# Through South Westland/Part 2/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.
THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
And the bush hath friends to meet him,
And their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid
Of the sun-lit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.
A. B. Paterson.
We pushed open the door and inspected our quarters, and after my night in the Niger I was not so hard to please, and quite ready to think them all they should be. At any rate, doors and windows were fairly intact—the chimney, it is true, left something to be desired; the last party of rabbiters had repaired the holes with old sacking and grass, with the result that when we lighted a fire we nearly set the cottage in a blaze! The men rushed and tore down the burning stuff and filled up the holes with some old tins and sods, and I stood with the kerosene tin full of water ready to help.
After this I hurriedly unpacked something for lunch, as Mr. Ross wanted to go back ere the ford got too deep, and we sat down in cheerful spirits to herrings and tomato, tongue, bread and butter, and tea; after which he set out homewards, and we turned our attention to settling in.
​The front room was a good-sized one, with the usual wide hearth, and hooks to hang one’s billies and kettle (if we had one); there was a bench and table, a dresser, and a broken chair. The inner room had a family bedstead of ample proportions—just a big box on four legs with a sacking-and-grass mattress, and a small table—and that was all. The walls were festooned with ancient picture-papers of the seventies, hanging mice-nibbled and yellow, and the whole place wanted a good clean out. All the implements for this purpose were an old stump of a whisk and a small scrub-brush, but there was plenty of water, so that with the help of an ancient shovel-head, the whisk-stump, and kerosene tin, I soon got rid of the dirt. Transome smoked his pipe and looked on (as he could not help), but gave much valuable advice on the proper way to use a broom, which he demonstrated for my benefit—but we laughed so much, he went off to arrange his sleeping-quarters. Next I unpacked and arranged the stores, and hung our not-wanted clothes on pegs in the inner room, and then Transome called me to see his sleeping arrangements.
I went round the end of the cottage and found the Berline converted into a four-post bed, as it were. Under it, on a layer of springy beech and fern, was the sleeping-bag, a grey rug neatly folded, and over the pillow a square of mosquito netting. He had elected to sleep out of doors, and was highly pleased with his arrangements. ​“I think,” he said, “this is a very healthy mode of sleeping.”
Outside our door was a long table or wide bench, I don’t know which, and here we decided to take all our meals. The plateau on which the cottage stood sloped off on three sides to the river-flat, and below us lay the old stock-yard and cattle-sheds, fast falling into ruin, the ten-foot fences mostly broken down, and all round them the remains of fenced paddocks. But the wandering cattle had broken into every place, and the garden was marked by one poor apple tree, and a few gooseberry bushes smothered in rank grass and fern. Yet it is not so long since this was a home, and its last inmate, we heard, had died but a short time back—but not here. There was a tragedy connected with the Old Homestead, and maybe it accounts for it being still untenanted. In the old days of the saw-mill a Highlander wandered up this far valley, and after the fire that eventually drove the saw-millers away, he remained behind and built himself a little homestead, and lived here with his wife. He had no neighbours except the family still living up the west Matukituki, and was cut off even from them because of a quarrel that lasted several years—indeed, it was not healed till after the tragedy. As time went on, Sandy (I shall call him) became more and more addicted to the whisky bottle, and so lazy that all the work on the bit of land and the garden was done by his active wife—Sandy contented himself with the ​periodical visits to Pembroke to buy stores and sell cattle. He used to take the two horses and the dray, and he always brought a supply of whisky back with him; as long as he was sober there was no great danger, for the track in those days was much better than it is now, and the horses knew every foot of the way. But there came a time of protracted storms and heavy rains, and the river, as these rivers do, made new channels for itself; and in one place the track was washed away, and Sandy found himself obliged to make a new one to avoid a deep wash-out. One night he left Pembroke much later than he should, and badly under the influence of the whisky—a supply of which he also carried in the dray. As he passed Russell’s Flat some men who saw him shook their heads and said: “Sandy’s not fit to drive the horses; something’ll happen one of these days.” At last he lost all idea of where he was—took off his boots and went to bed in the cart. The two old horses plodded on in the gathering darkness, taking the old, accustomed way. Sandy, comfortably asleep, had dropped the reins—and then the inevitable happened, for they all went over the steep edge of the wash-out into deep water: the dray turned over on top of Sandy, who was drowned in his sleep, and one horse, tangled in the chains, was drowned too. The other stood all night in the icy water: and thus they found them when the men at the Flat, getting uneasy, set out to follow him. It was their only neighbour who was commissioned to go ​on ahead and break the news to the waiting wife. One wondered how she took it—whether it was after all a relief, when what she had foretold and expected actually came to pass? She utterly refused to leave the place, and set to work on her own account; and here for years she might have been seen in Sandy’s trousers and long boots, pursuing her industry as a farmer.
Were not “Sandy’s ‘kye’ to mind”—and who was going to look after things if she didn’t? Thus she grew old; several times the Old Homestead was nearly burnt down, and eventually her relatives carried her off to civilization on the plains; but though she gave in to them the lonely woman could not get back into civilized ways. “She was aye thinkin’ about the kye,” and she laid her down and died one day: and the long journey came to an end, and peace was at the last. They said she had but one idea of late years; and if anyone called at her house, but one question was ever asked: “Did ye see the kye as ye come along?”
We were not troubled that night with thoughts of Sandy—we slept sound in our sea-green bags. Next morning what a glory of freshness and beauty met me as, very early, I opened the door on a world all blue and silver, the sun just rising over the edge of the dark forest opposite, the river singing a merry song over its shingly shallows, and the green flat sparkling with its dewdrops.
​I could see the horses a long way up the valley grazing contentedly. A flock of terns was wheeling and darting over the river-bed, and Transome, a towel round his shoulders, was just starting for his bathe. I called to him to bring me up the bucket of fresh water, and set off to my own bathing-place—a delightful rock-pool in the waterfall that came down close to the homestead.
The bell-birds and the tuis were calling, and some paradise ducks were winging their way upstream, uttering their plaintive cries. As I came back I saw a bush falcon in the beech before the door, dusky-black when he spread his wings, but speckled like a thrush below. He had evidently been annoying the terns, who were screaming and wheeling over the tree.
I think that first breakfast was the most delicious I ever ate, though I cooked it myself, and the salmon steaks were tinned! We sat in the sunshine at the door. Plates were so scarce, the billy-lid was used for an extra, and we had but one knife each for all purposes—but never did fried salmon and potatoes taste sweeter. The fly in the ointment was the abominable sand-flies, which proved a veritable nuisance. We discussed our plans: where the Ice-caves lay, and up which valley we must seek for the Silver Cone; and we decided the very first step must be a visit to our neighbours in the west valley, to arrange with them for supplies of such necessaries as our stores could not provide. Then I washed up, and looked with ​swelling pride on my plates, two mugs, a jug, and various tins on the dresser. Transome went after the horses, and before I had finished tidying up he was calling for me; and I saw them brought round saddled to the door.