OF WEATHER AND WISDOM

New Zealand Listener, Volume 20, Issue 504, 18 February 1949, Page 10

OF WEATHER AND WISDOM

Be

SUNDOWNER

FLOOD

snow and left South Otago a fortnight later in flood. The snow followed a cold rain which overtook me between Kurow and Omarama, and came right down ; ENTERED North Otago in

to the Lindis Pass. The flood followede a warm rain which

melted the snow and threatened the life of Balclutha two hundred miles away. It was a typical South Island sequence except for the speed, since floods usually come from the mountains in the south and not, as they usually do in the North Island, direct from the clouds.

But it had one feature which I thought a little curious: When I turned into the hotel at Omarama the rain was so heavy that I almost believed the two later travellers who reported six inches in twelve hours at Wanaka. Next morning, when I saw the hills and mountains deep in snow, I knew that the six inches of rain had been nonsense. But six inches (all but a point or two) came ten days later, making nonsense of my scepticism, and reminding me how often we all say things which are not true and yet are made true for us by later events. I think liars are saved from their’ lies quite as often as fools from their folly, and

that if a wise man never lies the man who does is not wise to retract too soon. Events will not always oblige us, but they certainly will sometimes. Although the two at! Omarama had merely passed on an improbable report from someone else who neither knew nor cared whether it was improbable or not, they all saved their faces in a day or two;

COWS TO SHEEP

a % 3 WAS ready for the grass I saw in Southland, but I was not ready for the sheep..Most of the farms I remembered had been dairy farms when-I saw them last-40 or 50 cows with perhaps 150 old ewes keeping down the ragwort, Now I saw miles of country run-

ning four or five ewes to the acre. It was almost necessary to remind myself

in some districts that they were sheep farms I was passing and not gigantic poultry runs, most of the sheep being newly shorn and the grass as green as I had ever seen it in Taranaki. I have occasionally in the North Island seen eight and ten sheep to the acre, but they were not so big and white and the grass was not so fresh and green.

I don’t know when the Southland farmer gave up milking so many cows and took to breeding so many lambs. Perhaps he doesn’t know himself. The change has probably ‘been so gradual that only the older men are aware of it; and they have ceased talking about it, But the tractors shout it out and the bulldozers, the mechanical ditchers, and the smoking limeworks. Southland runs sheep because draining has made it dry enough for sheep and lime made it sweet enough. It is still perfect dairy country; but most men would sooner make £10 out of sheep than £15 out of cows, and on the present prices for mutton and

wool cows don’t give a big enough margin. The man who used to milk cows seemed to me to be milking them still, but as a stand-by. They are not often his main concern, and the dairy factory is no longer his community centre. He sticks to a few cows because cows, he knows, through thick and thin will stick to him-squeeze» more out of the grass than sheep, and bring it to him more regularly. But although he trusts them, he hates them, and as often as he thinks it safe to desert them he does. as Pr * de

LYING LOW PAYS

‘JT is still the fashion to pity people who live in Southland and the habit in Southland to resent the pity. But ‘I don’t think it would worry me much if I lived in Winton on £30 land and was pitied by a Manawatu farmer whose land had cost him £60, £70, or £80.

I think I would lie low and let him laugh in case, by making a fuss, I in-

duced him to come down and look at me. I would know that every lamb he fattened, and every gallon of milk he sent away, were costing him about twice as much as mine were costing me, that (continued on next page)

-_ — (continued from previous page) his longer growing season might make land as good as mine worth another £10) but that it was certainly not worth more than that. The rest I would regard as a tax on his ignorance, and I would wish him to remain ignorant. I was not therefore very sympathetic with the farmer near Fairfax who complained that even the Weather Office was unfair to Southland. "T never listen now," he moaned, "or take any notice of them. It’s ‘always the same thing-‘Unsettled conditions in Southland.’ Why the hell must it always be Southland?" "Perhaps there’s a reason." "There’s no reason but prejudice, Those fools in Wellington think we spend half the year in boats, and the other half shovelling away snow." "One of them comes from Southland." "Well Wellington has corrupted him. We get no snow to speak about, and less rain than Auckland." "I know you do, but why tell them? You'll have them down here bidding for your farms. You have the cheapest good land in New Zealand, but it will not stay cheap if you make a noise about it." "They think we grow hair on our teeth." "Let them think it. Put some hair on when you see them coming. But don’t let them think that the sun sometimes ehines." zs "e ix

SHORT CIRCUIT

LL this we ward told at Sunday School, work together for good to those who love God. ‘Though I have

learnt since that it is necessary to love Him without question or weariness, I am usually able to do that in the country in early summer. I wag certainly

able to do it when I developed a short circuit between Ben More and Centre

Bush, and my reward came quite soon. Instead of standing on my head under the dash-board I went to the nearest telephone, and a car pulled alongside in ten minutes. But it was not the car I had telephoned for. It was a car driven by as genuine a piece of Southland as I have ever met, and I would never have met him if the pot-holes in the road had not disturbed a live cable leading to the light over my bed. Our conversation was something like this: "Good-day." "Good-day." "Struck a little trouble?" "A little, but help’s on the way." "Where do you come from?" "Wellington," "Wellington? That’s a hell of a way." "Yes, a mile or two." "Having a holiday?" "Not exactly." "Not exactly? What do you do?" "What you see me doing. Looking at Southland." "Oh travelling, are you?" "Yes, travelling." "What do you sell?" "Nothing." "Nothing? How do you get your money?" "TI don’t." "Getting funny?" "Oh I don’t think so." "Do you sleep in that thing?" "Yes, six nights in seven." "Oh I know now what you are, You're one of those Seventh Day peoplewhat’s the name again?" "Seventh Day Adventists? No, I’m not one of those." "No? I thought you were. I’ve never met one, mind you, but I’ve heard of them. I say!" "Yes?" . "You're not one of those chaps that had the row:in Oamaru, are you?" "TI don’t remember them." "Yes you do now! They killed a man." "No, I’ve never killed a man. I’ve often wanted to, of course." "Got a cobber inside?" "Come and have a look." "No, I’m not getting out. I don’t give a damn what you are. Good-day." "Good-dav."