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