MAKURI.

Wairarapa Daily Times, Volume XVI, Issue 5016, 3 May 1895, Page 3

MAKURI.

From Our Own Correspondent. Now, why should a man moan and groan about his hardships in ' tho bush, through nearly a column 3 of newspaper, and never say ono ' word about our troubles. Havon't we got tho franchise, and aren't we 3 developing a" New Woman," what- ! ever that may be, and havon't we as 1 much right to air our struggles in ! helping to build up a home, as he ? ! Fancy being a wife and mother of 1 five small children; having to get up 1 at live o'clock in the morning, boj causo baby insists upon everyone boing in good time for breakfast, which to it, is a great ovent, and worth waking early for, altho' it is a dismisal, wet, sloshy morning; you find when you try to light the lire, that the wood is green and wet, and the damp wind is blowing in fitful gusts down the chimney, enveloping you with smoke, and covering you with'nshcs; the children all clamouring at once to be dressed; the cow i has got into the bush for shelter, as: you cannot give them any milk, and' you aro expecting your husband,' evory moment, to come in with mud up to the top of his leggings, as cross as two sticks because he can't find the cow, and because the beastly weather is" enough to make a fellow savage."

You have nearly managed to get ! the" billy" to boil, when you find it; is leaking and putting the fire out,! so you dab a bit of flour and j soap on the outside, jam it 1 down into the ashes, and hope to! goodness that will stop the leakage,' and you can get the water to boil i : without more delays. Somo of the I children are crying because they cannot find their garments, and some: aro crying becauso they find too . many, and all wondering when , mother is coming to wash them, ' hoping sho will forget just this , once, as they do not see 1 , the good of being scrubbed every ( morning; the eldest girl is try- ( ing in vain to still baby's cries, , who fails to see any reason in being quiet while she is hungry. However, time goes on, and you 1 get through a comfortless sort of ' breakfast, being far too muchoc- ' eupied looking after Jack ami the children to got any yourself, so you 1 think you will have some toast and { lea later on. Yon aro cold and un- t comfortable because yon had to go 1 to the creek for watcr.and the ground ' all round is reeking wet. You get s your shoes soaked, but you decide to I dry them when you get yourself a some tea by-and-by, comforting you- ( self with the idea that the fire will f be brighter then, and in the mean- o whilo you may as well "setthe v bread," wash up, make tho beds, c and tidy up the whare as well as you can, with five children hanging! I on to your skirts, the rain coming [ in through every crack.and a general \, air of moist, sticky discomfort every- I where. a

By-and-by you make some small cakes (like those Jack's mother used to make so well) and put them into the camp oven to bake, The chimney continues to smoke, and one of the children is complaining of soro throat, so yon hurry away and get a piece of new flannel for it, take off her boots, warm her feet, and put her to sit on a three legged stool in the chimney, when you here a terriblo shouting outside so rush out to seo Jack rushing hither and thither trying in vain to catch Dobbin—the horse that was uold to him cheap because" he is a beggar to catch you know " and Jack is known to possess wonderful patience with horses—you splash excitedly through the mud to help and your united efforts are crowned with success. When you get bank to your own duties you find the lire nearly out, but for all that your cakes are shapely little bits of charcoal—the bread is not rising as fast as it should, your back is beginning to ache, but, no! yon will not give way, so begin to make some morecakes,croomngthewhile, "There is Sweet Rest in Heaven." The idea of rest is soothing and refreshing, so you manage to bake the next batch of cakes successfully, cook the dinner, wash ont some things of Jack's and the children's. It is nearly dinner time and you wonder why your head is aching, and why you want to cry, when you remember you have had no breakfast, but you'll wait a few minutes, Jack will soon come in, and then you will have dinner. Dinner is not quite Such a scrambledthrough meal as breakfast, and you can sit down for live minutes; but you don't feel very happy, for Jack came across the Rabbit Inspector, who told him ho would lave to put on a rabbiter—and where tho money to pay him is coming from, " goodness only knows," you do not. Also the children want warm clothes for tho winter, and you would like to buy some new blankets, but you will have to put on that rabbiter and pay him thirty shillings a week, and do without necessaries, or the alternative is being summoned. You get a pencil and a piece of paper and try to find out which is cheaper; but Jack says the rabbiter must come, so you decide it is no use worrying. Worse than that might happen to you, tho children might fall ill, so you fuss around tho ono with a sore throat, give her some gruel, and see that she is warm; then you wash up, bake the bread, mend some of the children's clothes, when you find it is getting dark, and timo to get tea, and to put the smaller bairns to bed, you fancy their part of the whare—which is separated from yours by a thin partition of slabs—is damp, so you get some coals from the tiro on to a tin plate, and stand the plate on an old tin to warm the air before the wee ones get into bed. Jack comes in, you have tea, you wash up, and feel you ought to give the eldest a reading lesson; but you are too tired, in fact you are nearly afraid to go to bed, as things seem to bo jumping abouttho whare up side down, camp ovens three legged stools, children with sqro throats, horses that cannot be caught and burnt cakes, You hope you are not going silly, but know Jack would tell you if you were j so you go to bed, and after having to get up to stuff somo rags in a crack in the roof, through which the rain was dripping on to your pillow, and to tuck in tho children afresh, you go to sleep and dream about an epitaph you once read an accountof, about a poor woman who died of I overwork, and wonder if :