All are equipped for the hunt in the lightest possible marching order—shirt, trousers and belt, boots and leggings, with an apology for a hat to crown the whole—such is the costume; a sheath-knife and tomahawk the weapons; with a store of food, tobacco and matches, to provide against all emergencies—such is the provision. Our native allies are attired in much the same guise, only slightly more ragged and dirty—if that be possible—and, generally speaking, barefooted. They are in a state of suppressed excitement, shown by their gleaming eyes and teeth, and in their wild exclamations and gestures.
And I must not forget the most important members of the hunting party—the dogs. Some two dozen have been collected for the occasion, most of them belonging to Maoris; of no particular breed, but all large and heavy, strong-jawed and supple-limbed animals, wolfish-looking fierce creatures, but all more or less trained to the work before them. Good pig-dogs are not easily met with, and in the bush they are esteemed a prize. Our lot are a scratch pack, made up of any that can be induced to seize a pig, and have weight sufficient to hold on to him; a few are thought to be more experienced and capable.
The men, on assembling, mostly go into the shanty to get some breakfast, in the shape of tea, bread, smoked fish and pork, and then straggle about the place, smoking, chatting, and waiting for the order to start. Picture the rough grassy slopes, covered with the standing stumps among the new grass, the rude shanty in the middle of the lower ground, as I have described it, the background of bush-covered heights, with the sun just coming up from behind them into the brilliant sky; and people this scene with the groups of men—Maori and Pakeha, uncouth in appearance as the shaggy cattle that are looking on from a corner of the clearing, or as the clumsy-looking but savage dogs that roam about, or are held in leash by their owners. Such is a "meet" in the bush.
"Rather a different affair from the last meet of the Pytchley that you and I rode to," remarks one brawny, blue-shirted and ankle-jacked giant to another, as they squat on a log, comfortably enjoying an early whiff of "Venus" from their short, black clays.
"What would they say at home, if they could see us now?" replies his friend, pushing back the battered relic of a "topee" from his unkempt hair and somewhat dirty face. Truly, the pair would scarcely appear to advantage in an English huntingfield, in their present trim.
And now, while the last preparations are being made for the start, let us see what it is we are about to attack. The New Zealand wild pig of the present day is the descendant of animals introduced by Captain Cook and other of the early voyagers from the old countries. These people gave pigs to the natives with whom they opened intercourse, and the Maoris, not being used to live stock, lost a good many of their new acquisitions, which ran away into the bush and easily eluded pursuit in its dense coverts. Here they bred and multiplied to such a degree that immense droves of them are now to be found in all parts of the islands. In the fern-root and other roots of the bush they find an endless supply of food, which, if it does not tend to make their meat of good quality, at any rate seems to favour an increase in their numbers.
Whatever may have been the original breed of these animals, the present representatives of the race are neither particularly good-looking or useful. They are lank and lean, with large heads and high shoulders, narrow, spiny backs sloping downwards to the short hind legs; hams they have none. They are thickly covered with bristles, and are mostly black, brown, and grizzled in colour. The mass of them are not large, but the patriarchal boars attain a great size, some of them standing over three feet in height. These fellows have enormous tusks curling on each side of their massive jaws, sharp as razors and strong as crowbars.
Wild pigs are usually shy, and keep well out of the way of human invaders of their solitudes; but boars have occasionally been known to "tree" some incautious wayfarer, while, when hunted, they become exceedingly ferocious. One of our stockmen, out riding on open ground, was attacked by a boar that suddenly rushed upon him from a thicket; his horse was ripped up in a moment, and he only escaped by nimbly climbing into a tree that was fortunately near.
In hunting the pigs it is necessary to go afoot, on account of the density of the bush, and accidents sometimes occur. Some dogs are sure to be killed; while now and then a too rash hunter may get the calf of his leg torn off, and might be otherwise injured, even fatally, though I never knew of any case of so grave a nature.
Settlers regard wild pigs as vermin, only made to be exterminated; and they have, I think, considerable reason for their hatred. The pigs are capable of doing a great deal of damage. Fences must be strongly and closely put up to keep them out, and they must be continually examined and carefully repaired when necessary; for one rotten stake in a fence has often been the cause of a loss of great magnitude. In a single night the wild pigs may devastate many acres, if they once gain admittance, and destroy tons of potatoes, maize, or any sort of crop.