28 April 1932

STRANGE EVENTS IN COUNTRY TOWNS

Revealed By "Chronicle" Competition

Another budget of curious tales of South Australian country towns is published below, in connection with the "Most Interesting Town" competition inaugurated by "The Chronicle." This week's selection covers a wider variety than ever, and has unearthed several hitherto unknown facts.

Gordon's Leap.

— Of all parts of South Australia, the South-East seems to me the most romantic. Of all its outstanding figures that of Adam Lindsay Gordon holds the imagination more than any other. He was not perhaps a great poet, but his daring, his horsemanship, his magnetic personality, made him one of the most striking and popular characters throughout the district.

He was staying once at Moorak, Dr. Browne's station near Mount Gambier. The old homestead was prettily situated at the foot of the mount, its orchard running down into a beautiful valley below. On a lovely spring day in the early sixties, one can imagine the poet looking down at the white foam of fruit blossom, and thinking how like England the place was, with its lush green grass, English trees, and shrubs. Perhaps to escape from his thoughts and longing for home, he challenged his host's young son, Leonard, to a game of "Follow your leader."

The young man eagerly accepted. The horses were saddled, and off they started across the park-line home paddocks, on to a rough bush track running round the back of the mount, over which, even in my much later day, kangaroos bounded. So they came after various adventures to the Bay road, which runs between two lakes — the Leg of Mutton with its precipitous, thickly wooded banks on one side, and the Blue Lake, a lovely translucent blue, on the other.

Gordon must have been in an exceptionally reckless mood. He suddenly turned, waved his whip with a smiling, "Follow your leader," and, to his companion's horror, made straight for the post and rail fence separating the Blue Lake from the road. The banks fall away steeply from the fence, but in one place there is just room for a horse to land. If he were very sure footed, and his rider could turn his head at exactly the right moment, it could just be done; otherwise horse end rider must inevitably roll down the steep bank into the deep water below. Strangers wonder if he ever attempted this mad prank, but Mount Gambier firmly believes in "Gordon's Leap." On a rocky ridge of the bank opposite there stands a monument to the poet, commemorating this wonderful feat. — 'Gambierite,' Adelaide.

Captain Randell's Steamboat.

— What is the story of Mannum? Ask the Murray River as it meanders along between its banks of weeping willows and the green fields of lucern waving in the wind, dotted here and there with grazing dairy herds. Sit by the old, old boiler on the shore and hearken to the swan-song of the river. To you it is only a worn-out boiler. To me it is the heart of my dead love.

Only eight years after Captain Sturt first stirred me in my sleep of the ages a boy, aged thirteen, William Richard Randell, arrived in this country from across the seas. Later he and I often met as he drove herds of cattle along my shores. I spoke to him, but he did not heed at first. But there came a day when he heard my voice and then, he understood. He vowed that he would help me in my work, and kept his vow. He came to Mannum with the frame for a steam boat and a few carpenters. All day long the echo of their hammers called across my waters as they nailed together the stout timbers of the "Mary Ann" on the shore. Then came the greatest day in the history of Mannum, the greatest day of my life, February 19, 1853. Every resident of the town turned put to see the steamer make her maiden voyage. I clasped it, this first steamer, to my virgin bosom and loved it. Her skipper, Captain Randell, was in sympathy with me. He too, had never seen a steamboat before. This was the beginning of a prosperous and flourishing trade. Mannum grew into a busy port. Day and night the air resounded to the sirens of in-coming and out going steamers. Now, alas, there is silence. A stray boat in the wheat season sometimes sounds a melancholy call to tell residents it is passing by. Each year they grow fewer. Each year those still remaining grow older, more worn. Soon they will be no more. But the boiler of the "Mary Ann," a monument to Mannum's past glory, remains by my side to whisper in the solitude of night of those happy days of our first union when the future promised only success. Who could fore tell then the coming of iron monsters tearing across the country on rails at a terrific speed, and, like leeches, sucking the lifeblood from the river trade. They leave Mannum and me deserted, old, no longer living, but just existing. — A. L.. Heidrich, Mannum.

Romantic Wedding.

— One of the most stirring episodes in connection with Victor Harbour was a romantic wedding some 50 years ago. Mrs. Johnson — that was not the name, but it will suffice— was left a widow with a family and a business to care for. The eldest daughter, Dorothy, was very popular. She became engaged to a young man to whom her mother objected. Mrs. Johnson declined to give her consent to the marriage, although, according to popular opinion, there was no reason for this attitude. The young people, however, took things philosophically. One morning Dorothy was missing from the breakfast table. Her mother went upstairs to see if there was anything wrong. To her consternation she found that the girl's wardrobe was missing. Suspicious that something was afoot, she ran over to the Crown Hotel just as she was, without a hat and wearing a large apron. There she found Dorothy's luggage in a little coach which ran to Adelaide. There was, however, no sign of the daughter. Mrs. Johnson determined to stop the escapade and took a seat in the coach. But to guard against any hitch in their scheme, the lovers had arranged that Dorothy should board the vehicle at the house of a relative on the outskirts of the town. When her brother Bob, in league with his sister, saw his mother take her seat in the vehicle, he told the driver not to stop at the house as arranged, but to drive right on. He then raced down to the rendezvous and told his sister to lie low. The coach passed the house with the worried mother, who was confident her daughter would be waiting at some point on the road. In this, however, she was wrong, and she continued her journey to Adelaide. As soon as mother was safely out of the way, Bob got hold of his prospective brother in-law and the minister, and arranged for an immediate wedding. The news spread through the little town, an enterprising individual rang the church bell, and as the bride had many sympathisers and friends, a large crowd witnessed the ceremony. When Mrs. Johnson reached Adelaide she received a telegram informing her that Dorothy was happily married, and was asking for her blessing. — 'Victor,' Victor Harbour.

Black Brothers' Night Out.

— My grandmother, who carried on a business in Mount Barker in the fifties and sixties, used to tell the following story:— At a certain time of the year, before winter set in, the blacks used to come down from the Murray to get blankets. Their camp was behind an old mill, and it was interesting for the people to visit them. They took them food and clothes, admired the piccaninnies, and watched the lubras squatting before the fires smoking their pipes. On occasions the lubras would take then piccaninnies on their backs, tied in slings, and make a tour of the town for clothes and food. Grandma often had a visit from them, and got to know their ways, but some of their, customs she still had to learn. One day there was a knock at the door. Grandma was met by two lubras. "Mornin' missus. Give piccaninnies dress? Give Liza sugar bag? Gibben sugar bag." Yes, grandma could give them a sugar bag. In fact, she gave them two. Sugar bags in those days were a kind of interwoven grass reed. The lubras went off delighted with their prize, and grandma thought no more about it. In the evening grandma had a surprise visit from a police man. "Did you give the blacks any sugar bags?" he asked. "Yes, I gave them two," said grandma. "Ah, the mystery is solved," he explained. "I've been all over the town trying to find out where they got them. The blacks are raving mad drunk down at the mill. They have been fighting, and we've had an awful time with them. The bags you gave them they made into beer by some process of their own. People are liable to a heavy fine for giving sugar bags to the blacks." Grandma was horrified. She had no idea such a thing could be done with an ordinary bag. Anyway, grandma was not fined. — Evelyn Jones, Mount Barker.

Tale of the Skewbald.

— About sixty miles north of Adelaide, on the main road to the Burra, lies Hamilton. It was once a flourishing country town. In the early days the lads of the township were noted for their practical jokes. The following is worth recording:— It happened on New Year's Eve that Pat returned from work, turned his chestnut mare into the paddock as was his custom. The lads decided to make Pat the victim of a joke. With a bucket of white-wash and a brush they changed Pat's chestnut into a grey, and turned it into a neighbor's paddock opposite, where there were several grey horses. For days Pat searched for his mare. One day he noticed a skewbald in the opposite paddock, and went to investigate. He thought it was a new purchase. His surprise when he found it was his own horse with the white coming off in patches, is still the subject of many a hearty laugh. — Mrs. H. Ellis, Hamilton.

Dump at Wallaroo.

— Known as Mount Misery or Mount Obadiah, the dump at Wallaroo Mines stands as a silent sentinel, guarding the ruins of the old mines. It seems to speak of the days when the voices of men mingled with the sound of machinery. At a distance it resembles a huge, massive ironstone rock. At a closer view it is made up of loose mineral sand, refuse from the mines. This blows for miles on windy days. People living in the vicinity have had to leave their homes, as the sand has ruined their gardens, covered their fences, and partly buried their cottages. The dump can be seen for miles out in the country. Most visitors, on coming to Kadina, are taken to view it. Many climb to its summit. They are rewarded by the splendid panoramic view. On a fine day boats can be seen in the Wallaroo Bay. The dump has diminished by one-third its original height since the closing of the mines, but it still remains a monument of what was once a thriving industry. — Ruth M. Hocking, Kadina.

Breaking of the Drought.

— Being in the Telegraph Department, I was sent as postmaster to Waukaringa, in the north-east, in June, 1900. At the time a drought held the pastoral country in an iron grip. The town itself showed signs of decay. Empty tin houses abounded; goats browsed among the dying saltbush, and deep, dangerous abandoned shafts made the wayfarer mind his step. Salt and blue bush before the drought came had begun to reclaim the original wilderness, which, by the magic of gold, had been temporarily transformed into an entrepot for prospectors and miners. There were fine types of men at the stations around Waukaringu in those days — Herbert James, of Erudina; W. Murray, of Koonamore; J. Regan, of Curnamona; Charley Downer, of Melton; and Willie Wade, of Panaramatee. Day after day, from that June onwards, the saltbush faded. The skeletons of rabbits adorned thickets, and even the stunted boughs of trees in the dry areas. Sheep died in scores. Dams were empty. In 14 months the gauge at the post-office registered 39 points of rain in all. Willy-willies, or whirlwinds, were of frequent occurrence—a sure sign of drought. Then one morning came the chief event. Woolpacks gathered in the north eastern sky. At last down came the blessed rain. Business was suspended. The butcher, two storekeepers, the policeman, the publican, and the residents stood on their verandahs praying and hoping for a continuance. That night the creek ran a banker, and the sound of rushing water was the sweetest music. In a week green herbage covered the plains. Dwellers in the city, or in fertile areas within Goyder's line, have no conception of what rain means to the pastoral areas — or of the gratitude and joy at the breaking of a drought. — 'Sexagenarian,' Prospect.