SLAVES OF THE COW

Hokitika Guardian, 30 August 1929, Page 7

SLAVES OF THE COW

(Auckland Star.) Johnny was the eldest of the X children, cyx a farm between Auckland and Te Ivuiti. At the age of seven he could milk two,cows as expertly as his father. Indeed, his father boasted that anyone who could get an egg cup of milk from Kate or Strawberry when) Johnny was JLlotie with them was welcome to it. These supple little fingers could extract the last drop, and the cows approved of the baby softness of them. When he was six it was soon seen that he had a way with the calves; he got them to drink in some miraculous way when hot tempers had doomed them to be ‘'knocked on the head.” These wayward ones were then supposed to be Johnny’s but dad had a way of forgetting that, and several of them sold as yearlings swelled dad’s account.

And now lie was ten; he was first on foot after mum, who got up to light the fire for the first cup of the numiberless cups of tea throughout the long day. His two cows to milk had mounted up to seven; also he had to get the cows in when their forms were scarcely to be seen in the hard-ly-broken dawn. And this is mum’s hardest duty of the day—to waken Johnny to get in the cows. She has whipped her weary Ibody out of bed, and stands now in her old nightgown, candle in hand, looking down at the sturdy little figure of . her first-born. He is deep, deep in childhood’s untroubled sleep; the bedclothes are wildly twisted around him; his unruly hair is tumbled; it is always far too long, but visits to town are few. The rather unchildish blue eyes are tightly shut, leaving the lean, brown face with such a baby look. How can she break into that child’s birth-right of ten hours’ sleep? It was after nine before he went to bed last night, and it is but a little after four now. “Johnny, Johnny, it’s time to get u;p. Come, lad, wake up.’’ “00-o-er, mum, it’s too early—jus’ a minute; I kin easy git them in time, if I have ’nother minute; jus’ a miiyite; it’s so cold.” “Now, son, do you want dad to miss the cream cart? Do you want to he late for sohool?” Ah, that does' it—late for school. Johnny is out on the floor, bedclothes and all, and gives a parting kick to his little sleeping brother. Stiff little milking pants are slipped on in a minute; a thick jersey, no boots on the scored, cracked little feet. The air is sharp; a mist almost hides all Jiving tilings; but Don is such a good old dog, and his wild spirits infect the boy; in a few minutes he is cheerily whistling. His mother hears him, and her face lightens a little. “They soon get over' it,” she says to herself. She has had, her bad mornings, too; mornings when she is too tired to he patient and kind to Johnny as she awakens him; mornings when a big farm household wash looms ahead in an al-

ready oveifladen day; the mornings after wash day, when to rise from her own bed is simply a matter of dogged will power. On those awful clays tender feelings for Johnny are swamped in her own misery; on those 4 mornings he is “Johnny X and if he has to he called once again, she’ll “get the stockwhip to him.” And when two o’clock comes round and she and the milkers are all taking their afternoon rest her heart aches again at the vision of her little hoy pinned in his desk; his hot hands trembling with fatigue; his eyes heavy with, sleep, as his teacher asks harshly where his wits are. And that is the terrible part; all hands may snatch an hour’s rest at midday, but the one who needs it most —Johnny—he has, since four a.m. this day, fetched the cows, milked his seven, fed the unruly calves, caught his pony, and ridden three miles to school. He has drilled in the hot sun, played football (while he has a foot under him he won’t miss the game); he has stood in a long line to read for half an hour; he has gardened for an hour, half asleep on his hoe; for four and a-half hours, indeed, has he borne the 'burden of school syllabus, he whose day was really half over ere he entered the playground. Then off on his homeward ride again, where home and a repetition of the morning’s work await him; except that as he has no school to rush off to, a few extra chores are added. “Feed the sick pig and get the tea-tree for the kindling, Johnny; run over to Smiths’ and tell them we’re killing in the morning.” And from the headmaster comes a little note: “Dear Mr X ,—I am not pleased at all about Johnny’s work this quarter; I am afraid lie is not giving his best attention to his lessons. I would suggest that lie gives more time to, homework in the evenings and less to outdoor games.” The years pass, but Johnny never passes the fifth standard. He is now a city dweller with a motor garage of his own and a fioct of good taxis. Mum does not work so hard now, she cannot; and when Johnny can steal her from the farm for a few weeks they do all the things lie evei promised her they should “when I’m | a man, mum.” I

- G. EDITH BURTON