Part 15
I heard of one more such accident whilst I was in New Zealand, and that was to a poor shepherd who went to give what is called a ‘drafting notice’ to the next run. You are obliged to send and tell all your neighbours when you muster your sheep, at shearing and other times, so that any which may have strayed on to your feeding grounds may be claimed by their rightful owners. Each sheep has a device stamped on it every year after it has been shorn; this is called the ‘brand;’ besides which a little mark is put on each ear, so you can easily tell your own sheep at a glance; indeed, I have heard of a celebrated colley, who was supposed to know his master’s brand, and to be able to pick the sheep belonging to him out of a mixed mob! Well, this shepherd, ‘Joe’ by name, never came back; but it happened that just then there was a great rush to some wonderful Gold fields near, and it was no uncommon thing for a shepherd to go out in the morning, and, instead of returning, send a message to say he had gone to the diggings; so, although no such message came from Joe, his master never doubted but that he had started to look for a fortune in the wintry torrent of a New Zealand river.
Months afterwards a lad was eel-fishing in a creek which ran between the two stations, and as he strolled along its banks looking for a deep hole wherein to cast his simple tackle—a few yards of strong twine and a large hook, baited with a bit of mutton—he came to a new place where the banks had been washed away by a recent heavy fresh, and a splendid basin formed. Here he prepared to throw in a line, fasten it to a flax bush, and then go on to search for another favourable spot. The water was clear, and on the shining shingle which paved the little pool he saw some white bones. At first he thought of a missing bullock of his father’s, and laying down at the edge of the stream, with a flax stick in his hand, he tried to drag or push the bones into a shallow place where he could reach them, but to his horror, the weight of his own body leaning on an overhanging bush seemed to dislodge some more bones, which had caught in its thick branches, and first a skeleton hand, and then a foot, dropped into the bright sparkling water. The boy told me the story himself, and described very simply and forcibly how he had felt as if the whole thing was a ghastly dream; for in New Zealand one is seldom brought face to face with anything worse than a lamb which has met with an untimely fate; and to this boy, who had left England as a child, and lived a free pastoral, life, almost removed from the knowledge of death, these grim bones were very dreadful.
He stood in perplexity wondering if he could find his way back again exactly to the same spot, when his eye was caught by a fluttering rag on a thorny shrub near. He disentangled it and examined it carefully, and then there flashed upon his mind, the distinct recollection of Joe the shepherd having worn a flannel shirt of this peculiar kind, for he well remembered having ‘chaffed’ him about its staring pattern of brown foxes’ heads on a scarlet ground. He quickly returned for help to the home station, and that evening poor Joe’s remains were collected in an empty flour sack, and buried by the side of the stream. His skull, easily recognised by a peculiar enormous tooth, of which he was very proud as being a sort of _lusus naturæ_, was higher up on the steep hill-side, and his tobacco-pouch and pipe were found a little way off. It was then remembered that the evening he left for home a dense and sudden fog had come on, and, as he was found far from the right track, he must have lost his way, made a false step in the dark, and probably broken his neck. He must at any rate have so injured himself by a fall, as to be incapable of moving, for otherwise there was no reason why he should not have waited till morning and then retraced his steps.
This story was told to me on my asking why a certain hill, which I very often passed in my rides, was called ‘Golgotha.’ The shepherds had given it that name ever since the discovery of poor Joe’s skull on its pathless and slippery sides.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. EDINBURGH AND LONDON
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