A succession of mild winters and early genial springs had got the flock into capital order.

The wool had all been sent off to Christchurch by drays, the sheep were turned out on the beautiful green hills for ten months of perfect rest and peace; whilst the dogs, who had barked themselves quite hoarse, were enabled to desist from their labours in mustering and watching the yet unshorn mobs on the vallies.
Although our run was as well grassed and watered as any in the province, still it could not possibly carry more than a certain number of sheep, and to that total our returns showed that we were rapidly approaching.
The most careful calculations warned us that by next shearing we should hardly know what to do with our sheep.

It is always better to be under than overstocked, for the merino gets out of condition immediately, and even the staple of the wool deteriorates if its wearer be at all crowded on his feeding-grounds.
"You must take up more country directly," was the invariable formula of the advice we, comparatively "new chums," received on all sides.

This was easier to say than to do.

Turn which ever way we would, far back beyond our own lovely vallies and green hills, back up to the bleak region of glaciers, where miles of bush and hundreds of acres of steep hill-side, formed the _back-est_ of "back country," every inch of land was taken up.