“THE GOLDEN FLEECE.”

Gisborne Times, Volume XXV, Issue 1985, 22 January 1907, Page 1

“THE GOLDEN FLEECE.”

MANY JASONS IN WELLINGTON. A WOOL SALE SCENE. In the concert chamber of the Town Hull there is a wild confusion of tongues. Can perishable things of flesh produce such an enormous output of uproar? It is tho third wool sale of the season. There is a man, a veteran in this warfare, a mild-mannered man seemingly, but ho is a Hyrean tiger when faced by a wool auctioneer. Ho has lingo lungs. Gargantuan muscles about the jaws. But ho is not satisfied with their mighty horse-power. Ho makes a megaphone with his hands and tho “Har—liar” in quick jerks, making a dominant noto in a frantic chorus. His eyes glare, the veins in his forehead swell ominously, every muscle in his body is tense. A stranger might fear a sudden death from apoplexy. He is almost turning to run to tho telephone to summon tho nearest doctor. With sickening apprehension the visitor waits for the collapse, but just when ho is expecting the crisis tho strenuous face relaxes, tho features are wreathed in smiles, for tho man has won his lot with his “Har,” which translated means 11 Jd, 12jd,or something else halfpenny. In an instant tho battle is renewed, and again the apoplectic fit is threatened, but the tragedy never comes. That man has been known to roar for a dozen hours, with brief intervals for food and drinks. In tho auction-room he is a mammoth voice, a flush of the face. All the rest of him is submerged. Ho is a cannonade, a peal of thunder, a dynamite explosion, anything that suggests an immeasurable amount of noise, and outside the ring lie scarcely speaks above a whisper. The tiger is changed to a cooing dove. 1 Calmly the auctioneer faces those terrible men. Deftly his hammer, knocks down tho bales in that wilderness of discord, lie has tho skill of the Canadian oarsman who coolly pilots his frail craft over surging rapids and receives never a splash. There are times when a simultaneous outbursts rends the air.to tatters; tho quality of the offering has been nicely gauged; the buyers know, instinctively or otherwise, the price that the wool will reach, and they are determined to‘cry it at the outset. The auctioneer is not perturbed by the “Levnar” that springs at one moment from many throats. “ Any advance?” ho quietly asks. Silence, “Smith.” llld, ho says, and how ho picked iSmi'th is a fact which will be known to tho layman only on tho Day of Judgment. A wonderful thing is tho quest of tho golden fleece. Jason, who sought tho golden fleece in ancient Colchis and secured it by the aid of Medea’s magic, was the pioneer of the movement. ■'When he sailed forth on his perilous journey in the marvellous ship Argo ho had with him as companions Acastus (son of Pelias — who is not mentioned in Who’s Who), Admettus of Pherae, Euphemus, Periclymenus, and many other gentlemen with strange-looking names. The successors of that troupe sign their cheques more easily, though some of them have names which sound unfamiliar to British ears, for they have come from France and Germany ; .and many of these modern Jasons have come further in their quest than the old hero, though he went to tho end of the ancients’ world,

Quaintly a man may ponder how such a fluffy tiling'as wool should be such a solid rock of prosperity. It is a pretty cycle, this translation of earth elements into grass, grass into wool, wool into gold. Anyone can picture the wool king; and Dame Fortune in such a duet as Pippo and Bettina sing in “La Mascotte,” thus: AV. K. (a lovely basso)—“Baa.” D, F; (a sweet soprapq)—“Cold, gold, gold.” Cunningly the Jasons go about their business. To-day there is not a pound of wool in the concert-room. It is lying quietly in various stores about the town while its fate is noisily decided in the hall. Yesterday, the buyers, clad in overalls, went, among the bales, like pyiampJ men walking quietly in their sleep. But their eyes and noses were wide awake. Bales were ripped open, the fleece was scrutinised, and the verdict was silently marked on the catalogue. Last season, in the South, there was a Frenchman who did Ills sampling very amusingly, lie was hot satisfied with a moderate armful. He buried himself in the bale; be burrowed till only his heels were visible, for he was determined that in no detail would be be deceived.

The buyers arc birds of passage. They flit here in the summer when the wool calls them, and retreat when the clip is sold out. They perch for awhile in Australia, and then travorso the Tasman Sea, concluding their pilgrimage in New Zealand. They have come to Wellington from many lands —England. France, Germany, America. In number the representatives of foreign firms have a majority over Britishers, hut the men from the Homeland will take the greater part of the wool, said Mr Hill ; secretary of the Buyers’ Association, yesterday. “Prices have been high all" the way round, for good sorts; inferior stuff always suffers,” lie continued, reviewing the sales that have taken place in various parts of New Zealand. It was essential for good prices, lie added, that the wool should be properly prepared for the niarket. and he commended the example sot by Hawke’s Bay growers. If the fleece is to he kept golden the flockmasters must have a care.—Post.