14 December 1933

AND ALL THROUGH A DINGO 

Stockman's Adventurous Day

This, the tale of a stockman, who, looking for excitement, found more than he wanted. It is the sort of adventure that might befall anyone in the arid spaces of the north, especially in the days before the fences came.

I was out looking for 'steers' fit to break in, as the station bullock team sadly required reinforcements. It was before fences came outback. Since day light I had hunted, over many miles of hilly, scrubby country without success. In the afternoon I saw a mob of cattle in a gully, about a mile distant. Skirting carefully to get on the other side of them, so that when they started galloping they would make towards the homestead, I soon had half a dozen suitable 'steers' cut out, and headed for home. I had travelled several miles, far behind them so that they had steadied down. Chancing to glance behind, I saw a dingo following me. His tongue was lopping, and his eyes red, from burning thirst. I thought I would get his scalp. I knew it would be a long and fast run; but I felt convinced that I could get him. I knew from, past experience, that little on four legs could escape my horse Don. I flattered myself he was fleeter of foot than this skeleton of a dog. I turned Don quickly around, but not fast enough for the dingo, who had turned and was racing away for life. Don bounded in pursuit, and after a good run overtook the canine. We passed him, but when I had got my horse stopped and turned I saw the dingo a long way off, going in the opposite direction. He was making for a big gum creek, and he got there before me. He made his way into a hole in the bank of the creek, and I thought I had him. 

Jumping off my horse, I threw the reins on the ground. I could see the dog in the hole, and I picked up stones, determined to kill him. He snarled and yelped; and then, before I knew what was the matter, he flew past me and away. I turned to get Don, but the horse was not there. I got on the bank of the creek, and on the plain in the distance, I could see my horse, evidently intent on leaving me, for with his head on one side to avoid treading on the trailing reins, he was moving along. I took after him. Sometimes he would stop to feed, and allow me to get within a few yards of him, and then he would scamper away, This kind of game went on for many miles through scrub and plain and over hills, and a long way off my track. The heat was intense, and the sun sinking. I was just about exhausted with heat, dust, and flies, and could scarcely see. A mile or more away was an old shepherd's hut. I knew there was a 200-gallon iron tank there, and there might be water in it. After a weary trudge, I got there. 

The 'tank' was sunk some two feet in the ground, leaving two feet above. I saw a little water at the bottom, but could not reach it. I could find nothing to get it out; so, after a bit of a struggle, I got my shoulders through the opening, and then managed to carry some water to my lips with my hand. It was hot and stifling with my head hanging down, and I soon wanted to get out. But it wasn't so easy. I struggled, fought, and strained, but in vain. The perspiration poured off me to streams. I realised that I was trapped. In vain I tried to wriggle my body into the tank. Hanging by the middle, all sorts of pictures crossed my mind. I could see the 'boss' discovering me, with my nether part devoured by the dingoes. What agony I suffered, and all through that wretched wild dog. After an interminable period of panic, I managed to get hold of the top button of my pants, and undo it. Very slowly I was able to push the clothing back, and, inch by inch, forced my hips though the opening until I fell with a splash into the water. I had torn all the skin from my hips. I vowed I would never again put my head into a tank. I have been lost in the bush, have fallen down an 80-foot well, and saved myself by landing feet first on the upcoming bucket. But hanging by my middle in a tank, wrong end up, and thinking I would do so until I was dead, was the most unpleasant experience of my life — 'Unohoo,' Medindie. 

After Eighteen Years 

Perhaps this story may clear up a mystery of many years back. In 1922 I was in service in a guest home. 

The mistress, in furnishing this home, went to sales where first-class goods were sold, and made some purchases of some handsome furniture, very old fashioned, but rich in quality. When these pieces were brought to the house by the carrier, my work was to clean and polish them. 

One day a huge chest of drawers was brought, massive in structure. Each drawer had to be taken out and wiped, frame and all, to ensure cleanliness. The bottom drawer was very deep and slid out level with the floor. 

On removing this, I noticed a parcel at the back where it seemed to have fallen and been pushed flat with the drawer. It had evidently lain there for years. 

On opening it, I found two yards of very wide black fur trimming and a receipt for the fur in the name of a woman at McLaren Vale in 1904. Needless to say, the fur had perished from its close confinement of 18 years.

— 'Wattle Blossom,' Pt. Germein.

Bee-Eater's Mistake 

A miserable day in November, with misty, rain. Came an attack on the apiary by a flock of bee-eaters. These are small green birds with enough crimes to their name to bring a rifle to the shoulder of any beekeeper. 

But as no cartridges were available, catapults came into action. The birds were daring, but we simply could not hit them. I was standing at one corner of the apiary, when a bee-eater flew into a tree just above my head. Very deliberately I stretched my catapult. But, just as I was about to let fly, the bird glided off. In my exasperation I fired after after him. 

The bee eater hearing something buzz past his head, and seeing a small, quickly moving speck probably jumped to the conclusion that it was a bee. He darted towards the moving stone. But here he fell in. The stone caught him on the head, and he became a subject of 'that sinking feeling.' When we picked him up he was quite dead.

— 'Chump,' Morgan. 

The Golden Arrow 

How is this for a chain of coincidences? 

A cousin of mine, living at Seacliff in the first years of the Great War, dreamt one night she was standing with a crowd around Government House. The people were shouting, "Danger to Australia, the enemy are invading our shores."  An elderly man stood on the steps and cried. "When danger comes, my friends, look up into the sky and you will see a golden arrow; that will be the sign." 

Walking on the beach next day she picked up a book. The title was "Books I Have Read," and the first book mentioned was "The Golden Arrow." 

Speaking of this coincidence to some friends, one remarked, "In today's paper a cutter, The Golden Arrow, has foundered off Cornwall."

Some weeks later she received a letter and parcel from her husband, who had sailed in the 3rd Contingent. He wrote. "Remembering it will be your birthday soon, I am sending you a brooch with a golden arrow as an emblem of golden days." That was his last letter and present to her. So the golden arrow brooch brings sad memories. — 'S.M.J.' Maylands. 

Stoned To Death. 

At a time when rabbits were 'trap-shy' my brother and I were in the habit of going on trips along the cliffs with our catapults, stones being cheaper than cartridges. On these trips we were more or less successful. Tom was a very fair shot with a shanghai. 

We were returning home, after a fairly successful trip, and had decided to take a short cut through a paddock, when passing some old disused rabbit warrens Tom suddenly exclaimed— "Look out! There's a snake." It was a large brown one, and went into a small hole near one of the warrens. 

It so happened that Tom had broken a rubber in his catapult, so he borrowed mine. While I poked a stick in one end of the hole, he covered the other end with the catapult. Presently the stick grated on the snake, and next moment its head appeared at the other end. 

Twang! The stone went straight and true. The snake writhed in agony, as the stone came into contact with its head. However, it appeared as if it would yet get away, as it made for one of the burrows. Hastily reloading, Tom fired. That ended the career of the snake. The stone had smashed the back of his neck to a pulp.— 'Chump,' Morgan. 

The Wanderer 

When I was young, near Yankalilla, a gentle, kindly old man used to roam the district for 40 miles around. He used to gather and sample herbs growing by the creeks. 

He was not a beggar. He would go to a house or a township and enquire about sick people, and give them herbs for healing. He also, so people said, muttered a charm or prayer over them, and told them how soon they would be well. Invariably he was right. 

One summer day, the Second Valley school door was open, and the old man stood there. The girls screamed and the boys jumped to their feet. "Quiet!" said the teacher. He went to the old man, shook hands, told him to go to his place for dinner, and he would be along for a chat by-and-by. Then he turned to the scholars. "The old man, is harmless," he explained. "He had a wife and four bonny children until a fire burnt up his home and his family. The shock nearly killed him. Now he wanders around, doing all the good he can. People call him The Wanderer. He loves dogs and children." 

The little ones call him 'Father Christmas' because of his snow-white beard and hair. One day he met two little girls by a shop. He took the elder girl's hand. "You are strong," he said. "You will have many hardships and sorrows, and twice escape death, but this little dear"— indicating the other— "will escape the evil. She will soon be in bliss." The children's mother was indignant. But the old man was right. The delicate child soon after met with an accident and died.— 'S.M.J.,' Maylands. 

Sliding Rock 

Sliding Rock, a name now almost forgotten, was once a flourishing town ship near Beltana. After the cessation of work in its copper mine it gradually dwindled. 

When in the seventies the mine was closed the menfolk departed in search of other employment, leaving their families until a suitable home could be made for them. 

Sliding Rock hill is a rough, rugged peak, where it is difficult to gain a foothold and there is only one way by which it is possible to climb it. 

One day two boys decided to go hunting on this hill. Climbing round the projecting crags, they reached the summit. Seeing a rock wallaby they gave chase, using stones as weapons. They injured the marsupial and it fell down the face of the rocks, until caught by a projecting boulder. 

The elder boy determined to obtain the wallaby, and began climbing down, a dangerous undertaking. He missed his footing, fell, and rolled down until caught as was the wallaby. He also was injured, for his leg was broken. Being too small to help his brother, the younger boy hurried home to acquaint his mother with the accident. 

A young woman then living in Sliding Rock, and locally known as 'Ugly Liz' bravely climbed down to the aid of the injured boy. It must have been a terrible task getting back, for the climbing of those rocks unburdened was considered a feat for only the strong and courageous. For a girl to climb up the hill and down again carrying a heavy boy was a task few men could have accomplished. Hence forth the name of 'Brave Liz' was given in place of the former uncomplimentary one.— 'Lone Star.' 

Sad End Of Sally 

Sally was a pet pig. When we were children she would follow us for miles. When we went for rambles, or to get the cows, Sally would trot behind us, letting out an occasional grunt to remind us that she was still coming, and not to walk too fast, for Sally was built more for comfort than for speed. 

We used to have to dodge her every morning or she would have accompanied us to school. Someone fed her as we were about to leave, and that gave us a chance to get away. She was two years old, and weighed about 300 lb. 

We left home for a holiday, all but my two elder brothers, and Sally fretted for several days, trotting about the place looking for us kiddies. At last, when she couldn't find us, she consoled herself by following the boys. They were cutting scrub at the time not far from the house. Every morning when they went to work Sally would go too, and lie in the shade of the trees until they went in to dinner, when she'd follow on. The boys finished the scrub, and decided to cement up a tank that was leaking. 

One morning Sally must have been asleep when they left home, as she did not follow them. But they had not been working (taking off the roof of the tank) long before they saw her trotting down the hill. They thought they would see what she would do, so they would climb down the tank and hide. Sally came to the edge and looked down. Then she started running around the edge, grunting and looking down at the boys. 

Finally she decided she would get into the tank, too. Before the boys had time to stop her she jumped for it. That was the end of her. The tank was 12 ft. deep, and she landed head first. All the boys could do to ease her agony was to get a knife and stick her. They had to get a horse and dray to pull her out of the tank. The family had 'corned Sally' when we returned from our holiday, but not one of us enjoyed it.— 'C.B.L.,' Ceduna.