We have a large farm, and a great deal of work to get through, but then there are eight or nine of us to share in the first and to do the latter; yet we find that we never have time to do all that we ought to do, and all that we want to do. Every year brings with it an increasing amount of labour, just to keep things going as they are, consequently the time for enlarging the farm becomes more and more limited. Thus it is, that though we cleared and grassed a hundred and forty acres in our first year, yet we have now only five or six hundred acres of grass in our eighth.

Hampered as we were by the lack of capital, and by the necessity of scraping and pinching to meet those payments spoken of, it is little wonder that we seem as poor and pauperized as we were at the commencement. But we are by no means really so. We are actually in very good circumstances. Our farm is immensely increased in value, and is now beginning to pay substantially. Another year will see the sum completed, which will close the purchase of the land. After that, we shall have means to make outlays of sundry kinds, be able to build a fine house, go in for marriage. Who knows what else?

The grass on our clearings is rich and abundant, and, owing to the nature of the soil, keeps fresh and green all through the dry season, when other districts are crying out against the drought. In spite of the standing stumps, the rough ground, and the mere surface-sowing, our grass will carry four sheep per acre all the year round; some of it more. It is not all fenced in—that would be too much to expect—but most of it is; and what is not gives the milch cows plenty of feed, and so keeps them from wandering off. The clearings are not all in one piece. They are divided off into paddocks, and there is a good deal of standing bush among them, some of which will eventually come down, and some of which will be left.

We have now seven or eight hundred head of sheep. We had to buy our original store flock on credit, but the increase and wool has enabled us to pay that off long since. Similarly, grass-seed, some stock, and other things were bought on credit, which has since been liquidated. What we have is our own. We have had years of incessant toil, the hardest possible work, with plenty of food, but little comfort and no holidays to speak of. Two or three years more of it, and then we shall be in a condition to really enjoy the prosperity we have laboured for.

Except at shearing and lambing seasons, our Lincolns and Leicesters give us but little trouble. We did try the merino breed, but they broke through the fence and ran away into the bush, where we occasionally see traces of them, and have once or twice caught one and turned it into mutton. Shearing is a great business, but we are all accomplished hands at it now, and our bales are larger every year as the flock increases. Wool is ready money here, being an article that can always be negotiated at once with the Auckland dealers. Our wool is reckoned of even better quality than that grown on the great sheepwalks of Canterbury and Otago.

During a great part of the year we are milking ten to twenty cows daily, and, in spite of the seeming inefficiency of our dairy arrangements, we send a goodly store of butter and cheese to the township, whence it goes to Auckland and elsewhere. We fatten pigs, too, on skim-milk, maize, pumpkins, and peaches grown by ourselves. A score or two are usually to be seen on the clearings round the shanty. We are able butchers and curers; and Old Colonial excels in the manufacture of brawn, sausages, collared head, and the like. Most of the pig-meat is consumed by ourselves. In one form or other it is our staple food. But occasionally we sell a barrel of pork, or some flitches and hams, to such local buyers as the bushmen employed at the saw-mills.

Dandy Jack talks of introducing Angora goats. I do not know exactly why, but he appears to think the project a good one. He has long ago given up mere coaching. In fact, people began to have doubts about entrusting themselves to his driving, though I hesitate to record such a disagreeable matter. He joined our society some years ago, though he is not always with us, gravitating invariably towards all the races, horse and cattle fairs of the country. But he has set up as a horse breeder and trainer, keeping his stud on our clearings, and thus adding another industry to the various others of our pioneer farm. This is a good thing for us, as Jack's horses come in very usefully sometimes, for carrying or dragging purposes.

Our largest source of income just at present is the herd. First there is the dairy business, which I have already spoken of. The milch cows keep on the clearings, or near to them, and soon get tame enough to come up when called. They are brought to the bails morning and evening, fastened up, and given a feed of koraka. All cattle are very fond of the leaves of the koraka-tree, and it is used to entice them with when that is required. Of course, it will be understood that, as there is no cold winter here, we do not require to house our cattle at any season, nor do we need to provide them with hay or root food. They find their own living all the year round, either in the bush or on the clearings, and the most we do is to give them maize-stalks when we have some.

The bulk of the herd, numbering now upwards of two hundred head, runs free in the bush. There is no native grass, as I have before mentioned, and the feed is tree leafage. This suits the cattle, and they fatten well upon it, though not turning out very large beasts. But the pasture-fed cattle of the South are not in prime condition for market during the dry-season. Our bush-raised beasts are, and this gives us a pull.

The best part of one man's time is always taken up with stock duty. To keep the cattle from becoming unmanageably wild, and from getting too far away, they must be constantly driven up to the yards, and accustomed to discipline. It is our practice to give every beast a night in the yard at least once in six weeks. And it is also essentially necessary to keep an eye on calving cows, for if the calf is not brought up at once, branded, and so forth, it will be sure to turn out wild and a rusher, and then it would have to be shot at once, to prevent its infecting other beasts.

Of course, we are all stockmen more or less; but Old Colonial and the Saint are the chief hands at this work. The latter gentleman did not receive his appellation, as might be supposed, from any relations which his character bore to it. He was intended for the Church at one time; but, perhaps, the Church is to be congratulated in that it did not receive him. There is nothing mild or milk-and-watery about our Saint, though he has his own peculiar moral code, and is strictly scrupulous in its observance.

The Saint is the most elaborate swearer I ever heard. That is, when he is driving cattle. At other times he most conscientiously refrains from everything but abstract rectitude of speech. He says that you cannot drive cattle without swearing; that they understand you so far, and never think you are in earnest till they hear an oath. Whip and dogs and roaring will not do without some good hearty swearing, too. The Saint says so, and he ought to know. He declares that he could never bring up cattle unless he swore at them. I think I have heard something similar from other drovers. Perhaps some naturalist will be good enough to explain this extraordinary characteristic of cattle.

The cattle associate themselves into mobs. Each such mob is headed by an old bell-cow, sometimes by two or three. Bulls, of which we have now two, are sometimes with one mob and sometimes with another. Individual beasts, belonging to neighbours of ours, are to be found running with certain mobs belonging to us, and the reverse is also the case. We have to look after the strange beasts with our own, and our neighbours do the same by us. At musters, or when drafting for market, we make the necessary exchanges. But we have only two neighbours on this side the river who run cattle in the bush; one lives six miles off, and the other fifteen.

We keep a stock-book, in which every beast is entered. Each cow receives a name when she becomes a mother, and her offspring are known by numbers. Steers are never named. They have only four years of it, being sent off to market at the end of that time. Then a line is drawn through the "Beauty's third," or "Rosebud's fourth," which has designated their individuality in the stock-book; and the price they have fetched is entered opposite. The various mobs are known by the names of the old cows that lead them. Thus, we speak of "White Star's mob," or "Redspot's mob."

It is the stockman's duty to know each individual beast, and also to know the members that compose each mob. He has to go out with the dogs almost every day to hunt up some mob or other. Our bush is much too dense to admit of riding, except along certain narrow tracks, partly natural and partly cut with the axe, which serve as bridle-roads, and keep open communication with distant settlements or settlers' places. So the member of our fraternity who happens to be stockman has to go cattle-hunting afoot.

Cattle-hunting, as we term this employment, has a certain charm and air of sporting about it; but it is by no means light work, especially in warm weather. The stockman has to travel through pathless woods all the time, and has an area of twenty to thirty miles round our place in which to search for his cattle. He takes some fixed route to start with, making for some distant locality, where experience has taught him such and such a mob are likely to be feeding. On his way he takes note of any cattle he may come across, marks the gullies they are in, and thus, having knowledge of the ways of cattle, is able to guess within a mile or two where those mobs are likely to be found when wanted.

Moreover, a good stockman gets to be experienced in tracking. He reads "sign" in every broken bough or trampled water-hole, and this guides him in finding the mob he wants. We know the bush around us pretty well by this time, about as well, in fact, as a cabman knows the streets of London. It is all mapped out in our minds, and we talk of various spots by name, either their Maori names, if they have such, or fancy titles we have given them.

Of course, the dogs are our main reliance, though, even without them, such able hands as Old Colonial and the Saint can get on well enough. But clever, well-trained cattle-dogs are a treasure beyond price in the bush; and this we know, taking great pains with our colleys. The cattle lie very close in the dense thickets of foliage, and hide themselves from sight. One may run slap into a beast before it will move. But the dogs traverse the gullies on the stockman's flanks, and start up any cattle that may be in them. Here is where the value of the dogs consists, for, if they are not well-trained, they may run after wild pigs, or rats, or kiwis, and give a lot of trouble.

Sometimes, after tracking the forest for many a weary mile, the stockman will have to return without finding the mob he wanted. Occasionally he will have to camp out, not because of losing himself—that seldom happens to us now—but because of the distance he is from home. So a stockman rarely goes out without three requisites about him—food, matches, and tobacco. Except in wet weather, camping out is no particular hardship to us. One can always make oneself comfortable enough in the bush, if one has those three articles, that are the bushman's "never-be-withouts."

When the cattle are found, belonging to a mob that the stockman thinks proper to drive home, comes some very heavy and exciting work. We call our beasts tame, and so they are in a sense; still, compared to the gentle creatures one sees on English meadows, they are scarcely to be so characterized.

At one time a mob will head for home, and go straight and quietly enough, needing only the dogs at their heels to keep them in the right direction. At another time the mob will scatter, and the members of it prove very unruly. They will charge and rush in every direction but the right one, and the very devil seems to be in the beasts. Scrambling up steep ranges, dashing down precipitous ravines, and always forcing a passage through dense undergrowth and jungle, plunging through marsh and bog, chasing to right and to left, it is a wonder how dogs and men get through the work they do. And often there are miles and miles of this before the welcome clearing comes in view.

What is the condition of a stockman after he has brought up his mob and yarded it for the night? He has walked and run and scrambled, perhaps, twenty or thirty miles during the day, and that not over a plain road, but through the rough and hilly forest. He is totally tired out and exhausted. He is dripping with sweat, caked with mud from head to foot, his shirt torn to rags, his skin scratched all over, and very likely some nasty bruises from tumbles. He has hardly energy enough left to wash himself. Supper does not revive him, though he stows away an appallingly large one. And then he stretches himself in his bunk and is happy. Only, when morning comes again, he awakes stiff and sore. But, no matter for that, inexorable duty claims him for the same toil. And so wags our daily life—hard, unremitting, unromantic labour, day after day, year after year. Still we say it is a glorious life, and we believe what we say. Anyhow, it is better than being chained to a desk, or growing purblind "poring over miserable books."

If you can only realize what cattle-hunting means, the shouting and roaring after them and the dogs, the loss of temper that fatigue induces, and the consequent aggravation when beasts are unruly, perhaps you will forgive the Saint for his "exuberant verbosity" in relation to cattle. Even a real saint might swear under the circumstances, and be held excused by his peers in the celestial hierarchy.

Our four-year-old steers do not show very large, considered from English farmers' points of view. Fifteen or sixteen hundred lbs. is about the maximum of our fat beasts. But the beef is of first-rate quality; and as bush-fed beasts are in good condition at the end of the dry season, when pasture-raised cattle are poor, we do as well by them as could be desired. The bush is always cool and fresh and moist, even when all the grass is withered and brown on the pastures; and this is one of the reasons why we prefer bush-land to open-land for pioneer farming.

There is a standing controversy waged among settlers, as to whether it is better to take up such land as ours or to go in for a tract of open fern-land. On open lands you can easily clear the ground, and, though it will not, as a rule, yield grass for mere surface-sowing, yet the plough can be put into it within a year or two. But the cost of fencing it is much higher; and the open-land farmer must wait longer for returns such as will keep him. He has no bush-feed for cattle as we have, and it is cattle that the pioneer relies on for his support at first. It is eight or twelve years before the bush-farmer gets a chance of ploughing; but then his cattle keep him going from the outset. Also, our burnt clearings will yield us good grass for surface-sowing, which will feed sheep until the stumps have rotted and the plough can be used. The sum of it is that open-lands will pay a man with good capital quicker, while bush-lands are the only possible thing for such poorer folk as ourselves.

We send steers to Auckland market two or three times a year. Once or twice we have driven them overland, a distance of eighty miles or so by the map. This is not so far, certainly; but then there are no proper roads, and most of the way lies through thick bush. There is a faint apology for a bridle-track through the forest, not very easy to find, which strikes the Great North Road about twenty miles from here. And this same Great North Road, in spite of a pretentious title, and also in spite of being marked in the maps with a heavy black line, as though it were a highway of the Watling Street description, is just a mere bridle-track, too, hardly discoverable at all for the greater portion of its length.

Two or three of us ride along these tracks with the cattle. One or two have to be most of the time on foot, while the third leads their horses. They are plunging through the otherwise impenetrable scrub after dogs and cattle, which last will not keep the line. The whole journey takes about a week. We camp down at night, and half the next day is taken up with hunting for some of the beasts that have strayed. Usually one or two are lost altogether before Auckland is reached.

This sort of thing hardly pays, unless a considerable number of beasts have to be sent at once; and then the steers have lost condition before they can be got to market. I have had some experience of this cattle-driving work; and of all the aggravating jobs I know, it certainly is the very worst.

We usually send up our fat steers in batches of a dozen or so at a time, and prefer now to have them conveyed by water. When we have arranged to do so, there is a grand muster of the herd. Mob after mob is brought up and enclosed in the fenced clearings, until we have collected together all we deem necessary.

Then comes the job of drafting out the steers selected for market. This is a work of difficulty. All hands are required to achieve it, and often several neighbours will come over to assist. A small paddock, or a stockyard, opens out of the larger one wherein the herd is assembled. The slip-panels between are guarded by four men. Others on horseback, armed with the formidable loud-cracking stock-whips, drive the cattle slowly towards the gate. Then comes the tug of war. Each man uses all his endeavours to drive the chosen steers through the gate, while the rest are excluded.

A regular battle is fought over every steer; for the guardians of the gate often fail in preventing other beasts from getting through as well, as they will not separate. Then the driving is renewed from the other side. The cattle get wild and furious, charging and rushing at everything and everybody, and the men on foot have to look out for themselves very warily. The racket and row make up an indescribable din.

As each four-year-old is finally drafted out, it is driven into a separate yard, until all are secured there. Then the bulk of the herd are turned loose into the bush again. By-and-by, perhaps a day or two later, comes the job of shipping the steers. In order to effect this they are transferred to a stockyard on the beach.

We have chartered a sea-going cutter, and she lies off in the river, possibly two or three hundred yards from the beach. A rope connects her with the beach; and the noosed end of this is passed over the horns of one of the steers in the yard. Then comes a tussle to get that particular beast out of the yard while the others shall be kept in. Often, in spite of the dreaded stockwhips, one of the guardians of the slip-panels gets knocked over, and then away goes the mob of terrified beasts, tearing along the beach, and giving no end of trouble to get them back again. Once, I remember, a heavy steer bounded clean over the eight-foot fence of the stockyard, and got away.

When the roped animal is got out on the beach, a ring of men drives him down to the water, the people on board the cutter hauling at the rope meanwhile. By this means he is easily got alongside of her, when once he is off his legs and swimming. Then a sling is passed under his belly, tackle is affixed, and, with a "Yeo, heave ho!" he is lifted on board and deposited in the hold. Then the process begins afresh until all the batch is shipped.

The cutter sails down the river and out through the Heads into the open sea. She then coasts down and enters the Manukau Harbour, going up to Onehunga to unload. Onehunga is only six miles from Auckland, of which it is practically a part, being the port of the city on the west coast. It is connected with Auckland by railway and macadamized carriage-road.

In Auckland market fat cattle sell at twenty to thirty shillings per hundred lbs., sometimes even a little more. Our beasts usually fetch us ten or twelve pounds apiece, after deducting freightage, and our agent's charges for receiving and selling them. This year, our herd of two hundred head yielded us three batches of four-year-old fat steers, each batch containing about a dozen head.

When cattle breed wild in the bush they may be a source of considerable annoyance and loss. This does not matter in remoter districts, such as the recesses of the Hokianga forests. Wild cattle abound there, possibly in hundreds; and the Maoris make a good thing by hunting them for their hides. There are no settlers' cattle running in the bush there; but where there are, wild cattle would make them as wild as themselves, and would spoil a herd in no time. When they appear in a district, cattle-farmers have to combine to hunt them down and extirpate them.

Once there were some wild cattle in the bush between Te Pahi and Paparoa, on the opposite side of our river. The settlers of Paparoa were hunting them down, and we were warned to look out, for fear the beasts should take to the water. They did do so, and a whole mob of them tried to swim over to our side.

Fortunately we were on the look-out. At once a party took to the boats, while others watched along the shore. We were in a great funk about the matter, for if the wild bulls got over to our side it might mean almost ruin for us. So we charged gallantly at them in the water, and strove to head them back to the other side, where the Paparoa men were waiting for them.

Such guns as we had were brought out, but they were little good, not being rifled, and we had no ball cartridge. Dandy Jack performed prodigies of valour with an old harpoon; and O'Gaygun used his axe with great success. Altogether, the excitement was great and the sport good. One bull overturned a boat, as it rowed alongside him; but the Fiend, who was in it, adroitly clambered on to the animal's back as it swam, and, with great difficulty, managed to open its throat with his knife. Seven or eight were killed in the water. Even the despised new-chums' pistols were brought into use, and in this emergency they proved really valuable. The beasts that effected the crossing were slaughtered on the beach; and altogether we killed some eighteen or twenty. We prevented them thus from getting into our bush, so saving our own herd from contamination. This has been our only experience of the kind in this district, luckily.

There was an incident that happened once, in connection with cattle, of rather an unusual sort. So much so, in fact, that most people to whom we have at times spoken of it have doubted our veracity. I suppose it will add but little weight to the story if I premise it with the assertion that it is simple truth. Nevertheless, it is actual fact, believe it or not who list.

There was a grand assemblage at the station of a friend and neighbour of ours, on one of the Kaipara rivers. He had been running a large herd, over a thousand head of cattle, and was now going to dispose of the greater number. This was because the feed for them was getting short in his immediate neighbourhood; and because his land was now becoming ready for sheep and the plough.

Nearly all the men in the district had been asked to come and assist at the mustering, drafting, and so on, of the herd. It was a gathering of the kind known in America as a "bee." And as a bee usually winds up with festivity, feasting, dancing, and the like, such femininities as the district possessed were brought over by their respective husbands or male relatives. While we busied ourselves with the cattle in the yard and on the run, the ladies were occupied with industries peculiar to themselves indoors, giving the mistress of the house the benefit of a sewing, scandal, and cooking bee, probably.

We had been all day hard at work, and had pretty well got through all there was to do. Most of the cattle had been drafted into yards, had been branded or handled as required, and the work was nearly complete. Towards sundown we came to be most of us assembled about one of the yards.

This was a stockyard, or paddock, of about two acres in extent, and within it an obstinate young bull remained solus, holding his own against us. It was necessary, for purposes which need not be specified, that the beast should be thrown and tied down. We usually accomplish the overthrow of big beasts by noosing their legs, and so tripping them up; but this bull was far too wary to let any one get near him, and was wild and vicious, moreover. Several of us had been fruitlessly trying, for an hour or more, to do something with him, and our host was now saying the beast had better be shot out of hand; but we had spent so much time over him already that we did not like to give in, and resolved we would throw him anyhow. None of us could stay inside the fence, so fierce were the rushes of the bull, and he was too cunning to let himself be caught by coming near the rails.

As man after man concluded his other tasks, and came up to assist, our perplexity seemed to increase. Various plans were discussed, and put in operation, but the bull baffled them all. There was beginning to be a good deal of ill-temper and swearing among us.

And now Dandy Jack appeared on the scene. He had not been with us during the day, having just rowed over from somewhere else. Of course he had gravitated towards the house when he arrived, and had been sunning himself in the ladies' smiles. Now he was strolling out to have a pipe, and to see what we were about.

Tired, ill-tempered, and covered with muck as we all were, there was a tendency among us to resent this late arrival of Master Dandy Jack's; and this feeling, you may be sure, was not lessened by a contemplation of the extravagant cleanliness and daintiness of apparel that, as usual, pervaded this spruce lady-killer's outward man.

He was hailed with a volley of sarcasm and personalities, amid which he stood, hands in pockets and pipe in mouth, placidly surveying us and the situation. At length, when a pause in the tempest of words gave him an opportunity of speaking, he said, in his softest and most delicate tones—

"I see before me a number of gentlemen with whom I have the honour to be more or less acquainted. They are all hot, dirty, and disagreeable. I also see a stockyard, and within it four quarters of fresh beef, likewise hot, dirty, and disagreeable. There would seem to be a difficulty somewhere. Can I assist in removing it?"

He was answered by a burly giant of a bushman, a Wairoa man, who had scant knowledge of our dandy.

"P'raps you'll be so blanked polite as to show us how to capsize that blanked beast," he said, adding with bitter irony, "if it ain't too much to ask from such a blanked, pretty, drawing-room ornament!"

"Oh, certainly! with all the pleasure in life!" responded Dandy Jack urbanely. "Will you kindly keep my pipe alight for a minute?"

Then, to everybody's amazement, he vaulted over the fence and approached the bull. Instantly that animal saw him, down went his head, of course, and up went his tail, as he charged upon the sauntering figure. But Jack dodged the rush with the nimbleness of a practised picador; and the bull crashed against the fence. Again and again the same performance was repeated, while we all watched round the fence, calling to Jack at intervals to come out of his dangerous situation. He only nodded carelessly, and continued to saunter about as if no bull was near him.

Presently, the bull stood stock-still, then commenced pawing the ground, tossing his head and tail, bellowing, and eyeing Jack, who was leisurely moving towards him right in front. He had apparently grown tired of charging this figure that always eluded him, and was uncertain what to do next. So Dandy Jack walked on till he was within a yard or two of the bull's nose. Then the beast thought it was time to do something, and concluded to try the effect of one more rush.

But he was too late. Directly that his angry head went down, with a preparatory sweep, Dandy Jack, whose assumed carelessness really covered a preternatural degree of alertness, sprang at him.

It was all done so quickly that we spectators could hardly distinguish what was happening. We saw Jack seize one of the bull's horns with both hands, we saw him place his foot upon the other. Then came a wrench and a wrestle, all in the space of one moment, and then Jack was whirling through the air, to fall lightly enough on the soft ground half a dozen yards off.

But the bull lay rolling on his back. That twist of his head had overbalanced him. And before he could recover himself and scramble to his feet, we had sprang over the fence and got him securely tied with our ready ropes.

A few minutes later, our eccentric chum was quietly sitting on the prostrate and helpless carcase of his late antagonist. With his usual dainty care he was ridding himself of the dust and dirt that had soiled him when he fell. The Wairoa man was regarding him in blank astonishment. Clearly, Dandy Jack was an entirely new species of the genus homo to him. Thus spake the bull-fighter, with elaborate affectation of languor and softness—

"Look here, old fellow! You don't understand what a bull is. I'll tell you. It's a thing that some people look at from the safe side of the fence, and that other people take by the horns."

This was hardly fair upon the giant, perhaps. But after his doughty deed, Dandy Jack was to be excused if he improved the occasion, and revenged himself for the sneer that had previously been cast upon him.

Oh! we are getting on fast and famously now, with our farm. The stumps on the first clearing are now completely rotten; so we have pulled them out, piled them in heaps, and burnt them. This clearing is ready for the plough. Besides, there is a piece of flat, marshy ground below our shanty on the left, and this was only covered originally with flax, swamp-grass, and small shrubs. In the dry season we have burnt this off as it stood. The soil is not deep, but it is good, and we shall plough this in with the other. There will be about fifty acres of plough land altogether, and twice as much more next year, or the year after.

We have borrowed a plough and harrows from a neighbour, and are going to work. Ploughing is quite a new industry up here. There are some of the settlers round who have got lands under plough before this; but not to any great extent. To us it seems to open up a boundless vista of opulence, and there is no end to our speculations, and to the general excitement in our shanty.

Wheat! We must grow it, of course; and a flour-mill at the township is an imperative necessity. Somebody must start one, and that quickly. Why should we go on eating Adelaide flour, when we are growing wheat ourselves? They have reaped sixty and eighty bushels to an acre, in the South Island, and their average is thirty! So Old Colonial tells us. Well, our land is richer than theirs, and our climate is better too, so much cannot be gainsaid. Ergo, we shall have better crops. South Island corn has been sold in London at a profit; and has been judged first-class in quality. Ergo, again, ours must infallibly top the markets of the world. That is, what we are going to grow, you understand.

Then there is the great sugar question. Government is always offering divers incentives to new industries. It has offered a bonus of £500 to whomsoever produces the first fifty tons of beet-root sugar in New Zealand. That is, over and above what the sugar may fetch in the market. We say, why should not we go in for it? So many acres of beet, a crushing mill, a few coppers and some tubs, and there you are! Wealth, my boy! Wealth!

But O'Gaygun has misgivings. "This is not a whate-growin' counthry," he declares. It is far too rough and hilly. There are too many difficulties in the way. You can grow wheat to a certain extent, of course. The North can produce enough for its own consumption, and more. It will pay as one among other operations and productions. But we must not think of it as our principal or staple industry.

And then as to sugar. You must have a couple of hundred acres of beet at least, to begin with. A mill and appliances that are to be of real use would cost £2000 or so. Your bonus would be but a small thing if you got it. If all the farmers in the district were to combine to grow beet-root on every acre they could plough, and nothing else, even then it would hardly pay the sugar-mills, or possibly the farmers either. Stick to cattle and sheep, to pigs and potatoes, "Ontil ye're able to give ye're attintion to fruit. Fruit! Whativver ye can do wid it, that's what this counthry's made for! Wine! an' ile! an' raisins! an'——"

"Oh, shut up, O'Gaygun! Get out, you miserable misanthrope!"

Nevertheless, I think our Irish chum was about right in what he said, after all, especially in the last part of his remarks.

Dandy Jack had been training horses, and Old Colonial had been gentling bullocks; so we had a choice of draggers for the plough. We ploughed in those fifty acres, fenced them round, and put in potatoes for a cleaning crop, to thoroughly break up the old turf. We hope to get two crops in the year. The second will be maize and pumpkins. Then, next year, wheat.

The new-ploughed land is surveyed with rapture by us; but it is something different from an English field, after all. The ground was so irregular and rough; our beasts were not too easy to manage; and then—but this is unimportant—it was our first essay at ploughing. The furrows are not exactly straight, and there is a queer, shaggy look about them. But the potatoes are in, and a crop we shall have, no doubt about it. What more can possibly be needed?

I have mentioned that we have several enclosures that may be termed gardens. So we have, and what they produce fully bears out O'Gaygun's opinion, as to this being essentially a fruit country. Of course our spade industry gives us all the vegetables we require, when we lay ourselves out for it. The worst of growing anything except roots is the immense amount of weeding required; the weeds spring in no time; and they are of such a savage sort in this fertile land.

We grow large quantities of melons—water-melons, musk-melons, rock-melons, Spanish melons, pie-melons, and so on. Also, we grow marrows and pumpkins in profusion, as the pigs are fed on them as well as ourselves. These plants do not want much weeding. They may be grown, too, among the maize. Kumera, or sweet potatoes, we grow a good deal of; also many other vegetables, when we think we have time to plant them.

But in fruit we excel. There is a neighbour of ours who goes in for tree-culture exclusively, and who has a nursery from which he supplies Auckland. To him we owe a greater variety than we should otherwise have, perhaps.

First, there are peaches. We have a great number of trees, as they will grow from the stone. We eat them in quantities; pickling, preserving, and drying them sometimes. But the principal use to which we put them is to fatten our pigs. We have several kinds of peaches, coming on at different seasons. The earliest kind are ripe about Christmas, and other sorts keep on ripening to March or April. Then we have some few apricots, nectarines, plums, cherries, loquats, etc., all yielding bounteously.

The last are a very delicious fruit, ripening about October or November. Figs we have till late into the winter, and they begin again early; we are very fond of them. Oranges, lemons, and shaddocks grow fairly well, and are fruiting all the year round. Apples do badly, being subject to blight, though the young trees grow rapidly, and, if freely pruned, will yield enormous crops. To obviate the blight we keep a constant succession of young trees to replace those that are killed. Pears are not subject to the blight, and do well. Grapes are very luxuriant; and, no doubt, this will be a wine-country in the future. Already, some people at Mangawai have made good wine, and have started a little trade in it. Of strawberries, guavas, Cape gooseberries, and other small fruit we have a little. The former fruit so plenteously here, that the leaves are entirely hidden by the clusters of berries and blossom. The second is a bush; and the last a plant like a nettle, which sows itself all over. The fruit is nice.

Both the gardens and the clearings are subject to a horrible plague of crickets. They are everywhere, and eat everything. But turkeys and ducks fatten splendidly on them, acquiring a capital gamey flavour. Cricket-fed turkey would shame any stubble-fed bird altogether, both as to fatness and meatiness and flavour. We have hundreds of turkeys wild about the place, which keep down the crickets a good deal. Although we eat them freely, they increase very rapidly, like everything else here. The worst of it is they will not leave the grapes alone, and if they would the crickets won't, which is a difficulty in the way of vine-growing. But notwithstanding that, some of us are convinced that wine-making is the coming industry of the Kaipara. Then there is the olive, and the mulberry for serici-culture. Both these things are to come. Experiment has been made in growing them, but that is all as yet. Tobacco, too, will have its place. It grows well; and the Maoris sometimes smoke their own growth. We prefer the Virginian article. A man at Papakura has done well with tobacco, we hear. Government has bonused him, so it is said; and his manufactured product is to be had in all the Auckland shops—strong, full-flavoured stuff; wants a little more care in manufacture, perhaps.

Tobacco, like some other things we have tried—hops, castor-oil, spices, drugs, and so on—needs cheap labour for picking. That is the sine qu non to success in these things. And for cheap labour we must wait, I suppose, till we are able to marry, and to rear those very extensive families of children, which are one of the special products of this fruitful country, and which are also such aids to the pioneer in getting on.

Take it altogether, we—the pioneers of Te Pahi—are of opinion that pioneer-farming here is a decided success. We are satisfied that it yields, and will yield, a fair return for the labour we have invested in it. We think that we are in better case, on the whole, than we should have been after eight years' work at other avocations in the old country. Putting aside the question of the magnificent health we enjoy—and that is no small thing—we are on the high road to a degree of competence we might never have attained to in England. Not that we wish to decry England; on the contrary, we would like to return there. But for a visit, merely. Here is our home, now. The young country that is growing out of its swaddling clothes, and that we hope, and we know, will one day be a Brighter Britain in deed and in truth.