29 December 1932

BEFORE ADELAIDE WAS BORN

Scraps From Kangaroo Island

Older than the State itself is Kangaroo Island, where the first immigrants settled before coming to the mainland. But years before 1836, the island was inhabited by white men— run-away sailors, run-away convicts, sealers, and so on.

Years before colonisation on the mainland was mooted, Kangaroo Island for varying periods provided a haven to numerous visitors. During the summer of 1803-4, the Yankee crew of the brig Union built a schooner at Pelican Lagoon. Their boat slip is still discernible, roughly lying halfway between the settlements of American River and Muston.

Some years back there was excitement among the residents; new settlers picking up chunks of coal thought they had stumbled on a coal seam. Further investigation proved the 'find' to be on the site of the Americans' forge.

Within two years of the launching of the schooner at Pelican Lagoon, mother ship and schooner were wrecked, and all but 11 of the crews were drowned or massacred.

The next visitors to 'blow in' were sealers from Sydney, in 1806. Three years later they were still there. The name of the leader (Joseph) Murrell, was given to a bay on the north-west corner of the island. These days it is better known as Harvey's Return. Harvey, by the way, was a later day sealer, who could not find a landing till he made the small indentation, which since bears his name.

From 1812, when the Campbell Macquarie reached the island just prior to running aground at Macquarie Island, visitors were very frequent. John Stokes arrived in 1817; 'Governor' Whalley, from the notorious American brig General Gates, in 1819. Different vessels calling for either salt or skins arrived during 1810, 1814, 1815, 1817, and 1819.

In 1822 or 3, when the General Gates paid the second visit, she induced to sail with her to Maoriland, Stuart, a sealer, and a native woman and babe. As Kangaroo Island had no known aborigines of her own, except kidnapped women from the mainland and Tasmania, presumably the lubra was one of these.

Several of the gangs the General Gates left sealing in different localities on the New Zealand coast were massacred. The native and her two-year-old babe escaped to the woods, and for eight months remained in hiding from the Maoris. During that time mother and child sustained life by eating the raw flesh of seals and birds. The fear of making their whereabouts known deterred them from lighting a fire.

The first whaling station in South Australia was started by Henry Reed, of Launceston, at Flourcask Bay, on the south coast of K.I., in 1831. Some alleged authorities say Flourcask received its name from the fact that flour was washed ashore when the steamer You Yangs was wrecked in the vicinity in 1890. Flour was washed up from the You Yangs, but the bay was known as Flourcask many years before. One of the trypots from the station can still be seen in use as a drinking vessel for cattle at American River. The owner's grandfather with bullocks dragged the relic for miles over sand dunes and scrub to its present resting place. — 'Yacko,' Point Morrison.

The Sad Story Of Tip.

— In 1887 my father kept a small blacksmith shop near Cleve. He owned an old cattle dog called Tip.

About 10 o'clock one night Blank, a neighbor who lived about five miles away, told my father that Tip and his dog had been worrying sheep. Some of the sheep were dead, and others torn. Mr. Blank said he had Tip tied up at home, and told my father he would have to destroy him. Father told him to shoot the dog. He did. Thinking it was taking a long time to die, he dropped a big piece of rock on its head.

Twelve days elapsed. We had been away for the day, and returned at dark. We saw poor old Tip coming from the house to meet us. He was so pleased he tried to get into the cart. We thought it must be Tip's ghost he was so thin and weak. We took him in and gave him bread and milk.

We counted twenty-five shot marks in his head, and could see where his skull was broken in three or four places. But Tip soon got well again.

One day Mr. Blank again come to our house, and father said, 'Come and see our new dog.' He looked surprised and said, 'It can't be Tip, because I killed him.' He said, 'It must be Tip's ghost.'

Not long after that we forgot to tie Tip up. and in the morning he was gone again. He went back to Mr. Blank's and killed more sheep. This time Mr. Blank shot him and cut his head off. He said if Tip came home again, it would be without a head.

— 'Wattle Blossom,' Port Germein.

Jim.

— The first time I met Jim was about twenty years ago.

Arriving at Moonaree station one Sunday morning, I happened on one of those bush accidents which, before the coming outback of the motor, meant probably days of agony before a doctor could be reached.

Jim — who was a new chum, had been sent to the horse paddock for the mail. He was told to take a bridle and catch a quiet horse. Unfortunately he caught a mare that was easier to catch than to ride, and got his thigh bone broken. He was found after hours of suffering, the fracture set, and sent on a three day trip to Port Augusta in the bottom of a buggy. He wrote of that journey to the Port. Those who knew the old Gawler Range track can imagine what it was like.

The second time I met Jim was in June, 1915, as I was being stretcher borne to the beach hospital at Anzac. He had gone over with a Light Horse regiment. While the bearers were resting, we talked, and, upon parting, he wished me a better ride than he had had subsequent to our previous meeting. I was thanking whatever gods there be that I had only two or three furlongs to go, instead of nearly 200 miles.

The third and last time I met Jim was at Murray Bridge. Wandering about the town, I strolled into a public building and Jim looked at me from a photograph one of many proudly hung to honor those who died in the Great War, facing, but not counting, the odds. — 'Troglodyte,' Coober Pedy.

Washing Day In The Bush.

— After we were married, we lived back among the hills. The only water was rain-water collected in a large slate tank. There was a beautiful spring of water at the top of the hill, but it was so full of magnesia that it was almost impossible to wash with it.

One day my husband was picking stones away from the tank to make a gutter, when he caught the pickaxe on the edge of the tank tap, and knocked it off. Away flowed the water down the hill. As the tank was half full, it was a great loss!

Next washing day was a problem— how to get fresh water? There was a spring about half a mile away from the house among the hills, and my sister decided to go there to do the washing.

Line, copper, and utensils were packed into the buggy. My husband fixed copper and line, and then went on to work. He left the old horse tied quite short to the fence.

My sister went ahead gaily with the washing, when she thought perhaps the horse would be better with a longer tether, so that he could feed. She loosed the rope.

A little later on looking up she saw 'Mac' on the ground, kicking and struggling, with the rope tangled round him. She gradually loosened the rope and talked to him quietly and he jumped up again.

Next morning when they went to get the things they found a rather savage bull had knocked the copper over and played havoc with the little out-of-doors washhouse!

Had the bull come the day before it would have been a still more fearsome washing day!

— Emily R. West, Normanville.

Too Clever For The Foxes.

— Some friends went to live on a station. There were only a few hundred acres cleared. The remainder was covered with thick mallee.

On travelling through [the station] one saw wild deer, kangaroos, foxes, and thousands of rabbits. In the course of time the rabbits were destroyed. It was then the foxes became troublesome, and it was a common sight to see the lambs lying about dead. At last the foxes visited the poultry yards, and fowls, turkeys, and ducks suffered beyond measure.

One day a friend came along from outback. On seeing the losses caused by Reynard, he invented a decoy whistle, and it was used very successfully. It would bring the foxes out from their hiding places on hearing it, as the sound resembled a rabbit squealing.

The whistle was made of a piece of thin tin, such as that used to keep tobacco tins airtight. The circular piece of tin was bent double, and, with a small nail, a hole was pierced about a quarter of an inch from the bend in the middle of the tin. The lips were placed over this, with the tongue on the bend, and blown softly, at the same time the ends of the tin being opened and shut with the fingers. This was a cunning decoy. Clever as the foxes were, dozens were caught in a short time. — 'E.H.,' Brooker.

A Short Cut.

— Some years ago my husband and I spent a day at Summertown. To return home in the evening we had the choice of two routes — a six mile motor trip to Mount Lofty, thence by train and team, or a seven mile walk down the Greenhill road to our home, not far from the foot-hills.

My husband had eight shillings in his possession which would just cover car and rail expenses. On the other hand, if we walked, the money would be saved. I thought the matter over, and, women-like, decided on the walk— and the saving.

All would have been well had I not thought of short cuts.

Disregarding an old man's earnest advice to keep to the main road, we found an old track and turned off into the scrub. Some time later, standing on the summit of a very steep hill, we could see in a gully far below us, a house and creek— Hornell's Gully, of course, not far from Magill. Get down there and we would soon be home.

Stumbling and slipping, we reached the bottom of the hill. Then our troubles began. It was impossible to get along the bed of the creek, it was too rough. The only thing was to get back on the hill top. I reached the top and sat down to await my husband. He took so long that I had to threaten him.

When he did appear, I could see something dreadful had happened. He had lost the eight shillings. What a dilemma to be in? Nearly dark, miles from nowhere and the money gone. Short cuts, how I loathed them!

If we wanted to get home for the week end, we would have to move. After miles of walking the lights of the city came into view. Once more we thought we were nearly home, only to meet more trouble. The more we tried to reach those tantalising lights the more we found big black chasms to fall into. We had lost our money and we could not afford to lose our lives.

So we turned away from the lights and kept walking, always buoyed up with the hope that we would reach somewhere sometime. It was too sad, disillusioned people who reached the Magill terminus late that night, vowing never more to take short cuts. -"G.B.G." Adelaide.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia. (1932, December 29). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article90628087