Everyday Station Life in New Zealand
"You tell me to describe our daily home-life and domestic surroundings. I dare say it will appear to be a monotonous and insignificant existence enough when put on paper, but…
From Station Life in New Zealand, by Mary Anne Barker, 1870.
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
Broomielaw
January 1867.
You tell me to describe our daily home-life and domestic surroundings. I dare say it will appear to be a monotonous and insignificant existence enough when put on paper, but it suits me exactly; and, for the first time in my life, I have enough to do, and also the satisfaction of feeling that I am of some little use to my fellow-creatures. A lady's influence out here appears to be very great, and capable of indefinite expansion. She represents refinement and culture (in Mr. Arnold's sense of the words), and her footsteps on a new soil such as this should be marked by a trail of light. Of course, every improvement must be the work of time, but I find my neighbours very willing to help me in my attempts.
A few lines will be sufficient to sketch a day's routine. The first of my duties is one I especially delight in. I am out very early with a large tin dish of scraps mixed with a few handfuls of wheat, and my appearance is the signal for a great commotion among all my fowls and ducks and pigeons. Such waddling and flying and running with outstretched wings to me: in fact, I receive a morning greeting from all the live-stock about the place. I am nearly knocked down by the big sheep-dogs; the calves come rushing with awkward gambols towards me for a bit of the fowls' bread, whilst the dogs look out for a bone; but in the midst of the confusion, the poultry hold their own: indeed, an anxious hen eager to secure a breakfast for her chicks will fly at a big dog, and beat him away from a savoury morsel.
I think I ought not to omit mentioning the devotion of a small pig; it is an exact illustration of the French proverb which speaks of the inequality of love, for I am quite passive and do not respond in the least to the little beastie's affection, which is the most absurd thing you ever saw, especially as it proceeds from so unromantic an animal. Late in the spring (that is to say, about November last) we were all returning from a great pig-hunting expedition, when I saw one of the party coming down a steep hill near the house with a small and glossy-black wild pig under each arm; he was very proud of his captives, placed them in a box with some straw, and fed them like babies out of a bottle.
We laughed at him very much; but when he went away he begged so earnestly that the pigs should be reared that we promised to keep them. In a few days they became perfectly tame, and were very handsome little creatures; and one of them attached itself to me, following me all about, even into the house (but that I really could not stand), accompanying me in all my walks, and, as far as it could, in my rides. Many a time have I seen poor little piggy carried down a creek by the current, squealing piteously, but it was evidently a case of "many waters cannot quench love," for a little further on piggy would appear, very much baked, but holding out gallantly, till sheer exhaustion compelled him to give in, when he would lie down under a tussock, apparently dying; but, as we were coming home in the dusk, Helen, my pretty bay mare, has given many a shy at piggy starting up from his shelter with gambols and squeals of joy.
It is always a great temptation to loiter about in the lovely fresh morning air, but I have to be dressed in time for prayers and breakfast at nine; directly after breakfast I go into the kitchen; sometimes, it is only necessary to give orders or instructions, but generally I find that practice is much better than precept, and I see to the soup myself, and make the pudding — the joint can take care of itself.
You have often asked me what we have to eat, so this will be a good opportunity of introducing our daily bill of fare, prefacing it with my recorded opinion that there is no place in the world where you can live so cheaply and so well as on a New Zealand sheep station, when once you get a start Of course, it is expensive at first, setting everything going, but that would be the case in any country.
I will begin at the very beginning:— Porridge for breakfast, with new milk and cream a discretion; to follow — mutton chops, mutton ham, or mutton curry, or broiled mutton and mushrooms, not shabby little fragments of meat broiled, but beautiful tender steaks off a leg; tea or coffee, and bread and butter, with as many new-laid eggs as we choose to consume.
Then, for dinner, at half-past one, we have soup, a joint, vegetables, and a pudding; in summer, we have fresh fruit stewed instead of a pudding, with whipped cream. I was a proud and happy woman the first day my cream remained cream, and did not turn into butter; for generally my zeal outran my discretion, and I did not know when to leave off whipping. We have supper about seven; but this is a moveable feast, consisting of tea again, mutton cooked in some form of entree, eggs, bread and butter, and a cake of my manufacture.
I must, however, acknowledge, that at almost every other station you would get more dainties, such as jam and preserves of all sorts, than we can boast of yet; for, as Littimer says to David Copperfield, “We are very young, exceedingly young, sir," our fruit-trees have not come into full bearing, and our other resources are still quite undeveloped. However, I have wandered away terribly from my first intention of telling you of the daily occupations to a description of our daily food.
After I have finished all my little fusslngs about the house, I join F——, who has probably been for some time quietly settled down at his writing-table, and we work together at books and writing till dinner; after that meal, F——, like Mr. Toots, "resumes his studies,'' but I go and feed my fowls again, and if I am very idly disposed I sit on a hencoop in the shade and watch the various tempers of my chickens and ducklings.
A little later F—— and I go out for some hours: if it is not too hot, he takes his rifle and we go over the hills pig-stalking, but this is really only suitable exercise for a fine winter's day; at this time of year we either go for a walk or a ride, generally the latter — not a little shabby canter, but a long stretching gallop for miles and miles; perhaps stopping to have a cup of tea with a neighbour twelve or fifteen miles off, and then coming slowly home in the delicious gloaming, with the peculiar fresh crisp feeling which the atmosphere always has here the moment the sun sets, no matter how hot the day has been.
I can hardly hope to make you understand how enjoyable our twilight hours are, with no fear of damp or malaria to spoil them; every turn of the track as we slowly wind up the valley showing us some beautiful glimpse of distant mountain peaks, and, above all, such sunset splendours, gradually fading away into the deep, pure beauty of a summer night.
Barker, Mary Anne. Station Life in New Zealand. Macmillan, 1870.
About TOTA
TOTA.world provides cultural information and sharing across the world to help you explore your Family’s Cultural History and create deep connections with the lives and cultures of your ancestors.
