The Sardine Sox

Maoriland Worker, Volume I, Issue 7, 20 March 1911, Page 8

The Sardine Sox

Near a river gushing from mountain wells, Over beds of fossils and strange sea shells,, A mile or more from the West Coast road, There's a quaint named hut—a queer abode. For months it stands all silent and lone, By tramp and tourist alike unknown. Till the musterers' cries resound from the rocks, And the shearers tenant the Sardine Box. The mansion is scarcely ten feet wide, With bunks erected on either side; While extra comfort the place to lend, A few in addition grace either end. JLhe frame is of bircii, much stronger than neat. And the total length is 'bout fourteen feet; Of furniture minus, for nobody cares; To trouble a shearer with table or chairs. O, the hawk has a nest, there's a hole _ for the fox, But men must sleep in a Sardine Box. The iron, which, covers: the walls and roof, Js scarcely wind or water-proof; For years ago a misfortune dire Destroyed the building one day by fire; And tnoLigh forced to erect the frame an ew, They considered the iron again would do. So from the old nail holes around our bunks. Like the loopholes used by the ancient monks, We can gaze on the beautiful river and rocks, As we shiver and shake in the Sardine Box. The iioor is of dirt, wnich time never stains, For the longer it wears, the more ren.ains; While, not to leave us in darkness quite, There's one little window to let in the light. And we never again will be left In a fix By the fire getting out through a crack in the bricks Of a badly built chimney, as often is done. They have saved us from that by giving us none. So to keep our feet warm, we must sleep in our socks, Or perish at night in the Sardine Box. We scarcely can say we're all in a heap, For we sleep in bunks only three tiers deep; With nearly a foot and a half between. For hanging our clothes to keep them clean. The bunks are of sack, and I'd like you to know frach. move shakes! the dust on your neighour below. So hearing him sneezing and choking for breath, You know very well he's not frozen to death. And are saved a succession of fearful shocks, From finding dead men in the Sardine Box. They reckon we shearers l a pretty rough crowd, At drinking, gambling, and cursing aloud; And they seldom think the maxim to try Of doing to us as they'd be done by. But they might, if they only would think, now and then, That even the shearers and pressers are men Who are Imman, and feel as other men do, Whether squatter, narangie, or jackeroo; And would no doubt treat us as well as their \3ocks, If they first spent a week in the Sardine Box. Friends, workers, comrades, hear what I say, The reforms we need must come some _ day; .tJut not while all dangers and duty we sKirk, Each leaving to others the troublesome work. If you will not boldly do it yourselves, You deserve like Chinkies to sleep on shel /es; To be treated worse than the squat+er*s flocks, And live and die in a Sardine Box. —ARTHUR RAE.