THE

COMING OF SNOWY

BY

F. W. BOREH AM , D.D.

THE EPWORTH PRESS

(ed o a r a. b a rto n )

25.35 CITY ROAD, LONDON, E.C.i

D W JR Y M P L E r,
M G c u lb u io S i,
Sydow-
 A ll rights reserved
First published A ugust, 1943
Second impression December, 1942

M ade in Great Britain

 THE COMING OF SNOWY
The tender grace of a day that is dead
rushes back upon me this morning with
rare fragrance and attractiveness. New
Zealand was in its infancy when I
settled at Mosgiel. In my little congrega­
tion I numbered several good old men
and women who had come out from the
Homeland on the very first ships. Life
was distinctly primitive, perhaps a trifle
crude. In those far-off days there was
no thought of aeroplanes, telephones or
wireless-sets. Boasting neither gas nor
electricity, our homes and our churches
were illumined, after a fashion, by evil­
smelling oil-lamps. Often, as I was
approaching the most impressive pas­
sage in a carefully-prepared sermon,
one of the officers would rise, stride up
3
THE COMING OF SNOWY

the aisle, and clamber on to a seat in

order to moderate the volcanic en­
thusiasm o f a recalcitrant lamp that, in
spouting upwards a geyser of black
smoke, was filling the air with a suffo­
cating odour and peppering everybody’s
Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes with a
cataract of greasy smuts. The cinema
— silent or vocal— was yet unborn. If
my good people at Mosgiel wanted an
evening’s excitement, they organized a
concert or a soiree.
And, of course, horseflesh represented
our only method of transportation.
Those midnight drives across the Taieri
Plain still naunt my memory like a
nightmare. After a service or a
meeting, I would climb into the seat of
a buggy or a j inker, and, exposed to the
foulest weather, would drive for hours
along roads that were a quagmire of
slush and mud. Unable to see the deep
ditches on either side, I had to trust to
4
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

the goodness of God and the instinct of

my horse. To-day a comfortable car,
purring along excellent roads, covers in
twenty jminutes a distance that then took
me a couple of hours. Many a time, in
visiting outlying districts, I have driven
all day with the fluid mud swishing and
oozing and swirling above the axle of
my buggy, watching the poor beast
paddling bravely through the intermin­
able swamp. Those were the good old
days 1 and it is with those days— rugged
days that nevertheless possessed plea­
sures that are singularly sweet in retro­
spect— that my story has to do.
I
On a morning o f grey skies and
drizzling rain, I was settling down to a
few quiet hours with my books. A
steady drizzle had been falling pitilessly.
Clouds of white mist drifted across the
Plain, entirely obscuring the sur-
5
THE COMING OF SNOWY

rounding hills. The path to the Manse

.was a quagmire of oozy clay; every­
thing looked sodden, muddy, cheerless.
A s I entered the study, glorified as it
was by the blaze and crackle o f a
roaring fire, I congratulated myself on
the prospect of an hour or two without
a single interruption. I had scarcely
settled down to work, however, when I
was startled by the click of the gate, and
glancing up, saw Phyllis Nimmo making
her way to the front door.
Phyllis was one of our best workers
in the church, and one of the finest
tennis players on the Plain. She was
known on the courts as the Saxon
Princess. She had an extraordinary
wealth of the fairest possible hair; ex­
tremely pale blue eyes; and a tall, grace­
ful, athletic figure. On the edge of the
veranda she divested herself o f her
muddy goloshes in order to avoid
bringing the mud into the house. To
6
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

save her the trouble of ringing the bell,

I stepped out to welcome her. She
laughed merrily as I relieved her of her
shining mackintosh and dripping um­
brella, giving me the impression that she
regarded an outing under such condi­
tions as a most exhilarating adventure.
Her cheeks were prettily flushed as a
result of her struggle with the elements.
Her eyes twinkled delightedly,- almost
defiantly.
‘ W hy, P hyllis/ I exclaimed, leading
her into the study, 4what in the world
brings you out on such a morning ? ’
'W e ll/ she laughed, brushing back
her tumbled tresses with her left hand,
as she settled herself in the armchair
opposite m in e,41 came to see you about
a letter that I received this morning
from Mr. Livingstone. Mr. Living­
stone— Douglas, you know— is the
Presbyterian Home Missionary at
Dusty Point. H e’s very anxious that
7
THE COMING OF SNOWY

you should go up there and lecture in

connexion with his anniversary. He
only settled there last year. It’s his first
charge; he’s very concerned about it,
and it would mean so much to him if
you could manage to go. Do you think
it’s possible? ’
‘ Well,’ I replied, *that depends a
good deal upon the date. But before we
go into that, Phyllis,’ I demanded, ‘ tell
me what business this is of yours. W hat
have you to do with Mr. Livingstone, or
Dusty Point, or Presbyterian Home
Missions, or anything else? ’
She blushed profusely, and I under­
stood. ‘ Douglas and I have been great
friends for years,’ she explained. ‘ W e
were both members of the Young
People’s Bible Class at Maon Kaik; we
were led to Christ at the same service;
we took our first communion together;
and, for a few months, we were both
teachers in the Sunday school. I was
8
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

naturally deeply interested in his deci­

sion to enter the ministry; and during
his college days we saw a good deal of
each other. But I didn’t come about
that,’ she laughed; ‘ I came to see if I
could coax you into lecturing for him.
H e says in his. letter that, if you will
consent to do so, he will call and arrange
all particulars when he comes to town
for the meetings of the Assem bly/
Having set Phyllis’s mind at rest on
the main issue, I expressed my pleasure
that Douglas Livingstone was coming to
town (solely, of course, to attend the
meeting of the Presbyterian Assembly),
and I added a pious hope that she her­
self would derive some pleasure and
profit from the impressive debates of
Assembly Week. Whereat, for some
unaccountable reason, Phyllis blushed
again; and, not long afterwards,
plunged once more into the drizzle.

9
THE COMING OF SNOWY

II
The pretty little project that we
hatched in the. study on that dreary
morning was, however, among those
best-laid schemes of mice and men that
go agley. My visit to Dusty Point was
not to be. A t least, it was not to be for
a long time to come. In accordance with
his promise, Douglas Livingstone called
at the Manse during Assembly Week,
and completed arrangements for my
visit to Dusty Point. By this time my
interest was thoroughly aroused; and,
in view of my regard for Phyllis and my
concern for the prosperity o f her
romance, I was eagerly looking forward
to the outing.
‘ You’ll have no trouble at all,’
Douglas assured me. ‘ You just take
the train to Milton. I’ll meet you there
and drive you all the way.’
Just as the great day was approaching
10
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

however, the death of one o f the officers

o f the little church necessitated the post­
ponement o f the anniversary; the
altered date was impossible to me, and
I could only promise that I would fulfil
my engagement the following year.
When next the anniversary came round,
however, I was in England, so that more
than two years intervened between
Phyllis's call at the Manse on that
drizzling morning and my actual visit to
Dusty Point. By this time Phyllis and
Douglas had been some time married,
and I found comfort in the recollection
that I should be compensated for the
long delay by the gratification of seeing
them cosily ensconced in their new
home. But once more, as I shall show
in due time, the fates were against me.
I ll
When the day at length dawned on
which I was to make the long-antici­
THE COMING OF SNOWY

pated trip, I caught the train that left

Mosgiel at nine forty-two, and was at
Milton an hour and a half later. There
my responsibility ended. * I'll meet you
at Milton and drive you all the way,’
Douglas had said; and I was quite con­
tent to leave it at that. It did not occur
to me to inquire the distance from the
station : it might be five miles, it might
be fifty; it was no business of mine.
It was a day in a thousand— one of
those sparkling summer days that some­
times surprise us in early spring. I
remember seeing the first lambs of the
season on a green hillside near the road.
I admired their temerity in making so
early an appearance and expressed the
hope that they would not live to regret
their haste. It was just the day for a
long drive, and we both enjoyed it to
the full. A fter jogging along for an
hour or two, Douglas pulled up by the
side of the road and proceeded to pre-
ia
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

pare an al fresco meal. W hilst the billy

was coming to the boil he took a hamper
from under the seat of the spring-cart
and produced a bountiful supply o f cold
chicken, scones, cakes, fruit, and I know
not what other delicacies. Dusty Point,
I said to myself, is evidently a long
way. he does not expect to reach it for
some time. Our lunch disposed of, we
set out again. A t four o’clock we called
at a roomy and hospitable farmhouse
and were regaled with afternoon tea.
‘ If I were you,’ Douglas whispered
as we entered the capacious kitchen, ‘ I’d
make a meal o f this. W e’re behind
time; and I'm afraid you won’t get any­
thing else to eat until after the lecture.
W e’ve a good way to go yet.’
I took the hint, and was grateful
afterwards that he had given it. A s the
dusk was falling we began to ascend a
long, tedious chain of hills, and it was
half-past seven before we eventually
»3
THE COMING OF SNOWY

caught sight of the twinkling lights of

Dusty Point. I was announced to lec­
ture there at eight o’clock.

IV
W e arrived just in time. The school-
house was crowded. Farmers had
driven in from far and near. The place
was in a buzz and a flutter. Young
people, divided into knots and groups,
were chatting and laughing boisterously.
Farmers— who seem to represent the
one trade that has no trade secrets—
were exchanging experiences con­
cerning crops and cattle, whilst their
wives, unwilling to be outdone by their
husbands and children, had also found
themes for engrossing conversation.
Even the dogs, as they frisked about
among the buggies and the tired horses,
seemed excited at meeting one another
again. The arrangement o f the pro­
gramme occupied some little tim e: there
*4
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

was an imposing array of vocal and

instrumental item s: and then it took a
few minutes to persuade the people to
take their seats. An anniversary ser­
vice in the outback is one of those
sublime events into which considera­
tions o f time do not enter. People who
have not seen each other’s faces for
months have met at la s t: there are no
trains to catch: why hurry? It was
half-past eight before we got a start;
and it was more than an hour later
before I was called upon for my lecture.
I suggested that I should abbreviate it,
condensing an utterance that usually
occupied an hour and a half into about
three quarters of an hour. But Douglas
assured me, and with evident sincerity,
that such a proceeding would sadly dis­
appoint many who had come long dis­
tances to hear m e: he begged me to
delete no single word. The people
listened to the end with amazing forti-
»5
THE COMING OF SNOWY

tude; and, if they felt the strain, the

exhaustion was soon forgotten under
the reviving influence o f a coffee supper.
V
The meeting was followed by another
welter of gossip and chatter. The
people who, after milking and similar
duties, had arrived late, were unwilling
to be excluded from their share o f the
fun. They made up after the meeting
for all that they had missed in the
earlier stages. Nobody was in a hurry
to get away. Douglas and I were the
last to leave. H e felt it his duty to say
good-night to all his people, and so it
was some time after the meeting closed
before we began seriously to think of
our own departure.
‘ I’ve arranged,’ he explained, when
we were at length left to ourselves, ‘ I've
arranged to take you to the Todd's for
the night. W e had always looked for-
l6
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

ward to having you at the M anse; but,

as I told you coming along, Phyllis is
away in to w n : I am bachelorizing, and
I think you’ll be more comfortable at the
farm. I’ve promised to stay the night
with you at the Todd homestead; so
we’ll get along.’
The air was clear and frosty: the
moon was well up, and we could hear in
the distance the rattle of wheels and the
barking o f many dogs. I had somehow
taken it for granted that the Todd’s
farm would be back in the direction
from which we had come; but I found
that it was three miles farther on 1
‘ I’m afraid you’ll be late to bed to­
night,’ Douglas observed as we jogged
along the endless road, watching the
rabbits scurrying hither and thither in
the moonlight. *An anniversary, you
see, comes but once a year, and nobody
feels inclined to hurry it through. But
the Todds were amongst the first to
17
THE COMING OF SNOWY

leave; and I expect supper will be ready

by the time we arrive.’
* Supper! ’ I protested, ‘ why, man
alive, we’ve just had supper! How
many more suppers are we expected to
devour?’
I found that he was right. A s I
entered the enormous room, in which a
sumptuous meal was spread, I tried not
to notice that the big clock on the
mantelpiece was just about to strike
twelve. Two or three families who lived
still farther along the road had broken
the journey at the Todd farmhouse. It
would save time, Mrs. Todd argued, a
trifle casuistically, since they would be
spared the trouble of getting supper at
their own establishments. My plea—
when a huge plate of chicken and ham
was placed before me— that I had just
had supper, was dismissed with con­
tempt. A cup of coffee and a sandwich
was no supper; and besides, when had I
18
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

had tea? Douglas had evidently been

telling tales out of school, and my genial
hostess was able to secure a dietetic
triumph over me in consequence.

VI
Despite their coffee and sandwiches
at the schoolhouse, the farmers had
noble appetites. W e soon forgot our
weariness, forgot the clock on the
mantelpiece, forgot everything but the
enjoyments o f the moment. Story fol­
lowed sto ry : the place rang with peal
after peal of boisterous laughter, and
time had ceased to become a serious con­
sideration. A t length, one of the
farmer’s wives, a motherly body, re­
marked that I was looking dreadfully
tired. Mrs. Todd took the hint, removed
my plate, and reverently laid a large
Bible in its place. In those days, and in
those latitudes, no party ever broke up
without family worship.
>9
THE COMING OF SNOWY

I read the Psalm to which one natu­

rally turns under such conditions:
‘ I will lift up mine eyes unto the hillsr
from whence cometh my help.
‘ My help cometh from the Lord,
which made heaven and earth.
‘ H e will not suffer thy foot to be
moved: he that keepeth thee will not
slumber.
* Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall
neither slumber nor sleep.’
It is the Psalm that expresses the
needs and unites the hearts of those who
may be the most absolute strangers to
one another. As I concluded the final
sentence— The L ord preserve thy going
out and thy coming in front this time
forth and even fo r evermore— the entire
company rose as a matter o f course and
solemnly fell upon their knees. I re­
member that, as I prepared my mind to
lead them to the Throne of Grace, I felt
it very beautiful to reflect that, in every
90
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

similar countryside throughout the land

there were devout souls, of whom I had
never heard, who loved, as these people
did, to sanctify all their social life and
common relationships by the sweetness
of the divine benediction. It was, I
realized, matter for profound thanks­
giving that the foundations of this
young country were being laid by sturdy
and God-fearing folk like these.
In such homesteads no word is spoken
after prayers. The men went off to
harness their horses; the women
smilingly and silently bade each other
good-night; and the party broke up.

V II
A s soon as the guests had vanished,
our candles were brought. Mrs. Todd
showed us to our room. The two beds
were in opposite corners. Everything
looked wonderfully clean, restful and
81
THE COMING OF SNOWY

inviting. A fire had evidently been

burning for hours in the grate.
* Don't hurry up in the m orning/ our
hostess urged, considerately. *W e can
have breakfast any time. Get up just
when you feel like it.’
I thanked her. * I’m afraid/ I added,
‘ that I shall have to rise fairly early to
catch my train. W hat tim e/ I asked,
turning to Douglas, ‘ shall we have to
start? ’ A look of astonishment came
into his sleepy eyes.
‘ W hat train do you want to catch? ’
he demanded anxiously.
‘ There is but one/ I replied. * I have
a wedding at Mosgiel to-morrow after­
noon, and the only train that will get me
there in time leaves Milton at eight-
fifty.’
‘ E ight-fifty! ’ Douglas gasped, look­
ing at the watch that he had been
absent-mindedly winding, and doing
some feverish mental arithmetic, *why,
33
 THE COMING OF SNOWY

man, if you really must catch the eight-

fifty we’ll have to start now 1 ’
W e looked wistfully at the snow-
white beds, at the glowing embers, and
at the other preparations for a long
night’s repose. But such luxuries were
not for us.
Douglas, breathing no benedictions
on the heads o f my Mosgiel bride and
bridegroom, went off to arrange with
Mr, Todd for the loan of a horse that
was less exhausted than his own; Mrs.
Todd and her daughter set to work to
pack his hamper with an appetizing
breakfast, and, within an hour of
supper-time, we were once more upon
the road.
I suspect that, in the course of that
long drive to Milton we both nodded at
times. There was little danger. The
moon was so bright that every stick and
stone cast a clear-cut shadow. The
horse could not possibly mistake the
93
THE COMING OP SNOWY

road, and there was no likelihood of our

meeting vehicles coming the other way.
The greatest discomfort was the icy
cold. I remember, on rising once to
stretch my limbs, hearing my coat
crackle crisply as I broke the frozen
creases.
It was an eerie experience. I recall
the sense of relief with which we saw a
man with a lantern moving about the
stables of a farm ; the world seemed to
have come to life again when we at
length met a dray upon the road: and
then, as the great red sun came creeping
over the hills, we decided to give the
horse a rest, light another gipsy-fire,
and examine the contents o f Mrs.
Todd’s hamper.
W e had a quarter of an hour to spare
when we drove up to the Milton station.
The station-master, knowing that we
must have spent the night in the spring-
cart, greeted us with exclamations of
34
 THE COMING OP SNOWY

surprise. Then he suddenly remembered

something.
*Oh,’ he remarked, turning to
Douglas, ‘ there’s a telegram for you I
It came just as the office was closing for
the night. There was no way of sending
it; and we understood that you’d be
coming in to-day.’ He went into the
office, and soon reappeared with the buff
envelope in his hand. I watched
Douglas’s face anxiously as he tore it
open.
* By Jove I ’ he murmured, excitedly,
‘ this is worth an all-night drive I I’m
jolly glad you had to catch this train!
It’s a boy, and they’re both doing w ell!
W e’ll name the little beggar after you;
you see if we don’t ! ’
And, surely enough, they did 1 But,
lest I should be exalted above measure
by so marked a distinction, fate toned it
down a little. The boy is never called
by his real name. He inherited his
85
THE COMING OF SNOWY

mother’s fair hair; and his school­

fellows, in the autocratic fashion pecu­
liar to their species, ordained that his
name should be Snowy. ‘ My Saxon
Prince/ Douglas always calls him, with
a thought of Phyllis’s earlier soubriquet.
Douglas is now the minister o f an
important city charge, greatly loved and
greatly honoured. During my later
years in New Zealand I spent some
delightful hours in his Manse. Phyllis
was wonderfully proud of him, as she
had every right to be. And whenever
the conversation at table knew a lull,
Snowy was sure to secure its revival by
asking to be told once more the story of
our long, long drive on the day of his
nativity.

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