ght, for some fabulous
sum, a bottle of rum from a passing swagger. It was all very dreadful,
and worst of all was the scene of tears and penitence I had to endure
when the rum was finished. The dray, however, relieved me of the incubus
of her presence; and that was the only instance of drunkenness I came
across among my domestic changes and chances.

Chapter XIV: Our pets.

One of the first things which struck me when I came to know a little
more about the feelings and ways of my neighbours in the Malvern Hills,
was the good understanding which existed between man and beast. I am
afraid I must except the poor sheep, for I never heard them spoken of
with affection, nor do I consider that they were the objects of any
special humanity even on their owners' parts. This must surely arise
from their enormous numbers. "How can you be fond of thousands of
anything?" said a shepherd once to me, in answer to some sentimental
inquiry of mine respecting his feelings towards his flock. That is the
fact. There were too many sheep in our "happy Arcadia" for any body to
value or pet them. On a large scale they were looked after carefully.
Water, and sheltered feed, and undisturbed camping grounds, all these
good things were provided for them, and in return they were expected to
yield a large percentage of lambs and a good "clip." Even the touching
patience of the poor animals beneath the shears, or amid the dust and
noise of the yards, was generally despised as stupidity.

Far different is the feeling of the New Zealander, whether he be
squatter or cockatoo, towards his horse and his dog. They are the
faithful friends, and often the only companions of the lonely man. Of
course there will soon be no "lonely men" anywhere, but a few years ago
there were plenty of unwilling Robinson Crusoes in the Middle Island;
and whenever I came upon one of these pastoral hermits, I was sure to
find a dog or a horse, a cat, or even a hen, established as "mate" to
some poor solitary, from whom all human companionship was shut out by
mountain, rock, or river.

"Are you not _very_ lonely here?" was often my first instinctive
question, as I have dismounted at the door of a shepherd's hut in the
back country, and listened to the eternal roar of the river which formed
his boundary, or the still more oppressive silence which seemed to have
reigned ever since the creation.

"Well, mum, it aint very lively; but I've got Topsy (producing a black
kit