
“Then we’ll lie down and go to sleep and the birds will cover us with leaves,” cried
“Is it all one farm?”
“All fifty-six thousand acres.”
“Fifty-six thousand acres!”
“Look at that!” said Jazz. A plough was sinking in a swampy bit. Only the handles stuck out of scummy black water. The draught horses struggled but started sinking, too. We watched amazed as the ploughman tore up whole clumps of tea-tree and tied them in bundles.
“Fascines,” said Daisy who was proud of her wide vocabulary.
The ploughman knelt below the necks of his drowning draught horses. He lifted them clear of the swamp, and kickedthe tea-tree fascines under their hoofs.
He took the plough handles. “Giddup!” The draught horses found their feet and drew the plough out of the swamp with a sucking noise. We watched it dwindle north across the plain, the single furrow a straight black line.
“That’s the powerful Mr Given,” said Aunt Effie. “He started ploughing from Matamata this morning. Tonight he’ll finish in Te Aroha. Tomorrow, he’ll turn round his team and plough one furrow all the way back to Matamata. That’s how big the paddocks are on the Firth Estate.”
“How long does it take to plough a whole paddock?” asked Colleen who was always interested in statistics.
“About a year,” said Aunt Effie. “Then a year to sow it in wheat. A year to grow. And a year to cut it down. And then J.C. Firth plans to sail his crop up to Auckland and grind it in his flour mill in Fort Street.
“The only trouble is that he doesn’t know the summer’s too wet here. Before it’s ripe enough to cut, his wheat’s going to sprout and start growing in the ear. It’ll be ruined.
“He’ll build the road to Cambridge. And he’ll build the Tower on top of Tower Hill. But he’ll go broke and have to sell off his enormous farm.” Aunt Effie looked pleased. Telling us a bit of history always made her feel that she was making up for taking us out of school. “He’ll break up part of his estate into little farms around Hopuruahine, and they’ll build a railway station, a school, and a dairy factory there.”
“That’s where we live!” we all said.
Aunt Effie nodded. “Just across there,” she said and pointed west. “It looks different from up the mast of a scow.”
“It’s not just that,” Marie said. “But we’re not even born yet.”
“It’s the 1880s,” said Aunt Effie. “Some of you are born or nearly born, and some of you won’t be born for another century, but that doesn’t matter.” She nodded. “There’s Stanley Landing.”
We looked and saw a concrete jetty and an iron shed waiting for the Kotuku to come and load Mr Firth’s wheat.
“And there’s the waterfall!” said Jessie. We all looked up at the Kaimais, at Wairere Falls, their white bend against the dark bush.
“I wonder if we’ll ever go up there?” asked Lizzie.
“You will,” said Aunt Effie. “Sooner than you think.”
She picked up a couple of us and sniffed. “Whew! You pong! You haven’t had a swim for several months because Alwyn keeps making cannibal eel noises. That’s why everyone’s getting a bit on the nose.”
She ran the Margery Daw in against the eastern bank. “See those two tawas? Take a towel and a lump of yellow soap and climb between them. You’ll come to a fence running off into the pigfern. Keep to the right, and you’ll see a patch of white manooker. The other side of it, you’ll see some pongas down the gully, and hot water bubbling out of the ground – what they call the Okauia Springs. Keep following your noses, and you’ll have the best swim of your lives. You can have a good scrub – and wash your hair while you’re about it. I’ll be waiting in the grownups’ pool to give you a hand.”
We watched Aunt Effie sail upstream. “What if she’s left us here,” said Ann, “and she never comes back?”
“Like ‘The Babes in the Woods’” cried Jazz.
“Then we’ll lie down and go to sleep and the birds will cover us with leaves,” cried
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