college students seeking to turn to account a few weeks' vacation; and nondescripts, flotsam and jetsam of many callings, and some of none. There is Bill Gamble who first knew, Silverbourne forty years ago, when it took a week to get there; Jim Hanlon, last year's ringer; Charlie Downs, runner-up, local product and pride of the district; and little Jimmy Kelly, the diminutive seventeen year old fleecy, back for his second season. For days now sheep have been on the move; the furthest and most inaccessible corners of the run have been combed, and the sheep worked to the lower levels. To-day brings the climax to preparatory activities, for everything must be in readiness for to-morrow. From early morning flocks of sheep, like rolling white clouds, have been converging on the yards. Through drafting pens and races to the urge of shouting and the barking of tireless dogs, two thousand sheep are under cover of that big shed by nightfall, and preparations are complete.

Shearing Commences.

Roll call at eight-thirty. Although perhaps commonplace and matter-of-fact to the regulars, the roll call is, to the uninitiated, rather a novel and interesting little ceremony, if such it could be designated. It marks the first official appearance of the “boss” (owner of Silverbourne), who briefly and informally addresses the assembled company, greets old hands, and welcomes new ones—just a little overture of goodwill preliminary to the more practical business, but not without effect in smoothing the running of that human machine. Roll call reveals a few vacancies, which are filled from the waiting list. The representative of the men confers with the “boss,” and a few details governing conditions of work are agreed upon. The engine is running smoothly, as Sandy Grant, official timekeeper, hangs up his big watch. A glance at the expert, an approving nod in reply, the bell clangs, and shearing has commenced. Rather ruggedly do those shearers move to work, some leisurely, others briskly, anxious to take the lead if only on sufferance. That first day is more or less a pipe-opener, just a preliminary canter, and finishes at 4 p.m. The regular shearing hours are 5.30 a.m. to 5.30 p.m., with breaks for meals and smoke-ohs, eight hours twenty minutes actual work for the day. The Silver-bourne shed, square in shape with the exception of a large wing built into the centre of the front, is built on approved lines for the expeditious, convenient, and economical handling of the clip. In this wing, classing, handling and baling are done. Along the front of the shed, on each side of the wing, is the shearing board, six stands on each side. Within a stride are the catching pens, two shearers sharing a pen, and directly in front of each stand is a port-hole waiting to receive the shorn sheep. A half derisive cheer signals the first down; then another and another, each into its allotted pen, for individual tallies must be strictly kept. Each fleece, freed from its wearer, is pounced upon by the waiting fleecy and whisked away to the classing table, there to be trimmed and skirted, and classified under Sandy's expert eye, and stored in the bins ready for the pressers. Matheson, the board-walker, in supreme command of operations, strolls

A wool-classer at work.

along the board with critical eye on that first day. Silverbourne has a reputation, built up over a lengthy period, for the quality of its product, not to be damaged by careless or incompetent shearing or handling. A measure of indulgence is exercised at the outset, but gross incompetence or carelessness are rigidly dealt with. The clanging of the bell indicates smoke-oh, the end of the first run. Sheep already on the board must be finished, but, by strict rule, none are taken from the pens after the bell.

Shearers straighten up and adjust their machines for the next run; fleecies snap up the remaining fleeces, and the broomy sweeps the board clean of litter; pens are filled up and refreshments partaken of. By general custom odds and ends and small lines of sheep are shorn first, and nothing in the way of big tallies is looked for at the beginning. Most of the shearers have been off the board for a year, and must get their hands in. Mid-day, with an hour for dinner and rest, is not unwelcome after three hours of work, and two short runs in the afternoon concludes the first day. Fair tallies have been made, machinery running smoothly, workmanship, with certain reservations, satisfactory (and scanning the sky) no sign of rain. Every prospect of a successful shearing. These were the dominant thoughts in the mind of Matheson as he rode his pony up to the homestead that night.

The scene in the precincts of the shearers' hut that evening was just a reflex of what was to be daily enacted for the next month. Soap and water played the leading part, for shearing is a dirty job; then a hearty meal, leisurely partaken of, while a general review of the day's work and the season's prospects monopolised the conversation. Down at the yards preparations for the next day proceeded apace. Shepherds and yard hands, with the dogs, hustle and bustle the sheep through the drafting pens to the music of incessant bleating, the music of shearing time subduing all other sound, and a little disturbing at first. The shed is again filled to capacity; the expert is making a few necessary adjustments; Sandy Grant and his assistants take stock and record the day's output; and all is ready for another day. Midday Saturday marks the finish for the week. With the exception of a couple of defections, which are usual at the beginning, all hands have settled down smoothly to the job. Saturday afternoon is occupied for the most part in attending to domestic arrangements, washing dirty clothes, and perfecting the little details which make for comfort in a shearing camp. Sunday is devoted to relaxation and rest, and provides the opportunity for that close acquaintance and friendly intercourse with one's fellows, only possible under such conditions.

The all-important factor in a successful shearing is fine weather, and work is resumed on Monday in glorious sunshine and a cloudless sky. The vacancy on the board had been filled at the week-end, and each succeeding day records an increase in the rate of output, as the bigger and more even lines come in. Well conditioned and clean pointed sheep make for big tallies, and shearers' earnings are assessed on tallies. The board-walker quickens his vigilance, and with a word or a gesture indicates that quality must not be sacrificed for quantity. One “chip” is usually sufficient to correct a tendency in this direction. But the urge of the tally is irresistible; the fever is infectious, and fleecies and shed hands respond to the call; must, in fact, or be submerged in a deluge of wool. At the end of each day the tally board is page 29 eagerly scanned, the relative position of competitors in the “marathon” noted, and prospects estimated. The highlights are already emerging, and at the end of the sixth day Jim Hanlon shares pride of place with Charlie Downs. At the eighth day Jim has taken the lead by a bare half-dozen, while “Curly” Parkes, an athletic young Australian, has emerged from the ruck and threatens the leaders. Mid-day Friday (the ninth day) seems set for record making, but an engine breakdown of an hour was fatal to that hope. Despite this setback, a minute before time a learner reached his coveted first hundred, to the accompaniment of encouraging recognition; simultaneously, Jim Hanlon turned off the juice, straightened his back, and wiped away the perspiration, well satisfied with the first double-century of the season, and content to call it a day.

Rain.

The glorious uncertainty of the weather was strikingly demonstrated on the Friday evening. After a perfect summer's day, and the shed barely half filled, rain set in steadily and continued unabated for twenty-four hours. Thoroughly dry sheep or no shearing was a cardinal point at Silverbourne, and the prospects of work before Tuesday looked remote. Sunday, with a strong breeze and warm sunshine, did its best, but more rain at night undid the work of restoration. What can men do with time on their hands in this remote outpost? Resign themselves to boredom? A few will take a rest cure; but the truth is, that a let-up, if not too extended, is welcome. If the weather continued wet, the big dining room is besieged, and the hours spent in card-playing, draughts and chess; while the musically inclined make their presence felt if not always appreciated. Many good stories, in fact and fancy, are told on these reminiscent occasions. For the most, goodwill and good temper prevail, but not always. With such a variety of human elements in close contact, the discordant and provocative note is rarely altogether absent, and, with virile men, quick on the uptake, hostilities develop quickly. From out of apparent serenity challenges are hurled and find acceptance, and the fight is on. In most cases it is as quickly over, either by clear-cut victory or by the intervention of the peacemaker. Rarely does bitterness or resentment long survive such encounters. With the return of fine weather 30,000 acres of hills and downs and bush are waiting to be explored, with outdoor diversion in plenty. You can play cricket or golf within the precincts of the homestead, or hunt for turkeys' eggs, or shoot rabbits, or fish in the river three miles away, for a change of diet. Make a day of it, and explore the electric power station and the falls, six miles away, set in native bush as beautiful as any on the best tourist routes. Lastly, you may climb Dawn Mountain on a clear day for a view of the Cathedral City 100 miles away. In short, if you cannot avoid boredom during a few days lay off, your case is hopeless.

Work at High Pressure.

The wool table may fittingly be termed the pulse of the shearing shed, and any variation of movement is immediately reflected there, and registered with the wool classer, his finger on the pulse. Since resumption on Wednesday a distinct upward tendency has been maintained. On the Thursday evening, Sandy Grant, after checking up and recording the day's output, looked over the 2,000 sheep housed for the next day's operations, and, of knowledge gained in a lifetime's experience, predicted peak figures for to-morrow. Now, Sandy was something of an oracle, and not lightly did he express an opinion. That the going was both good and willing was early evident on Friday. At the breakfast adjournment tallies showed an all-round advance, and calculations on this basis indicated record-breaking. Now, there is a fascination in record-breaking, even in such unromantic things as sheep. Things fairly hummed after breakfast. Jim and Curly were on level terms at smoke-oh, several sheep in advance of previous efforts. Would Curly actually beat the redoubtable Jim? Now, Sandy Grant will contend that shearing either rose to the realm of art or descended to

A scene in the sheep pens.

slavery. For the art he will refer you to Jim Hanlon's stand. Watch Jim slip into that pen for a catch and glide out again with the step of a well trained dancer, a 1001b. sheep for a partner. Once in position, a few quick thrusts suffice for the preliminary opening up, then with unerring accuracy that machine is plied straight along the full length of that outstretched body, deeper and longer each succeeding blow, the comb filled to the last tooth. A slight pressure on the head, a turn of the operator's body, or a straightening of the knee, and the subject seems to come automatically into position. Over that last shoulder, and down the “whipping” side, that comb fairly whirred through the wool, just a matter of seconds, and another quivering, pink animal, clean to the toes, went scuttling out of the port-hole. There seemed something almost of the magical in the smooth precision of it all. All that day, at intervals of less than two minutes, Jim Hanlon sent another one down the chute. There were art and effort in supreme combination, for only by a consummate art could that unfaltering speed be maintained. On the other side of the board Charlie Downs slaved as no galley slave ever slaved. If grit and determination had their just reward Charlie would be a ringer of Silverbourne; but there is a limit to what sheer physical effort can accomplish. At the extreme end of the board Curly Parke's forged steadily along. A perfect stylist, this young Australian, but impetuous and lacking a little in the calm concentration of his more experienced rival; nevertheless an artist in the making. The board-walker hovered page 30

Shearing Operations in Progress.

around a little more persistently to-day than usual. Record-breaking, interesting as it might be, was not his chief concern; nevertheless, his attention centred mostly around the chief actors, and he watched Curly carefully. Dinnertime found Jim a bare one in the lead, a catch on the bell giving him that slight advantage. As Curly was leaving the board, Matheson was at his elbow, but what passed between them was known only to themselves.

Early in the afternoon, at intervals, three shearers passed the 200 mark. Late in the day Jim Hanlon reach 250 for the third time in his career, and kept steadily on. Young Australia lost ground steadily in the first afternoon run, and the prospects of a thrilling race for the day's honours faded out. He recovered sufficiently to top the 250 mark, and joined the select band of 2min. shearers. Jim Hanlon ran his total to 265, beating his own previous best by four, but still short of the shed record by six. A hearty round of applause, led by Sandy Grant, greeted the end of a memorable day. The complete figures showed a record day's aggregate, both in sheep and weight of wool shorn. And what a day's work those shed hands did! None needed rocking to sleep that night. High tallies were the order, as the shed ran its prescribed course to the cut out, but no fresh figures were set, and one hour's work on the following Thursday saw the last sheep through the port-hole. Following established precedent, the whole shearing personnel gathered in the vicinity of the wool table, and in convivial spirit to the hospitality provided and presided over by the “boss” in person, celebrated the cut-out. Rivalry and unattained ambition were forgotten in that brief half-hour of leave-taking and good fellowship. The scene at the hut was an animated one, as swags were packed, and final preparations made for departure for other fields; to other sheds ’ere the brief season ended; others back to the city; college boys to their books. Then there came the final and all-important item of paying out cheques, and early in the afternoon the big station wagon, with its human freight, left the homestead road on its twenty-five mile journey to the rail-head. Next day the yards and pens were almost deserted. That ceaseless bleat, bleat, bleat, which we had come to accept as the natural accompaniment of shearing time, had died away, and Silverbourne resumed its normal life for another year.

A load of wool on the way to the railhead.

Timber Demand.
New Zealand's Opportunity.

Though few people are aware of the fact, timber ranks next in importance to food in the requirements of Man. It is obvious that in a few short years, the world will be practically “starving” for this necessity. This will be most apparent where softwoods are concerned for the reason that the demand for softwoods comprises approximately 90 per cent. of the total demand for timber.

As the following extract from the “Times,” London, dated May 24th, 1934, indicates, the consumption of timber was even maintained during the most severe period of the depression. “Timber consumption in the United Kingdom even at the worst point in the trade depression did not fall off appreciably, and now there are definite signs of revival in demand. Timber imports have attained their pre-War level, and, in consequence of activity in the building trade, a substantial further increase may be anticipated. Statistics show that in spite of the employment of numerous subsitutes there is still no diminution in the amount of timber used. Last year, nearly 10,000,000 tons of unmanufactured timber, valued at £30,000,000, were imported.”

Blessed with a climate and soil renowned for the growing of softwoods, New Zealand will play a most important part in the world's softwood timber markets of to-morrow. For, in New Zealand, commercial afforestation has been so highly organised and so keenly supported that this country can now boast the largest and soundest afforestation company in the world. A company that now has over 156,000 acres of softwood timber under cultivation. On this area over one hundred million trees are thriving lustily.

In the very near future the value of these New Zealand forests will be realised and Forest Owners in N.Z. Perpetual Forests will reap a rich reward, as will future investors in this sound commercial venture.*

Some Scenes On The New Zealand Railways.
(Rly. Publicity photos.)
(1) The Auckland-Wellington “Limited” crossing the Paremata bridge, near Wellington; (2) the “Limited” arriving at Thorndon Station, Wellington; (3) The Auckland-Wellington Express leaving Frankton Junction; (4) the Rotorua Express crossing the Waikato River at Hamilton; (5) the “Limited” crossing the Hapuawhenua viaduct; (6) the “Daylight Limited” passing Wanganui Road, near Taumarunui; (7) Napier Express passing through the Manawatu Gorge.

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