No 6 Naracoorte

Narracoorte is a practical illustration of the value of closer settlement. It was from there, some thirty odd years ago, that the writer, as a boy, set out on that road of disillusionment called a career. I mention this personal fact to show that in those days I knew the town fairly well. When I arrived there the other day I did not know it at all. It had grown beyond recognition. Many of the old landmarks had disappeared. In place of one street of old-fashioned shops there were three of up-to-date business premises. I rubbed my eyes, and gazed round me as a stranger.

"What has worked this transformation?" I asked an old-timer.

"Closer settlement," he answered, "and we could do with more of it."

I looked at him sharply. Could I believe my ears? Memories came floating back to me over the years of impromptu debates we held under the verandahs while we were waiting for our daily papers, on the pros and cons of subdividing the large estates. In those days Narracoorte was land locked, just as Penola is today. Then my guide was one of the most bitter opponents of subdivisions. Now he told me they could do with more.

"You were not always of that opinion," I reminded him.

"We become wiser as we grow older," he retorted.

It is true that the prosperity of Narracoorte came with the dawn of smaller holdings. They have out up Narracoorte, Hynam, Kybybolite, Binnum, Morambro, and part of Struan. Having tasted such good fare, Narracoorte asks for more. To me that is most significant.

Test Of Memory

Away, in the distance I espied a trio slowly making their way along the road. There was something familiar in their gait. In an instant the mental cobwebs of thirty years were rent asunder. I knew those three. I believe they have been taking that particular stroll every day for all those years. They were Colonel Findlater, A. A. Wallace, and Archie Caldwell. What a wonderful thing memory is. I had not thought of them for more than a quarter of a century. Now their names, even their initials, flashed back into my mind just as clearly as I knew them in the old days. They are still, as they always have been, chiefs among their townsmen.

The colonel owns to 82, and has the vigor of a man of forty. He is at the head of the South-Eastern League, and still battles with his old tenacity for the rights of that particular portion of the country in which Fate has placed him. He ought to have been an Irishman. Instead, he is a Scotsman, end a very good one, too. He is chief of the Caledonian Society, and the skirl of the bagpipes is music to his ears. I am no Scotsman. To me it is an abomination. Perhaps I have no ear for music.

In my time A.A.W. was the leading six-and-eightpence man in the town, though I would not swear that any body ever got off as cheaply as that. Now he has virtually retired from practice, and his son, N. V. Wallace, carries on. N.V. is serving his first term as mayor, and his eighth as a member of the corporation.

I don't believe Archie Caldwell has aged a day. He has been "boss" of the Narracoorte "Herald" for more years than I can remember. His brother, Dougie, is his chief lieutenant. Years ago Dougie was the town's musician. He played by ear. To me he was a musical wonder, the soul of our socials and the hero of our con certs. In my young days I preferred Dougie to Paderewski. The other night I heard Dougie play again. Now, I think, I prefer Padereswski to Dougie.

Land Of Milk And Honey

I do not think I ever understood the Biblical reference to a land of milk and honey until my recent visit to Narracoorte. It is real good country. Dairying is a substantial industry, though wool is still the main product. Honey is a valuable adjunct. Apiarists in the district expect to make £10,000 from their bees this season. A large amount of mixed farming is carried on. The town looks prosperous, and it is prosperous — considering the times. I did not see an empty shop. Low prices is the chief complaint. That disease is common to present-day humanity. Like measles and whooping cough, it must run its natural course.

Narracoorte is both a corporation and a district council. Mr. A. Humphris is town clerk of the one and secretary of the other. The corporation extends for a radius of a mile from the town. Beyond that the district council has control of approximately 900 square miles of country, with 991 miles of main roads and 825 miles of district roads. The chairman of the district council is Mr. A. S. Kidman, nephew of the Cattle King.

In The Beginning

Narracoorte — the word is native for "By the creek," and refers to the creek which divides the town in two — had its beginning about the time Queen Victoria began her long reign. It was settled by Scots, and the descendants of the race still predominate. You are fairly safe in addressing any townsman as Mac. Tradition says the first settlement in the district was a police post on the road between Narracoorte and Apsley. The first settler, most probably, was Mr. George Ormerod, whose name figures so prominently in the list of early land holders published in a previous article. It is certain that he owned the land on which the town is built. All the early records are hazy. Generally, however, the honor of founding the town is given to Mr. William Macintosh, who erected the first store and the first public-house, and had the town surveyed. The original name was not Narracoorte, but Kincraig. Mr. Macintosh called it after his birthplace in Scotland.

In course of time the Government laid out a new settlement on the other side of the creek, and there established the post-office, the court house, and the police-station. This was Narracoorte. The two communities for many years were rivals, and a sort of bitter feud existed between them. Now the post-office has been moved to the business side of the town, but the court-house and the police quarters remain on the other side. There is no feud now. The development of the place has long merged the two communities.

South-Eastern League

One day at dinner, Colonel Findlater leaned over the table and pinned a small blue button in the lapel of my coat. It is still there. "What is this?" I enquired apprehensively, for though boasting no Scotch blood, I have certain traits peculiar to the race. Visions of a demand for a subscription to a good cause filled me with dismay.

"No, no, laddie," he assured me, "it will cost ye nothing. It's a member of the South-Eastern League ye are now."

The League, of which the colonel is president, was formed at Narracoorte to watch the interests of the South-East. It has branches in various neighboring towns. It is against centralisation, and in favor of a South-Eastern port. It contends that the port should be Kingston. The argument has a business foundation it costs 6¾d. to train wheat to Adelaide, whereas it could be shipped from Kingston for 3d. The League also stands for closer settlement. It wants to put the people on the land. Just now it is endeavoring to find out from land holders just what quantity of land could be made available for share farming. Parenthetically, it is opportune to remark here that a good many of the large landholders in the South East are going in for share farming. They have been driven to it by the low price for wool and the high cost of production. Although land settlement is a State affair, the League is endeavoring to interest the Federal Government in a proposition to advance £500,000 for this share-farming scheme.

The idea is that the settlers should be given advances of from £1,000 to £5,000 free of interest for two years. At the end of five years the settlers are to have the right to purchase the hold ings. The suggested locale of the settlement is an area of about 60 miles by 10 between Kalangadoo and Pad theway. After the first two years the rate of interest is to be 4 per cent. The league contend that if an other 1,000 farmers could be established in this area it would be an immense help to the Government.

"Drainage An Absolute Failure"

Throughout the South-East I heard the Government drainage scheme adversely criticised. Knowing that Colonel Findlater was regarded locally as an authority on this subject, I asked him his opinion.

"Drainage," he said, "has been an absolute failure. The views of the people who know have been ignored, and the Government have gone ahead with their own proposals. The ori ginal scheme was to have cost £300,000 completed, but the cost to date has been £450,000 for an incomplete scheme. In the circumstances we do not feel that the landholders ought to be called on to pay their proportion. Drainage ought to be a national work." At Mount Gambier they told me drainage would not be successful until it was made a joint affair between Victoria and South Australia. At present this State is carrying away the water that comes from over the border. At Beachport and Robe they complain that the water being brought down from Victoria, in addition to the water from the higher South-East, so taxes the drains in the vicinity of the sea coast that their lands are flooded worse than ever, and in return for this disability landowners are called on for drainage rates. Now the Government has told South-Easterners it does not intend to spend another penny on the scheme. The whole business seems a horrible muddle.

Native Nomenclature

Narracoorte! Tantanoola! Tatiara! Meningie! Why are so few of our towns given native names? Whatever the short comings of our lamented black brother may have been in respect to civilisation — and, having regard to the present state of society, I don't know that we are in a position to throw bricks on that score — there was a sense of euphony and music in his tongue. Take the names of our States — South Australia, Western Australia, New South Wales, Victoria! Could anything-be more horrible, more devoid of imagination? Contrast them with the United State's Ohio, Mississippi, Idaho, Wyoming! When they named the stations on the East-West line they called them Hughes and Deakin, and Cook, and other like abominations. I suppose they will go on doing it for all time — or until Australians develop an adequate sense of the fitness of things. Apparently one great asset we lack as a nation is originality.

Unfortunately, history tells us, black brother was not always as gentle as his tongue. These South-Eastern aborigines seem to have been a hostile and treacherous lot. Take, for instance, the murder of the settler Brown, perpetrated in these parts in the days before Narracoorte existed. That was a pure act of treachery. The blacks had come into the station and pitched their camp at one end of it. Mr. Brown, who was part owner of the property, strolled over to see what they were up to. In a forgetful moment he stooped down to the fire to get a stick to light his pipe. Quick as lightning an old buck hit him on the head with a waddy, and killed him. He stole his gun and clothes and decamped.

The murder aroused the anger of the whites. A punitive expedition pursued the natives, led by a shepherd who had witnessed the crime. When they caught up with the tribe they saw a man carrying the stolen gun, and a woman wearing the dead man's coat. Several blacks were shot down at the first volley. The rest scattered into the bush and disappeared.

There is believed to be a connection between this incident and the finding many years later, of the petrified body of a blackfellow in the Narracoorte caves. The theory is that one of the wounded natives crawled into the cave to hide, and died there. The dripping water did the rest. This body is now in the British Museum. It has rather an interesting history. News of its discovery spread like a mice plague. There was a rush from all parts of the country to see a phenomenon at that time regarded as incredible. Amongst those attracted to the cave was an over-enterprising showman, who made plans to steal the body. He got away with it in the dead of night, and made his way towards the coast. A hue and cry was raised when the theft was discovered, and some time later the showman was intercepted. The petrified remains were taken from him, and returned to Narracoorte. He was told to go about his business. Instead he secretly returned to the caves. This time the cave authorities determined to take no more risks. They put the blackfellow behind strong iron bars, which they embedded in cement. Then they went home rejoicing. The showman watched them go. When they were out of sight he re-entered the cave, tore the bars away from the still moist cement, and made off with the prize. This time he succeeded in getting out of the country.

NEXT WEEK In Tatiara Country. The final article of the series, in which the writer tells some stories about Bordertown, and sums up the case for the South-East.