No 28 Laura

Laura came into being about 1872, when agricultural settlement pushed north, sealing the doom of Booyoolie Station. It became a district council area in 1876, and a corporate town in 1882. Now, under a ukase issued by the Royal Commission on Local Government Boundaries, it has reverted to district council status.

Laura is an example of what happened to a town which wanted a railway, and wouldn't be happy till it got one. Fifty years or more ago, before ever we heard of Mr. Webb, Laura was one of those happy centres which had so much money that she didn't know what to do with it. There was no railway.

But there were teamsters— hundreds of them. These teamsters had to be fed and clothed and supplied with stores. Their horses had to be shod, and their waggons built and repaired. So stores and hotels and blacksmiths' shops, and mills to grind the farmers' wheat, all came into being with magic suddenness at a spot close to the Rocky River, where but a year or so before the sheep of Herbert Bristow Hughes browsed undisturbed.

Money! There seemed to be no end to it. Things boomed. It is not often that one is able to present a picture by an eyewitness of the birth of a busy town But a few months after Laura became conscious of its own existence it was visited by a couple of English women, after whose father Hill River was named. In 1875 Rosamund Hill published a book in England giving her impressions of the things she saw in this country. Here is her picture of Laura at thirteen months of age: — "Laura was born only thirteen months ago, yet she already boasts various shops— one, a mere shanty, combines the business of a butcher and baker— a wheelwright's yard, a post office, a handsome, and, as it proved, very comfortable hotel, and two banks (if one is opened a rival very quickly starts up), besides a mill and several houses in process of being built. Many of the latter are dropped about, apparently without reference to symmetry of arrangement, though when the straight, wide, and far-extending streets are built up, they will probably all fit into their proper places. We reached our hotel before dark. . . No private room was available, so we joined the table d'hote tea, and learnt much that was interesting concerning the township and its neighborhood."

The authoress proceeds to relate a conversation with an “inspector of areas," who told her the land in the neighborhood had that season produced a wheat crop of 60 bushels to the acre. She continues: — "Laura promises to become a large and prosperous town. There is keen rivalry between Laura and Georgetown, each calling the other, with withering contempt, a village."

Later she relates that "emus used to abound where Laura now is, and flocks may even now be seen walking down her broad- streets." More stores came, more teamsters. Laura became a focal point for the trade of a large, newly settled agricultural district. The town grew with amazing rapidity. It was submerged under a wave of prosperity. You could make money faster than Phar Lap and Peter Pan combined. Then Laura became ambitious. That is always a dangerous stage — in the life of towns as well as humans. She wanted a railway.

Nothing less would satisfy her. She sulked, and pouted, and cried like the spoilt child she was. In the end she got it.

That was finis for the teamsters. It was also the end of Laura's roystering career. Henceforward she had to settle down, to an ordinary staid existence. Her wheat went to Adelaide. Her trade went to Adelaide. Her teamsters went north. Many of her stores closed. Her engineering shops just carried on with reduced hands, or closed down altogether. The old Laura was dead— a victim of the march of progress.

Laura is still a busy town, as business goes these days. Being the centre of a rich district, she could not be otherwise. But it is the hard, unemotional business of sober old age, not the romantic, hustling trading of the hectic days of the seventies and eighties.

Teaching Providence His Job

Laura is, and always has been, noted for her trees. When I was there the other day something akin to a suppressed state of civil war existed because the Postal Department had intimated that certain trees in the streets must be lopped. So the council

had lopped them, in preference to leaving the murderous deed to the ruthless menials of the department. In consequence, certain ratepayers were looking for the council with a gun. As I walked round the town with the chairman (Councillor J. A. Acott), and saw those hacked monstrosities, I almost felt like delivering up my guide to the enemy.

Apart from a row of magnificent old gums which fringed the banks of the Rocky, there was only one tree in Laura in 1871, when it started out to build itself a town. The first meeting of the district council was held in April, 1876, and at that inaugural session a sub committee was appointed to go into the matter of tree planting in the streets. The upshot was the striking of a special rate of 3d. in the £ for the purpose, and the committee was told to spend £500 on the job. In the supplement in this issue you will see a photograph of the avenue in Hughes street, which illustrates how well the work was done.

It has always struck me as curious that we Australians, inhabiting a hot, shadeless country, have so little respect for a well-shaped tree. Years ago, when there was a tree-planting mania in the suburb which I honor with my domicile, I alone of my neighbors refused to have trees planted in front of my house — not because I disliked them, but because I loved them. You see, I knew the ways of our corporations, and our public departments. I knew that, as soon as those trees attained maturity, and began to look like the beautiful things the Creator meant them to be, some moleskin trousered representative of Authority would come along and say— "That there Providence don't know nothin' about growing trees. I'll show Him a point or two." And next morning along would come five or six honest toilers, armed with ladders and saws and hatchets and a plenteous supply of ignorance. When they had finished with those trees they would look like nothing on earth except a row of attenuated telegraph poles. So I did without the trees— and saved my temper.

When I go through the country and see the war that has been — and still is being— waged by officialdom against our few remaining examples of arboreal magnificence, I feel that Authority, from the Postmaster-General down to the humblest "lopper" who ever misused an axe, ought to be extremely grateful that murder has been made a capital offence, for it is my belief that what is good for a tree is good for its slayer, and if I could see any or every of those miscreants hanging from a handy bough, with an arm lopped off here, and a leg missing there, I would regard it as the happiest sight of my life.

The Law An Ass

It is an extraordinary thing that the owner of a tree, or a whole forest of trees, has no redress for the inexcusable outrages perpetrated by those who see more beauty in a line of stark telephone poles than a forest giant. In a modern world, where traffic conditions are continually changing, the law has laid it down that a pedestrian has more right to the use of a road than the driver of a motor car, notwithstanding the provision of footpaths for the pedestrian's special use, because pedestrianism is older than the motor car. If such a ruling hold good in the case of a road, should it not apply with equal logic to a tree — that being there first, it is entitled to stay there, and telephone wires must go round it. But logic isn't law. Logic is commonsense!

Converted Brewery

That heading sounds as if it were the result of a revival meeting. But it isn't. It is just a reference to one of the oldest and most prominent of Laura's landmarks. It was first a brewery, then a freezing works, and is now a private residence occupied by Mr. Victor Harper. The brewery was erected by Mr. T. F. Sabine, who was the second Mayor of Laura, and first secretary of the agricultural society, and was owned by Mr. Bristow Boem. For the first 30 years of its existence it manufactured the elixir so much es teemed by the gentlemen who habitually hiccup, "Mine's a (hic) beer!" Twenty-five years ago it exchanged this interacting calling for the more respectable one of freezing mutton. Then, becoming more respectable still, it retired from business.

The Laura Hotel is a more historic building than most hotels are. It almost existed before Laura did. It was the first hotel in the town proper. You see, Laura did not begin its earthly journey where it is now. It began in what is today North Laura, and which in the early days was the old village of Booyoolie. North Laura and Laura were not on speaking terms until 1882, when, on the incorporation of the town, both places were merged.

But long before then the Laura Hotel was dispensing refreshment to the thirsty teamsters. It was the "very comfortable" house referred to in the book by Miss Hill. An old licencing record shows that in September, 1872, an application was made for a licence for a house to be called the "Londonderry Inn." So far as I can gather, this hotel never existed; certainly there is no record of a licence having been granted to it. In December, 1872, John Scott produced plans of the Laura Hotel, and the following March was granted the license. Thenceforth the hotel was the social centre of Laura for many years. It was there that the inaugural meeting was held of the Booyoolie District Council, in March, 1876, when that body was launched to control the civic affairs of the new town, hitherto in the hands of the old Road Board. There, also, in 1882, was held the first meeting of the corporation when the higher status was granted.

Belated Punishment

When I began diving into pioneer educational history things got a bit mixed. As the years begin to crowd in on us, our memories are apt to play us tricks. Try to visualise your old schoolmaster, you who have reached the half-century mark, and see how you get on. In the case of Laura it was easy enough to decide who was the first teacher, for she still lives there. This was Miss Cox (now Mrs. F. C. Rieck). It so happened that when I was in Laura, Mrs. Rieck was absent, so that I could get no first hand information. The point at issue was whether her school was private or Government one. Some said one thing and some another. The position so far as I could straighten it out, was that Mrs. Rieck and her sister (late Mrs. C. A. Sunman) conducted a small school under the auspices of the government. She started it with fifteen scholars, and worked it up to 100, when the Government sent up the first official teacher to take charge. This was Mr. O'Dea.

I suppose for a "schoolboy" to be punished for an offence committed half a century previously is something of a record. That happened in Laura. Fifty years ago Fred Shepherd, on leaving school, wrote in his copy book, which he left for his mistress, "Fanny Cox and my sox all want putting in a box.!" Probably Mr. Shepherd was the most astonished man in the world when, visiting the school for the jubilee celebrations this year, he was called up by his former mistress and "chastised" for his impertinence.

Local Celebrities

All along the northern trail from Auburn to Laura, you encounter the ghost of C. J. Dennis, not that the Australian poet has yet shed his earthly substance— the last time I saw him he looked far from doing that— but a great part of him seems to live in the memories of the people of the Lower North. It was while Dennis was a resident of Laura that W. J. C. Cole, then editor, published the poet's first effusion. I saw a letter from Dennis touching that very same masterpiece, of which he says: — "I would not care to reckon how many printers have had cause to curse my MS. since that far day, but there have been a goodly few." And so there have. Dennis was born in Auburn in 1876, and slowly migrated northward. I tracked him like a bloodhound through every town between Auburn and Laura, and then I lost him. I am making a bet that that was his Farthest North. I suppose Dennis has made more money out of "potry" than any other Australian, living or dead. That alone stamps him as a genius.

Another old resident of Laura who made good was Sir Hal Colebatch, ex Premier and Agent-General of Western Australia. In the days before his ideas ran to piling up deficits he was a mere "ink-slinger"' on the Laura "Standard." I am not sure whether he drifted into Laura from Goolwa, via Truro, or whether he drifted to Truro via Laura. But in any case he thought the girls of Truro good enough to take a wife from there, and when he left Miss Mary Saunders had changed her name to Mrs Colebatch.

Sir Victor Wilson was another man who had associations with Laura through his father, who had a business in the town. Mr. C. R. Bowker, managing director of Ellis Limited, is a Laura boy —so much so that his father was one of the pioneers of the town. When the elder Bowker arrived in the north with his family, Laura was in the throes of that happy delirium I described in the opening of this article. Houses— well, you couldn't buy them for the important reason that there were none to buy. So the family camped under a big gum tree near the Laura bridge, until a cellar had been excavated, which they used as a living room. The elder Bowker built many of the chief buildings, including the town hall. In 1883 he stood for the mayoralty, but was beaten on the casting vote of the returning officer.

Relic Of Leichhardt

What was the fate of Dr. Ludwig Leichhardt? People have been asking that for nearly a hundred years— ever since in April, 1848, this romantic figure of Australian exploration set out from the Fitzroy Downs in Queensland (then part of New South Wales) to cross the continent from east to west. The party of eight— six whites and two blacks— had with them 12 horses, 15 mules, 50 bullocks, and 270 goats. One would have imagined a cavalcade of that length would have left traces of its progress thick in the unknown bush. Yet, from the time Leichhardt wrote his last letter from McPherson's Station on the Cogoon River (Muckadilla Creek) to this very moment, nothing has been heard of the explorers. They seem to have vanished into the very air— notwithstanding the efforts of highly organised search parties to find them, or at least, to obtain some evidence of their fate.

You are saying to yourself, "This is very interesting, but what has it to do with Laura?" Well, the district clerk of Laura (Mr. R. H. Bristow-Smith) showed me a relic of Leichhardt which, if the tradition attached to it were correct, would throw entirely new light on the fate of the party. The relic is a small brass plate, which might have been fitted to the end of a rifle butt, or whatever weapon corresponded to a rifle in the late forties. It bears the inscription "Ludwig Leichhardt, 1848." So far as appearance goes, it looks genuine enough. It was the legend attached to it which startled me. The plate was given to Mr. Bristow-Smith by Mr. C. Harding, who stated it was found in a tree 90 miles from the West Australian border, and the tree was marked "L." Mr. Harding's theory was that Leichhardt went into the desert country there in a good season, got caught by a drought, and couldn't get out.

Now, so far as my recollection of the Leichhardt mystery goes, it was never supposed that the party got anywhere near the Western Australian border. It has always been considered that whatever disaster overwhelmed them — either murder by the natives or death by thirst— was somewhere in the vicinity of the Queensland-South Australian border. It is certain that the last definite trace of Leichhardt's camps was near the junction of the Barcoo and Alice rivers, in Queensland. One feels that one would like to know something of that tree near the Western Australian border.

Leichhardt himself never used a gun, but, of course, the others did. He always carried a sword, which, he said, he knew how to use better. He was an extraordinary man, both in appearance and in disposition. I could tell you some strange tales of his eccentricities— if I had the space. I think, however, I can afford a few lines to describe the man. Imagine, then, a tall fellow of six feet, whose extraordinarily long "stovepipe hat" gave him the appearance of a veritable giant. If he met you he raised his hat, and invariably a shower of botanical specimens covered him and you. Of course, they had to be hurriedly collected, and re-deposited in the curious headgear, where they rested until the next acquaintance was encountered, when you had the whole comedy over again. His face was covered by a light brown beard and moustache. He wore a very old and greasy long tweed coat over a red woollen shirt, and moleskin trousers that did not come down to his boots, which were tied with string. A clever scientist, a curious temperament—but, seemingly, he lacked the qualities of a leader.

Some Early Laura

You may still see today, to the west of the town, on a farm now devoted to dairying, the remains of Riverside Garden, established about 1887 by Henry Copas. This was the first venture in this district for growing oranges (20 acres), peaches, and apricots. For 30 years this orchard on the banks of the Rocky River led a flourishing existence, and then went the way of all earthly things.

Six miles west of Laura, at picturesque spot in the Flinders Ranges, is the Beetaloo Reservoir, which supplies Port Pirie, Wallaroo, and Kadina, but curiously, not Laura, which still depends on rainwater, though it is many miles nearer the big dam than any of the towns mentioned. It is said that at Beetaloo you may hear the finest echoes in Australia, many times repeated, and as clear as the original voice which starts them.

Talking about water, reminds me of a curious trick played on Laura by Pine Creek. When the town first came into existence Pine Creek avoided it like Mrs. Newrich putting the butcher's wife in her place. It wouldn't come near the town. But now it comes in at the north end and flows into the Rocky River, its salt contents contaminating the fresh water of the river. I sought an explanation for this unusual conduct on the part of a respectable creek, and found it in the action of farmers in dry years in diverting the creek to flood their land. So the course of Pine Creek, which comes down from Salt Springs about ten miles to the north, has entirely changed of recent years. Laura, I should explain, is built on a fork between the river and the creek.

The fact that Laura was named after Mrs. Laura Hughes, the wife of Herbert Hughes, the owner of Booyoolie station, on part of the site of which the town is located, is well known. She was the youngest daughter of Samuel White, with whom we became acquainted when we told the story of Wirrabara. In the days when Laura was an infant— I write, of course, of the town — the Hughes family were the "big" people of the district and local nomenclature, even the naming of the streets, perpetuates their memory.

The Baptists in 1872 were the first religious body to invade this area. The Hundred of Booyoolie had scarcely been proclaimed before a layman (Mr. Murray) conducted the first service in a house being built for Mr. H. W. A. Walters. Later the Rev. David Badger conducted services in the same building until the first Baptist Church went up in 1875. The first Church of England services were in the Laura Hotel, in those days the only stone building in the town. The Rev. Hartley Williams, a missionary priest, came from Melrose to conduct them in 1873. Later a church was opened, and Mr. Williams baptised the first child (a daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Francis Dack), and the same day performed the first marriage (Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Campbell). The Methodists started in 1874, and the Roman Catholics (priests from Sevenhills College) a year earlier.

I have condensed the ecclesiastical history of Laura rather severely. If there is anything you want to know on the subject, or, for that matter, about Laura at all, you will most likely get it from Mr. R. J. Rose, the editor of the "Standard," who makes a hobby of compiling local history. If his files cannot tell you what you want to know, then I am afraid, your chance of getting it elsewhere is rather remote. By the time I had finished with him, and with Messrs. Acott, Bristow-Smith, Joseph Watt, Mr. and Mrs. F. Millineton, Hedley Stevens, and one or two others, I felt that I knew as much about Laura as if I had been born there in '72— and had lived there ever since.

NEXT WEEK— Caltowie— Where they called the Governor "Bill."

Images:

• Mr. J. H. Acott, Chairman District Council.

• Blacks' camp fifty years ago. Though civilised the natives could not be induced to live indoors.

• Laura in the late seventies or early eighties.