FEBRUARY IN NEW ZEALAND. 
27 
FEBRUARY IN NEW ZEALAND. 
jS^^^EBRUARY may be called our last summer month. In 
J I ordinary year the ground would be parched and 
I LISa I should be expecting the thunder showers 
that usually break up the summer droughts, the first 
big drops hissing on the thirsty earth and a soft vapour rising 
from the northern braes. This year (1894) ^^e rainfall has been 
abnormal ; the ground is wet and the springs and rivers are full. 
February, however, has proved a finer month than January. 
During the dry days, millions of thistle seeds may be seen sail- 
ing from north and north-west to south and south-east, for with 
us the north is the quarter whence blow the dry hot winds. 
Thistles this year, owing to the wet of spring and early summer, 
are rampant. All over the run the sheep camps are a dense 
impenetrable prickly forest, and every breeze carries away the 
down like snow. On such spots, where the ground is highly 
manured, instances of malformation in the stalk and flower are 
frequent ; thistle stalks may be obtained fifteen inches broad 
and as flat as a board. From mere thistle beds great quantities 
of honey are taken by the bees, and in a dry summer*, when the 
clovers are parched and bare, the bee-keeper depends in great 
measure upon this crop for his honey. Though stock — horses, 
cattle and sheep — are fond of the purple blossoms, these can be 
procured only round the edges of the patch, so that the immense 
majority go to the bees. 
Mullein, too, seems to thrive in the excessive wet, for during 
the last two years it has spread all over the run. During spring, 
in the early morning when the dews lie heavy, the plant seems 
like a silver shield in the grass. Sheep will only eat the little 
leaves that grow on the lower part of the flower spike. I notice 
ragweed now in the district. No plants have yet appeared on 
the station ; there is little doubt, however, that in five years’ 
time its yellow flowers will be conspicuous everywhere. Not 
improbably it will be then renamed by the country people, as 
other British weeds have been rechristened before. Usually 
they are called after the name of the man upon whose property 
they first appear. 
Now that the flower-seeds are ripening in the garden, 
numbers of mice come in from the fields. The large grain of 
the sunflower is an attraction. I can always tell, too, when 
the mignonette is ready to save, by the presence of cats in the 
garden ; the flower beds are haunted then by these creatures. 
Earlier in the season the rats are a nuisance among the ripening 
fruit. They are particularly fond of apricots, climbing the 
trees and stripping every particle of flesh off the stones. Among 
the orange trees their ravages are not so marked — at least, until 
the owner comes to gather his golden fruit. Then he will find 
it strangely light, and discover that every particle of the inside 
